Yirinda’s debut album begins with an audible intake of breath. A moment later, Fred Leone’s vocals flow forth gently alongside soft, sparse strings.
Such an incantatory opening is fitting for an album that not only spotlights ancient language, but recontextualises it in thrilling ways. Fred Leone is one of just three remaining custodians of the endangered songlines and language of the Butchulla people, hailing from Queensland’s Fraser Coast region. Just capturing his singing in language would be significant enough, then, but collaborator Samuel Pankhurst guides Leone’s subtly shifting voice into rich compositions that mingle modern production with classical instrumentation.
The result is stunning on a number of levels. Even taken in isolation, Leone’s singing covers an impressive amount of emotional territory, while Pankhurst’s programming and production flourishes may well remind listeners of the electronic warmth coursing through Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’. Pankhurst also plays the contrabass, and Yirinda (which means “now” in the Butchulla language) enlist contributors on wider strings, horns, piano and percussion to create arrangements that run the gamut from minimalistic to orchestral.
Observe ‘Nyun (Brother)’, which introduces solemn bass notes before swelling with possibility by the halfway mark thanks to a handful of seamless players: a vibrant convergence of elements from across culture. This organic integration of the ancient and electronic evokes the mid-’90s work of Waak Waak Djungi, which folded First Nations songlines into modern New Age elements and naturalistic field recordings.
There may often be pronounced ambient textures at play here, but that doesn’t mean this is some placid listen designed for sinking into the pleasant background. Several tracks edge into discord, from the percussive clatter and melodic tangles of ‘Njurunj (Emu)’ to the jazzy, horn-stoked agitation of ‘Guyu (Fish)’. Despite the soothing promise of its title, the closing ‘Yunma (Sleep)’ is especially turbulent, brandishing lopsided beats and a flurry of other layers. More measured is ‘Thurum Voi (Look There)’, quietly contrasting the familiar pairing of clap sticks and chanted vocals with celestial touches rippling underneath.
That unusual stylistic openness can be partly explained by the two members’ diverse CVs. Leone has toured as part of The Black Arm Band’s ever-shifting multi-cultural line-up, and guested with Xavier Rudd. Pankhurst has played the contrabass with Missy Higgins and Kate Miller-Heidke and produced acts like Hiatus Kaiyote and The Trouble With Templeton. Yet hearing them work so closely in tandem is something else altogether, especially given how Pankhurst’s imaginative arrangements support the range of Leone’s singing.
And just as the album started with the body’s natural prelude to singing, it ends in an opposite way on ‘Yunma (Sleep)’ – without vocals, but rather with ricocheting beats. That final flourish reminds us just how adventurous Yirinda is, in sound and spirit alike.
