Amsterdam-based collective Mèraque grew from the shared fascination of percussionist and sound artist Jorick Bronius and clarinet and saxophone player Martin Grozdanoski with Balkan folk music; guitarist Onur Kaletas completes the core lineup. Their musical roots extend across the Balkans and Anatolia, while their records pull those traditions into psychedelic house, festival electronics and occasional drum & bass.
The new album Paradiso, released through Turkish label Eretna, makes this collision worth following because the group attempts something riskier than placing a clarinet over a fashionable beat. Folk melody, acoustic percussion and club production continually negotiate who gets to lead. At its best, the electronic beat waits for the older melodic language to establish its accents before adding weight beneath it; elsewhere the club structure arrives first and the melody has to fight harder to preserve its shape.
The word “fusion” has become broad enough to describe almost any meeting between an acoustic instrument and a laptop, but Paradiso becomes more interesting in the tiny decisions inside that meeting. I entered the album expecting the usual exchange between atmosphere and rhythm. A few minutes later, I was listening for which instrument starts the movement, which one interrupts it and how long the arrangement can delay the obvious drop. The most convincing passages let the melodic curves dictate the machinery around them instead of simply decorating a beat.
The opening stretch of Space Ohm leaves plenty of room for ornamented melody and hand-played rhythm, almost teasing the possibility that the track will remain a slow ceremonial introduction. Its centre changes the terms. A firm electronic pulse appears, the low end expands and the same melodic material acquires festival force. My shoulders understood the arrangement several seconds before my analytical brain caught up. Ederlezi approaches the album’s core from another direction, placing a meditative vocal among oud, clarinet, guitar and darbuka. Here the voice stretches time instead of driving it, and the surrounding air becomes part of the performance. I wanted a little more disturbance from the electronic layer beneath those sustained phrases. The restraint still protects the ceremonial character of the melody and allows the clarinet to answer the vocal with real intimacy. Rebirth sits between those poles. It carries enough pulse for a late-night dance floor, while irregular textures keep its structure unsettled. Several turns initially appeared overworked; a second play revealed smaller rhythmic connections and left my verdict pleasantly unfinished.
Kyrgyzstan Desert earned a point from its title before I heard a second of music. My mental library contains crowded sections devoted to California, Paris and New York. Kyrgyzstan has room for new arrivals. Among the originals, this is where the regional influence reaches its clearest melodic expression. Planina works through scale instead, using cinematic breadth and a wider dramatic frame. I stayed at a greater emotional distance, yet its changing dynamics keep this part of the album from settling into one scale. Together, the two songs expose an interesting difference inside Paradiso: geographical specificity pulls me closer than grandeur.
Once the originals have made their case, Paradiso continues through an extended remix section, and this is where my patience began to wobble. Familiar melodies return in several new club settings, which proves their flexibility but also restarts an arc that had already reached a satisfying point. I eventually treated these versions as a second disc. Separated from the originals, the remixes can compete with one another: which producer preserves the melodic identity, which one foregrounds percussion, and which one rebuilds the track around low end. I tried to remain democratic about the results. Space Ohm (Anatolian Sessions Remix) destroyed the ballot box. It is my favourite track here, increasing the physical pressure of the original while preserving the melodic line that made the first version work. The percussion continues to flicker through several accents, and the heavier foundation turns those details into collective movement. This version belongs near the end of a festival set, at the hour when polite conversation has already surrendered.
Across the album, the most impressive craft lies in the joins, where clarinet phrases bend across programmed rhythm, guitar colours appear around the harmony and percussion moves between acoustic detail and electronic weight. These elements retain their individual textures, and the specific interaction between woodwind, strings, hand percussion and low end creates the production’s depth. Paradiso occasionally stretches its ideas across too many remixes, and a leaner running order could sharpen the complete listen. The originals already make a persuasive album on their own, full of strange rhythmic decisions, cinematic scale and moments of genuine calm. This is the most unusual Balkan and Anatolian electronic record I have encountered in some time. The first listen made me inspect the construction. By the third, inspection had given way to a strong desire to hear Mèraque live.
*This review was made possible by SubmitHub
