Herman Düne’s “Odysseus” is a voyage of strings, sorrow, and surreal beauty – sailing far beyond anything they’ve done before.
In shifting away from the stripped-back intimacy of his recent “Portable Herman Düne” trilogy, David Ivar – the driving force behind Herman Düne – has created something quietly remarkable with “Odysseus”. Where those earlier records were rooted in acoustic minimalism, this new album opens up into lush, often magnificent orchestration – arrangements that glide effortlessly between the symphonic and the folk-like, without ever losing the eccentric heart of Ivar’s songwriting. Rather than clashing with the band’s homespun sensibility, the strings feel organic – like they’ve always belonged, just waiting to be let in. Tracks are elevated by these arrangements, their emotional clarity sharpened by cinematic swells and delicate countermelodies. When the strings aren’t there, you notice their absence – not because the acoustic moments falter, but because the orchestrated parts shine so brightly. Ivar does not appear to be trying something new for novelty’s sake – it’s a discovery of a new voice, one that expands the band’s world rather than contradicting it.
Framed loosely around the figure of Odysseus, the album draws more from the emotional terrain of myth than its narrative. It’s not a concept album in any real sense. Instead, the myth serves as scaffolding – a way to explore longing, distance, homecoming, and the strange paths we take to find ourselves. In this, “Odysseus” feels less like a retelling than a companion to wandering. Songs deal with romantic yearning, isolation and the process of ageing – the latter often being discovered accidentally. Again, there is an echo of Odysseus: it took him a long time to make his way home. It feels that Ivar too is exploring what it might be like to return.
“Odysseus” is an album which grabs your attention immediately, but also takes its time to unfold. The oddity of opener ‘La Brume’ – all complex and sometimes discordant strings – sets the scene beautifully: it awakens the mind and creates real intrigue as to what might be coming. It also starts with the sound like a ship’s horn, suggesting that a journey is in progress.
‘La Brume’ gives way to ‘Odysseus’ – a rich, melancholic song which draws most explicitly on the Greek story. It is a song of love and loss. The repeated line “What’s a sunset without you?” is a lament: there can be no meaning, no beauty, in the void created by the absence of a loved one. This leads to a fear of being unmoored, “I’ve never felt this old before” and the sadness of withdrawal. Lines like, “There is a lighthouse in San Pedro/A bloody rainbow over Big Blue” continue the theme of being emotionally lost at sea, trying to get back to someone who gave life meaning – but they are also slightly opaque: the “bloody rainbow” is surreal, tinged with violence or pain. Musically, the song ends with the wonderful strings building and then becoming hypnotic. The lyrics match this as the “Sirens go woo”, which is both playful and haunting: maybe the song, like the Sirens in the story, is calling someone to his doom.
On previous albums, Ivar has shown a talent for surreal juxtapositions and oddball tenderness – and on “Odysseus” his delivery remains, for the most part, deadpan, walking the line between absurdity and eagerness. Some of those trademarks are present on songs such as ‘Sneakers On The Telephone Line’. This track, vaguely reminiscent of Beck, brings a comical realism to the struggles of middle-age survival. “I just woke up one morning as an old fart/I guess you fall asleep and you fall apart”, sings Ivar, perhaps facing ageing with more of a shrug than an existential crisis. There’s also real humour in some of the lyrics – “I get deep when I talk to my therapist/I’m a VIP on her Freudian list” shows a wry self-awareness. The song also references a rather eclectic set of cultural touchstones – from the Grateful Dead to Abba, SpongeBob SquarePants, and Cheech and Chong. Indeed, the Cheech and Chong reference – “I met a woman and she’s smoking like Cheech and Chong/Now I’ve got ninety-nine problems but she ain’t one” – demonstrates the ability to mix tenderness and comedy. The chorus feels like a grounding mantra – “Whenever I get the blues/I get sand in my shoes” feels like a reminder of where you have been, grit and comfort, inconvenience and familiarity all at once.
There’s a flawed and cracked tone in Ivar’s voice, that might be at its most emotive in songs like ‘Into the Darkness Indeed’ – a reflection on life and death. At its heart is a plaintive cry, “Maybe I have had all the time that I need/maybe I’ll go into the darkness indeed.” And the strings are there again – swirling, building and adding depth to the simple structure of the song.
There are many standouts in “Odysseus”. For example, ‘369 (The Sun Gon’ Shine)’ is a romantic, uplifting, joyous moment – all quirkiness is put aside to celebrate that the sun is going to shine and “I will be yours and you will be mine”. Again, the string section adds a magnificent, shimmering backdrop but there are also some heart-tugging, almost child-like backing vocals. However, maybe the title of the song suggests something even deeper: in numerology 369 relates to the ideas of creativity, inner strength and transformation – the desire to make something real.
“Odysseus” doesn’t rush or over-explain. It allows odd images and emotional fragments to sit beside each other, unresolved but resonant. Some songs land like punchlines, others like tiny prayers. Indeed, the final song, ‘Viduy’, literally has the title of a Jewish prayer. A fitting end to an album of emotional and spiritual depth.
For long-time fans, this might feel like the most fully realised Herman Düne record yet. For newcomers, it’s an invitation into a world where the mythic and the mundane meet. Either way, “Odysseus” is worth getting lost in – or worth letting it help you also find the way home.
