Quentadharkën by Amarok: A Wild Ride Through Folk, Rock, and Everything In Between
Alright, buckle up, because Quentadharkën (yeah, I know—it's a mouthful) by Amarok is one of those albums that makes you go, “Wait… what year is it again?” Released in 2004, this Spanish-Mexican gem straddles genres like Folk Rock, Prog Rock, and even throws in some Pop/Rock for good measure. It’s like someone took all your favorite records from the '70s, tossed them into a time machine, and pressed shuffle. But hey, don’t let its age fool ya—this thing still slaps.
First off, let me just say: if there was ever an album cover that screamed "I will confuse you but also make you tap your feet," this would be it. The credits alone read like a mini United Nations summit—Robert Santamaria handling keys, strings, harp, AND accordion? Luis Blanco on vibraslap? Kerstin Kokocinski blowing her heart out on oboe? These folks weren’t messing around when they hit record.
Now, onto the tracks. You could throw a dart at this tracklist and probably land on something cool—but two songs really stuck with me: Tierra Boreal and Labirintos De Piedra.
Terra Boreal kicks things off like a soundtrack to an epic nature documentary where snow melts into sequoias while cacti wave hello. Manel Mayol’s flute work here is so dreamy it might as well come with a hammock attached. Then the electric guitar chimes in, courtesy of Carlos Gallego, and suddenly you’re not just watching trees grow—you’re galloping through them on horseback or whatever fantastical nonsense your brain conjures up during prog jams. Honestly, it feels less like a song and more like a vibe. Like, imagine Enya met Led Zeppelin in a forest clearing, and they decided to jam together. That’s Tierra Boreal. Wild, right?
Then there’s Labirintos De Piedra, which sounds exactly how its title translates—"Stone Labyrinths." This tune takes you on a journey through twists and turns, kinda like wandering around ancient ruins without a map. Marta Segura’s vocals are haunting yet soothing, like she’s whispering secrets only you can hear. And oh man, when Mireia Sisquella’s saxophone solo drops? Forget about it. It’s the musical equivalent of finding hidden treasure after getting lost in said labyrinth. Just close your eyes and picture yourself standing under a starry sky, wondering why life is so weirdly beautiful. Yeah, it’s that kind of moment.
What else can I say about this album? Well, hats off to Robert Santamaria, who wore approximately seventeen different hats producing, arranging, and playing half the instruments. Also props to Víctor Estrada for bringing that flamenco flair because, honestly, no folk-rock album set in Spain/Mexico is complete without some fiery guitar work. Plus, shoutout to whoever thought adding a vibraslap was a good idea—it totally works!
But here’s the kicker: listening to Quentadharkën feels like stepping into another world. One minute you’re vibing to folky flutes, the next you’re rocking out to proggy key changes. It’s messy, ambitious, and occasionally over-the-top—but isn’t that what great art should be? Sure, it won’t win any awards for subtlety, but who cares? Sometimes music doesn’t need to whisper; sometimes it needs to grab you by the shoulders and scream, “LISTEN TO ME!”
So yeah, if you’re looking for background noise to clean your room to, maybe skip this one. But if you want an adventure—a wild, unpredictable romp through soundscapes both familiar and strange—give Quentadharkën a spin. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find yourself transported to Greenland, Mexico, or even your own imagination.
Final thought: If Elon Musk ever colonizes Mars, he should blast this album on repeat. Because nothing says “new beginnings” quite like a prog-folk odyssey named after... uh, something unpronounceable.
