More broji by Jedro

More broji isn't just an album; it’s the salt-heavy breath of a single night in our harbor, from that first shivering whisper of pre-dawn light to the quiet knowing that settles with the morning sun. You can almost feel the rope-lashed kick drum hitting, steady as a heartbeat, with that rusted chain-and-shell shaker weaving triplets under your skin. The baritone guitar, tuned to open C, growls low, through tape-smeared preamps, like the deep rumble of an old hull. Then the sopile cut in, a salt-bitten wail that feels ancient, twisting through microtonal turns, while a bowed lijerica saws a tremor right against your ribs. We even hung hydrophones under the pier, letting that low thrum breathe into the mix, sidechained to the shaker – it’s meant to make the floor seem alive, make your calves tighten, your fingers dig into denim like you're bracing for a swell.

We wanted to trace a journey, from anticipation to a kind of quiet reflection. It starts in that half-light, counting ropes, debts, the names of elders, a litany whispered like a prayer. You hear the creak of planks, the slow pull of breath, a silent tension before that final, raw confession: „ja sam jedro, ti si sidro, drži me.“ (I am the sail, you are the anchor, hold me.) Then comes the gathering, the crew huddling as the 'škura zora' – the dark dawn – breaks. We’re reading the first names from the 'Knjiga veza' (Logbook), names ringing like bells on the quay, a communal 'ajmo' that warms the gut. That's the heart of it, really: 'Knjiga veza'. We wanted to turn legacy into something alive, a conversation. Folks pass up handwritten names of harbors, voice messages from grandmas and nonos, and we sing them into refrains. One night, a voice message broke, and the whole room just held its breath, a shared ache that turned into a fierce embrace. It makes you want to write your own name, shaky hand and all.

The harbor itself feels like a living thing here, the planks breathing, the cleats straining, as we tally debts under the gaze of older eyes – a look that measures and embraces all at once. It's a grit that makes your fists clench then open wide, ready to carry the weight until morning. That confession, that love heavy and sacred as an anchor, calls out for someone to hold you, to count the debts, to keep the names that sting like salt. When that plate reverb blooms, and a field gull call is pitched into a mournful counterline, your knees just go weak. Deep in the night, hands find hands around the capstan, a quiet current where each vow echoes the next, rope rustling across palms. It's a warmth that fills you, a joyous tear as you finally belong. Then, on the bow, a whisper – a reckoning of names unsung, watching the dark horizon, finding the strength for the hardest truth. There’s a held breath, a moment of silence, before the surge.

That surge builds to the album's peak: 'Kamen Po Kamen'. Around the capstan, our voices rise in a chant, layering names and promises. Each „kamen po kamen, ime po ime, dok nas more broji“ (stone by stone, name by name, as the sea counts us) hits like the heartbeat of the coast itself, shaking your ribs, making eyes burn and hands tremble. It’s a catharsis, where everything breaks apart and comes together, as if the whole world cried then laughed through its tears. After that roar, the harbor settles. People threading ropes, mending nets, whispering new promises, polishing scars. A quiet glow, a gentle responsibility for name and place. Then the first light again, closing the circle. Counting the ropes once more, but this time, a stone with an etched name pressed into a pocket, a promise carried wherever the sea may lead. It's that gentle „drži me“ that stays with you, a quiet rhythm, your own heartbeat.

What we're trying to do here, it's more than just songs. We wanted to find a new grammar for maritime songcraft, a way for klapa and that baritone guitar heft, for fisherman cadence and surf-twang tension, to sketch a living coastline, not just a postcard. You’ll hear spring tanks tuned to Istrian scales, handclaps clipped like dripping tar, sopile trills folding into parallel thirds without a drop of syrup. It's about timbre, grain, the honest sound of what binds us to this shore. No gloss, no rush, just a quiet tide that still pushes the heart forward, carrying our stories, and yours, into the vast, counting sea.

We're Jedro. Our rock is from the Adriatic coast, with klapa voices singing our real stories. Feel the salt, hear the sea in every chord.