Спільний лад by Movatar

When we started piecing together *Спільний лад*, it wasn’t about escaping the heavy things, but leaning into them. It began with a platform, cracked, a mother's letter a tangible weight, and a kitchen running on memory and matches. You follow that path home, through Poltava churches and courtyards where the language, our language, feels like it’s returning, warming your hands after a long cold. This record is our way of showing that dignity isn’t some grand gesture; it’s the quiet work, day after day, that keeps the fatigue from winning.

Musically, it's deep. You'll feel the hurdy-gurdy drone, always there, a low thrum that holds everything together, sometimes rumbling, sometimes surprisingly soft. The bandura strums find detuned corners, taking microtonal steps that just feel like home, like an old village tune you can't quite place but always knew. The e-bowed guitar hums like a live wire, a warm whisper, and our drums aren't just percussion; they're mallets on floor toms, rice on a snare for a dry hiss, even bowed oil-drum overtones that might make your teeth clench. We use the grit of things: seed sifting trays become shakers, and the room's own reverb—recorded in Poltava's tiled spaces—becomes an instrument. It’s all analogue, a modular rig under the voice that smears unstable overtones, not to glitter, but to grip. These are sounds you carry.

Each song holds common things close: home, names whispered, the honest work of hands, letters sent, bread made. There's a core idea running through it all, a shared vow that we keep repeating. You’ll hear it in "Під ребрами," where the voice rises over the drones, clear, saying, "Я тримаю наші слова під ребрами" — "I keep our words inside my ribs." It’s a line meant to be sung, to be shared. The emotional pull comes later, when the instruments fade to almost nothing, just a heartbeat, and the room answers, chorusing "Поки ми говоримо — ми живі" — "While we speak – we are alive." It turns a song into a shared oath, an undeniable order born from scattered sounds. People remember that part. They record it, they pass it on.

The album takes you from that initial chaos of loss, through careful steps of finding community, to a finish that’s clear and melodic, never rushed or overly complicated. It ends with warm choirs built from shared breaths, those careful microtonal steps, and rhythms that feel good to walk to, whether you're heading to work or finally making your way home. It’s a record that attempts to make a new grammar for grief, something you can pick up, understand, and carry with you long after the last notes fade. It sticks, like a stubborn hum in your jaw. This isn't just an album; it’s a commitment, a raw, honest look at finding light in the darkest corners. It’s built to resonate, to be discussed, and to remind us of the quiet strength that gathers when we refuse to forget.

We build hymns from war's grit. Hurdy-gurdy, bandura, a voice for stubborn grief.