Album Review: Ya Ya by DavidIvar Herman Düne
Man, Ya Ya is one of those albums that just sneaks up on you. It’s like a scrappy little indie gem from 2004, birthed outta the US and delivered to us via Shrimper Records. David-Ivar Herman Düne pretty much does it all here—bass, guitar, ukulele, vocals—and somehow pulls off this lo-fi magic trick where everything feels raw but still deeply personal. Neman on drums adds just enough backbone to keep things moving without overdoing it. The genres? Oh, they’re all over the place—folk, rock, pop, even some world vibes—but honestly, it doesn’t matter. This record lives in its own weird little universe.
Now, let me tell ya about two tracks that stuck with me long after the needle lifted (or uh, the playlist ended). First up: “My Brand New Bike.” I don’t know what it is about this song—it’s simple as hell, just David-Ivar strumming away and singing about… well, a bike. But damn if it ain’t charming as heck. There’s something so unpolished yet heartfelt about his delivery, like he’s telling you a story while sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor. You can almost picture him cruising around town on that bike, wind in his hair, not giving a crap about anything else. It’s nostalgic without being sappy, which is harder than it sounds.
Then there’s “These Arms of Mine,” which hits different every time I hear it. Maybe it’s because it shows up twice on the tracklist—I dunno, maybe David was feeling extra proud of it—but man, this tune grabs hold of you. His voice cracks in places, like he’s trying to get through the words without breaking down completely. And the lyrics? Super straightforward, no fancy metaphors or anything. Just someone laying their heart bare, talking about holding onto somebody tight. It’s messy and real, kinda like how love actually feels most days.
The rest of the album has its moments too. Tracks like “Take Me to Your Country House” have this dreamy folk-rock vibe that makes you wanna pack up and move somewhere quiet for a bit. Meanwhile, “New Jersey Fake ID” feels like an inside joke you weren’t invited to but still find yourself laughing at anyway. The repetition of certain songs might throw some people off, but honestly, it adds to the charm. Feels like flipping through someone’s diary—messy, imperfect, but full of personality.
Looking back, Ya Ya isn’t gonna win any Grammys or change the face of music forever. But that’s okay. Not everything needs to be big and shiny to leave a mark. Sometimes, it’s the rough-around-the-edges stuff that sticks with you the longest. Listening to this album feels like hanging out with an old friend who doesn’t try too hard—they just show up, say their piece, and remind you why you liked them in the first place.
Oh, and here’s a random thought: If this album were a person, I bet it would smell like campfire smoke and old books. Weird, right? But also kinda perfect.
