Travel, Tunes and Railway Reverie
Ah, the Romanian train journey – a symphony of disorderly delight! An early morning departure from Bucharest kicking off with the train taking a page from the 'Tortoise's Guide to Timely Travel’. The rhythmic clatter of wheels is the locomotive's version of a leisurely chat, occasionally interrupted by a 'chug' that sounds suspiciously like, 'Should I have taken that left turn at Crevedia?!' It's the kind of chaos that even the tracks can't quite fathom – like a dance where everyone has their own interpretation of the steps, and none of them match the official choreography. But fear not, dear passenger, there's no detour on this adventure; the route is as straightforward as a cat trying to ignore you. So, Bucharest – Brasov, let’s see what kind of music plays on as we wholeheartedly embrace the wonderfully chaotic rhythm of Romanian train travel!
Most of the time, as I embark on the 'Romanian train adventure,' a small and perhaps peculiar ritual unfolds. Tucked away in my rucksack there is always a small leather pouch housing my well-worn, trusty wired headphones and an old Sony mp3 player that kids nowadays call 'vintage'—apparently because it sports some shiny ol' buttons. This relic is filled to the brim with a playlist that could rival a DJ's secret stash. And so, armed with this auditory arsenal, I valiantly attempt to dive into the world of literature. Or so I plan.
This supposedly grand plan, you see, involves the noble pursuit of profound reading and intellectual pondering. However, much to the chagrin of literature enthusiasts everywhere, my thoughts and the passing Romanian landscape have formed a nefarious alliance against the written word—specifically while I'm traveling by train. It turns out my inner monologue is a more captivating storyteller than most books, and the Romanian scenery plays an Oscar-worthy supporting role (in the 'Drama' category, naturally). For those intrepid souls who have departed from the bustling Bucharest main station bound for Brasov, they nod knowingly. The uninitiated, on the other hand, well, they're in for a revelation—though not necessarily the most pleasant one. But hey, that's the beauty of a Romanian train journey: unexpected surprises lurk around every bend, much like the quirks of my mental meanderings. But I digress.
So there I sit, attempting to read a book, but my mind embarks on its own expedition - a whimsical journey through the tangled web of thoughts. The train's rhythmic clatter becomes the beat, and the occasional 'chug' serves as the punctuation mark in this symphony of disorderly introspection. Just as my mind starts to disconnect, the first notes of an almost-forgotten tune chime in. It is a foggy morning. Peering out my window, the electricity poles loom out of the mist and then vanish again, resembling starkly geometrical trees. The fog presses against the window as if eager to be inside.
Most instrumental electronic music benefits from such evocative surroundings, but the work of Pantha du Prince (nom de plume for Hendrik Weber) goes beyond benefit—it almost requires it. His delicate, brittle melodic techno is itself evocative, making sense of the world for you. The foggy landscape triggers memories of another train ride, this time back in Germany almost a decade ago. As I traveled from Stuttgart to Dresden in late February/early March, the wintery landscape—trees, houses, and barns scattered across the fields—moved with the same rhythmical pace that, to me, seemed to influence the music (and vice versa).
Perhaps I was vibing off how the ambiguity of the world outside mirrored the ambiguity of the music. Weber's productions, brimming with fragile melodic sequences, grim basslines, chimes, and an orchestra of unidentifiable sounds (TV static? Train doors closing down? Rocks engaging in an impromptu percussion performance?) seem to dwell at the precise point where nature and industry become indistinguishable. It's a vantage point from which plants and machines become just more shapes to populate the landscape, and humans are curiously absent—maybe off enjoying a cosmic picnic somewhere.
And so, the entire album—This Bliss—moves gracefully between visions of the natural world and manmade counterfeits. The technology here adopts a slightly sinister role in his work. I blink quickly, and peering through the mist, I see the shapes of an oil refinery's towers closing in. The bass in my ears signals that things are very wrong—or at least, they would be in a suspenseful movie. I close my eyes and let the music further unfold, creating a soundtrack for the approaching dystopian refinery landscape. It's an odd pairing, but isn't life just a series of unexpected remixes?
For all its intricacy and lushness, this album—indeed, this kind of music—is clearly the product of a strictly mathematical technology, its clicks, whirs, and tinkling arpeggios evoking images of an abandoned factory where the machines have taken up running themselves. Even when Weber indulges in crystalline and romantic visions of nature, the music remains a stage without actors: sighing strings and mournful horns could be the soundtrack of an abandoned forest patiently crafting its own elegy, utterly detached and yet quietly sorrowful as it awaits its own demise. It's like a scene from Nature's Shakespearean tragedy, where the trees perform soliloquies to an audience of rustling leaves.
Yet, in its final act with the anthemic 'Walden 2,' light is being let in, accompanied by a succession of spectacular synth arpeggios that sound almost hopeful. It's a fleeting moment, as if hope is defined by its own precariousness—hope itself becomes too much to hope for in a narrative defined by decay. The music, like a skilled storyteller, gives us a glimpse of optimism, only to snatch it away with the finesse of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat and then promptly putting it back.
This all-encompassing feeling of loss, like something slipping through your fingers, can become almost claustrophobic as the album unfolds. It's a bit like misplacing your keys and then realizing you left them in the fridge—disconcerting and context-dependent. In the wrong setting, its pathos can become downright intolerable, and its fragility might be as easily overlooked as yesterday's grocery list. However, choose your moments wisely, and the quiet rebuke of this music transforms into a magically humbling experience. It's akin to finding those misplaced keys right where they belong, just when you thought you'd have to call a locksmith.
[…]
I instinctively reach for my right-hand pocket, a reflexive check to ensure my keychain's reassuring presence. To my relief, the jingle that stirred me wasn't a misplaced key but rather the rhythmic swing of wheels and squeaks, announcing the train's newfound commitment to deceleration. Posada was on the horizon, and in its infinite wisdom, the Romanian Railway Company had declared a manifesto against speed. This was no German ICE darting through the landscape. There was no more haste; it was time to relish the journey inch by inch, basking in the slow lane, and contemplating every centimeter of land, town, shack, and dirt along the route.
As the unkempt landscape unfolded, the music in my ears seemed decisively out of sync. I fumble through my playlist, seeking a more fitting companion, but the dissonance between auditory beats and visual rhythm proves too vast. If the mathematical cadence of a German landscape could inspire a producer to craft something as evocative as Weber's 'This Bliss,' I ponder what melodic magic might emerge from a Brasov-bound IC train adventure. „Sarba de la Clejani” would be a good fit, or as we pass the slopes covered in waste dropped from the heights of DN1, Nightlosers’ playful and sarcastic Shame Shame Shame starts to echo. Enter the novel concept of 'locomotive philosophy,' delivered with a wink, a clatter, and the rhythm of plum brandy blues inviting us to join the slow-motion spectacle of Romanian rail contemplation. „Mistery Train (funk Maramures Mi-minor)” from the same band starts muted then grows in crescendo, especially as the train enters now the tunnels after Predeal and every carriage goes pitch-black.
So, there you have it. Every Romanian train journey is an experience to say the least. It is slow, dirty, and unpredictable, but at times it is also also oddly charming. And the music? Well, the music is eclectic, to say the least, at least as eclectic as you allow it be.
I listened to everything from German melodic techno to Romanian folk songs to funk-jazz from a now-forgotten band. But at the end of the day, I realised that it doesn't matter what kind of music you listen to on a Romanian train journey. The real fun is in the unexpected. It's in the chance encounters, the quirky characters (and those can be plenty along the way!), and the surreal landscapes. It's in the experience of traveling and allowing yourself to be open to all the possibilities.
So, if you're ever thinking about taking a train journey through Romania, I highly recommend it. Just be prepared for anything. And don't forget to bring your headphones.
photos © Olivier Caune (IG oliviercaune)