by Jonah Evans (@jonahinthesnow)
Tunic’s A Harmony of Loss Has Been Sung is a meatgrinder of syncopated distortion, clarity of grief, unfiltered lyrics, raw textured instruments, and hard hitting repetition. It’s no wonder this album of disparate sensations provides a release, a mode of muted catharsis as the sound they produce scratches at the air, grasping for it. The composition of the record is complex, but straightforward, a dry sound that’s a rich and a refreshing taste in how the band dictates the empty spaces of sound.
Spacing is essential in this record which is noticeably different from their previous albums, Wrong Dream (2023), Quitter (2021), and Exhaling (2021). These previous albums felt like a desire to fill the space of sounds, unrelenting, frenetic energy, and desperate to keep moving through the motions of life. However, A Harmony of Loss Has Been Sung promotes a declaration to acknowledge grief. There is a confrontation with this grief on previous albums, though A Harmony of Loss socially sits in grief, looks at it, doesn’t hide from it, allowing the pain to breathe and maybe allowing it to heal.
This sensation begins with benign guitar feedback in the opening track, “Sorrow’s Grip.” The clearest words in the beginning with this feedback are “why can’t we both collapse, be broken, be betrayed by our bodies, begging for any ounce of hope, joy, or any other words that describe our failed state of…” The word after “of” is almost discernable over the increased volume and a higher pitched feedback moment. The pitch drops again and this monotone sound continues under the lyrics, “It’s not hopeless, it’s just. Less. Hope.” And it’s easy to feel those last words over the screeching guitar. Then the drums come in, clean, steady, and repetitive as David Schellenberg’s words continue on the soliloquy of “Sorrow’s Grip.” The minor chords accompanying the drums strike at about 1:11 into the song are a headbanging welcome, a release and conduit to process the darkness. Schellenberg’s vocals tend to a guttural loud speaking, holding himself back from screaming, and the tension of “Sorrow’s Grip” is realized in this moment. The song escalates from a clear solo rift from the bass at two minutes, and escalates further when the guitar drops out and the high tones disappear. When drums double in time, the song becomes taut with tension of sadness.
The rest of the record is no exception in its exploration of sitting intimately close to grief. “Ordinary Unique Pain,” resembles the pace of a Waltz, though sludgy and sad, with a declarative bass that slowly walks the listener through the song. While the middle section of the song guitar twinges in a horror-like swivel of a few minor chords, dawning an anticipation of horror. “Eyes Crossed Out” embodies the capacity of Tunic’s velocity with hard syncopated stabs between all the instruments with while cutting out, vocals overlaying the space between the hard beats in the start of the song. This particular song could correlate with the takeoff of a spaceship, to have a moment of beauty to be surrounded by the stars, to spin out of experiencing a loss of control and a sense of being grounded. “Spoiled Fruit” creeps along, speaking of body betrayal, questioning existence, drums thumping slowly. Schellenberg vocals are strained, sounding as if they are processing thoughts allowed, trying to find a way out of this sadness. There’s a riveting trill on the back end of the song where the bass hums and bellows like a hungry beast.
“No Greater Loss” has a sense of something epic. The bass is thick, the drums are hollow and pound slowly. This time, it almost feels like Schellenberg’s vocals are at their pinnacle of pain, straining painfully, beautifully. There is a line where he says “It’s not my body, but, it’s still my pain,” and it reminds me of the notes the band shares on their Bandcamp page: “Tunic has always been a vessel for dealing with pain. However, the band's latest effort chronicles not just frontman David Schellenberg's pain, but his wife's too, as the album centres around the miscarriage that the couple experienced in early 2023.” And that line “It’s not my body, but, it’s still my pain,” becomes more riveting and chilling than it already is.
This honest ode to grief and this bare and plain exposure of pain is infused into the patient composition of this album that takes it time to process raw emotions. While Tunic’s previous albums were great, this one says: “Look at this. Sit in this moment. Feel this. Process this. This is living now, in the moment.” It’s grief at its best, and it’s beautiful.