Grad, oprosti by Adriask

This album, *Grad, oprosti*, is us walking those city streets by the sea, map in hand, where the trams sound like breaking waves and the whole place just breathes with a salty quiet. It’s not just a journey through sound; it’s a path we’ve tried to cut through the grit and the glow, from the uneasy feeling of walking into empty stairwells at night, carrying whatever regrets you pick up, to the quiet strength you find when the morning sun hits the old building facades. We took Antun Gustav Matoš’s words – the ones that always felt like they were whispered under some forgotten overpass – and let them guide us, from that initial tension right to the point where the city’s heart just settles into a calm, steady rhythm, like a slow wave coming in.

We built these arrangements to feel familiar but still sting a little. You’ll hear wide guitar arpeggios that drift and klapa meters that root everything down, a warm tape hiss underneath it all, and a pulse that’s steady, almost 4/4. But it’s still unmistakably Adriask. Those hydrophones we dunk in brine under the kick drum, the lijerica that gets just a bit of fuzz, the sopile bowed with fishing line, and the 8mm projectors clicking as a hi-hat – they’re all there, doing their quiet work. It’s about making that signature "salt" sound not just present, but melodic, something you remember. There’s a central plea on the album, a chorus that felt like writing on a wall: “Grad, oprosti, hodam i nosim ti sol” – *City, forgive me, I walk and carry salt for you*. We recorded that with stacked voices, tight seconds, trying to get that radio warmth, so it just settles right under your skin.

It’s an acknowledgment, really. For all the glossy postcards, the real Croatia, the one that makes your lungs burn with salt and memory, is still here. We wanted to offer something that wasn't just another pretty soundscape. We wanted to see if we could turn the typical tourist view into something raw, a living question. There’s a moment about three-quarters of the way through the record – the kind that makes your chest tighten, then release – where the reading stops, the mic gets cut, and the voice just leans right into the crowd, no reverb, no tricks. The whole square becomes one breath. The fear turns into a quiet kind of resolve. It’s those things left unsaid, those apologies for houses left locked all winter, for diving into grief only when the season ends, that we wanted to explore. This album is our attempt to map that urban landscape as if it were a new coastline, making music that feels necessary, like a rusted rail or a fig from a late swim you can’t forget. It’s salty post-rock, born right out of the brine, meant to be talked about by the pier or on the tram, because maybe, just maybe, it’s about more than just the notes.

We make post-rock ambient from Croatia, soaked in salt and forgotten words. Guitars swell, holding our coast's raw, personal tales.