If seabirds could play the violin, they might sound something like “Da Sealkie Wife’s Sang”—Adrian Brockless has somehow bottled the wind between Shetland cliffs and placed it into a yearning orchestral motif. The history of a family steeped in classical traditions might lead one to expect predictable sophistication, all done up in formal tails, but this? This is ancient, almost feral.
At its core, “Da Sealkie Wife’s Sang” is a meditation wrapped in the skins of Shetland’s past, but it’s also a love letter, though Brockless never hands over the address. It leaves you guessing. The Aberdeen-based Orchestra Nova quintet—skilled alchemists themselves—turn the landscape into a breathing entity. Nowhere is this clearer than in the strings, which seem to weep more than whisper? A rising sun over a moor. A seal slipping from human form back to the sea. Their music feels like remembering something too old to speak—family? Tradition? Or maybe just a gift handed down wordlessly over generations, as if music were salt air.
But let’s put seriousness aside, just for a sec. Because, in some ways, there’s an alligator lurking in the intuition of this single—Brockless might be a counterpoint junky for all we know. Half waiting for an unexpected modulation to come and bite you. It never quite happens, though. Instead, what evolves is more primal, a dance between then and now, tradition and exploration—a bit like trying to balance on a tightrope… except the rope itself is made of Shetland hair.
It’s easy to stand with one foot in the sea and the other in heritage, but eventually, the tides pull harder than the shore. Perhaps that’s why in the end, the message is both simple and cryptic. Who’s more elusive—the seal or us?
