Republika - The Post-Punk That Dripped Blood

Heartfelt thanks go to Salvatore Greco, Luca Palmarini, Francesco Cabras and the Polonicult team as a whole, for their support and the accurate translations they provided me with.

Don't Ask About Poland (Introduction)

Leading Republika for twenty years, save for a generous solo interlude under the name "Obywatel G.C.", Grzegorz Ciechowski represented the state of the art of Polish rock. Dissonant, obsessive, frenetic, open to contamination, yet also pervaded by a deep pain, able to vent itself now through refined melodies, now through visceral screams, his music marked a generation and launched a solid cult following among those that came after. It's intriguing to note how in recent years his fame has begun to cross Poland's borders, albeit in small steps and only at an underground level.

His homeland has honored him with documentaries, streets, squares, plaques, monuments, and even a limited-edition coin minted specifically by the national bank. His sudden death, which occurred in 2001 at just forty-four years of age, further fanned the flames of his legend.

Poland's music scene is incredibly rich, and it was especially so during Ciechowski and Republika's heyday, the Eighties. However, beyond the quality of the records released, the attention that era deserves also stems from the weight of symbols those artists managed to express. Especially considering the fact that they were given the chance to do so, a fact that was more unique than common beyond the Iron Curtain.

In Russia, in fact, rock artists could - at least from 1980 onward - distribute their own albums during live shows (often watched over by the police), but they weren't given the chance to record them in professional studios, nor to release them officially through the state record label. In other nations the situation was even harsher: one could play a watered-down form of rock, but only after obtaining an official license, accepting all the compromises that came with it. Otherwise, one risked prison or expulsion.

In Poland none of this happened. Despite the situation having been tragic at various points, despite some censorship here and there, despite attempts at boycotting by the police, despite the flight of some prominent figures of the local culture, bands were able to produce rock music, and as the Eighties kicked off they did so with a fury that left people stunned. Hard rock and post-punk, even in their most experimental forms, invaded the charts, selling avalanches of records. Even in periods when it was hard to get hold of even basic foodstuffs, many young people weren't willing to go without the vinyl just released by their heroes. Better to go hungry than be cut off from the one thing able to make them feel alive.

Polish new wave, or more simply "nowa fala", gave rise in the first half of the Eighties to four bands capable of entering the homes of every young person in the country, four bands whose names are indissolubly linked to one another, in a rivalry that in truth never actually existed, if anything a mutual stimulus in giving voice to those who needed it: Lady Pank, Maanam, Perfect, and indeed Republika. Of the four, Republika are today the most celebrated, at least by critics and the most demanding listeners, even though all of them remain extremely popular names.

Starting from the beginning, seeing how Ciechowski and his band had the courage to expose themselves, reading the lyrics they dared to sing, we will try to enter a world that could truly have stepped out of a George Orwell novel, built on the opposition between greyness, poverty and abuses of power on one side, and culture, a sense of belonging and youthful anger on the other.

Republika's first singles and the boom of Radio Trójka

It was Wiesław Ruciński who gave life to the Res Publica project at the end of the Seventies, offering a vaguely progressive pop rock, or so it seems, since to this day no trace of that material has survived. After a couple of years in which nothing interesting happens, the leader drops everything (he will emigrate to Australia and then to the US, where he still works today as a soundtrack composer, under the pseudonym Jann Castor). It will be Ruciński's brother who introduces the band to the man who will take the helm, Grzegorz Ciechowski, a brilliant singer and multi-instrumentalist with a classical and jazz background, but passionate above all about the sounds of that new wave that was at that moment flooding British rock. Or rather, about what lay behind those sounds: rebellion. And if that need was felt by young Londoners, imagine how much more it could be felt by a boy born and raised in Toruń (a culturally rich city, to be clear, but where living conditions - both in practical terms and in terms of freedom of expression - were what they were).

Ciechowski pushes the band to change its name to the more streamlined Republika and to veer towards new wave. What comes out of it, however, is a sound nobody had ever heard before, a creative merry-go-round that wouldn't even have been conceivable in English-speaking countries, and so different precisely because it rests on the peculiar cultural conditions of those who conceived it. Republika's classic lineup includes, besides Ciechowski, guitarist Zbyszek Krzywański, drummer Sławomir Ciesielski and bassist Paweł Kuczyński.

Thanks to the great success of Maanam, who had already accustomed audiences to aggressive, oblique music, Republika don't find it difficult to find places to play live. Their growing resonance thus brings them into contact with one of the pillars of Polish culture, which is establishing itself at exactly that time.

On Saturday, April 24, 1982, the first episode of the Radio Trójka chart show airs, hosted by Marek Niedźwiecki. The program is based on votes sent in by mail - and later also by phone - from its listeners, quickly gaining immense popularity. It is the only national media channel that also broadcasts Western music, rock in particular. Millions of young people thus remain glued to the radio every Saturday evening, with gatherings even organized in venues just to listen to the program.

The chart show is experienced almost like a messianic revelation. Many record it on cassette and listen to it again throughout the week, until the following Saturday. Also because much of what is broadcast isn't available commercially: on December 13, 1981, martial law came into effect, and the authorities tightened the screws even further on the already scarce Western records allowed distribution on the Polish market. A good part of what is aired by Radio Trójka is in fact untraceable unless recorded straight from there.

This is true, in fact, for some Polish songs too, and while sometimes it's down to pure and simple boycotting, in other cases the reason is almost tragicomic.

With the economy in collapse and state-run companies on their knees, it sometimes happened that records simply couldn't be pressed for lack of materials. Vinyl was scarce, so a song would come out in a limited run, or not come out at all — if you wanted to hear it, your only option was the radio.

Whatever the reason, it so happened that tracks capable of marking a generation, including Republika's most famous song as we'll see, never came out on physical format at the time.

Having won over Niedźwiecki, the band recorded their first tracks at the radio station's studios, which then broadcast them. Listeners voted for them en masse right away, so much so that by the end of '82 their first three songs had all reached number 1.

"Kombinat" was the first to be aired, in late May. Ciechowski's hysterical singing is an instant revelation, alternating between words delivered peremptorily and vowels stretched out to the point of tearing the voice apart. His lyrical stance is immediately aggressive, the scenario he paints is leaden and grim. "The plant works, breathes, produces. The plant is a tissue, I am a cell, I can't get out [...] The plant pulses, no one knows I exist, I know nothing about myself, I have a measured-out rhythm, I can't get out [...] These desks stretch as far as the horizon, I sleep in a drawer marked with precision, I can't get out."

The final verse in particular has a visual edge that makes the all-consuming power of the production chain feel even more tangible. Ciechowski enriches the track with his prog-rooted piano and a transverse flute solo, while his bandmates hold down a crooked, deceptive rhythm.

In October, "Sexy Doll" and "Telefony" were put on air. Musically they follow the template set by "Kombinat", with the arrangement driven by piano, the off-beat pulse, the syncopations, the cutting rhythm guitars and the bold vocal contortions, backed in "Telefony" by echo effects and onomatopoeia.

The lyrics of "Sexy Doll" – about an attraction to an inflatable doll, precisely – bring to the table for the first time the lustful side of Ciechowski, later used metaphorically to launch scathing political attacks, while "Telefony" describes the loneliness felt by young people of the era, portraying its protagonist as driven mad by isolation. The atmosphere is unsettling both because of the obsessively repeated words and the screams that punctuate the lines. "Wherever I call, they don't recognize my voice-voice-voice-voice-voice-voice. Wrong numbers, wrong numbers, wrong addresses-dresses-dresses-dresses-dresses-dresses. This phone only echoes inside my head [...] No one's calling, no one's calling, it's just me, it's just me."

It's worth remembering that when martial law was imposed, General Wojciech Jaruzelski had all telephones disconnected. The allusion to unusable, and later tapped, phones is fairly obvious and amounts to a clear political stance.

Given their radio success, the band was given the chance to release a couple of 7-inch singles.

"Kombinat" came out in January '83 and sold 80,000 copies. On the B-side was a new track, "Gadające głowy", which uses the usual formula halfway between pianistic art rock and frantic post-punk, adding choruses that could vaguely recall the Stranglers (not by chance one of the very few British bands able to match Republika in terms of technical skill).

In April it was "Sexy Doll"'s turn, paired with the previously unreleased "Układ sił", their most inaccessible track to date, complete with demonic laughter and guitar disfigured by the flanger effect. It sold 100,000 copies.

The track that ended up on everyone's lips, however, as mentioned, never made it to shops. It's called "Biała flaga" and is their most political song to date. A sort of shifting, cabaret-tinged hard rock, with ska slowdowns and dissonant piano digressions, it finds Ciechowski putting himself right on the front line. No more metaphors: the torpedo is launched head-on, the pantomime is no longer necessary.

Where are they? All my friends, I miss them, even though there were never many. They've hidden themselves away among various obscure institutions. Rampant prostitution burned them out. Where are my friends? Activists of those years, there were always few of them, now I'm alone. What a character that man is, the way he talks in such learned words about how tiring it is to sit around handing out praise. What a tone! What reverence! Such measure in every situation, and what wise convictions.

"Biała flaga" made Republika rather unsavoury company. Except on Radio Trójka, of course, which crowned it number 1 for five weeks and turned it into one of the cornerstones of Polish rock. To actually buy it, fans had to wait until 1993, with the anthology 82 – 85, which collects it alongside all the titles mentioned so far, as well as tracks from a few years later that likewise never found a place on the studio albums. It is therefore an essential record, containing some of the band's defining moments.

The debut album

Nowe sytuacje saw the light of day in April '83 and became a resounding commercial success: with 360,000 copies sold it would be the third best-selling record of the year, but it turned out to be the first in terms of revenue for the state coffers, since - through a clever move - it was put on sale at a price noticeably higher than other albums. Needless to say, the band wouldn't see a penny of that money. Being a rock star wasn't considered a proper job by the party bosses, and anyone wanting to pursue that path had to settle for a normal wage, just like any office worker. Many singers thus ran into serious difficulties in everyday life: their records made the corrupt system piles of money, yet they still had to live in beehive-like housing blocks or wait two hours outside a shop, among the most destitute people. Who would sometimes go out of their way to comment on their presence with contempt, if not to harass them outright, as some have testified. (Any documentary on Poland of that era will show you endless lines of people waiting to get basic necessities.)

The record comes in a memorable sleeve with diagonal black-and-white stripes. Stripped down, cold, schematic like the world the band was forced to live in, it was designed by their manager, Andrzej Ludew.

For the "nowa fala" of Republika, it's time to take stock: effect-laden off-beat guitars, hammering piano, amphetamine-fuelled Jethro Tull-style flute solos, syncopated rhythms, constant tempo changes and all sorts of oddities (the odd time signatures of "Śmierć w bikini" and "Halucynacje", the Morse code of "System nerwowy", and so on). It's hard to pin down exactly what kind of creature this is - the sound is abrasive, yet the production, handled by the band itself, boasts absolute professionalism; the tracks are as obsessive as punk, but packed with ideas reminiscent of progressive rock.

What's truly startling, though, are the vocal parts, which push what was already shown in the early singles to the extreme. To make sure the message gets through, Ciechowski builds songs that are effectively rock mantras. The word deemed key to the concept - or, in some cases, simply a syllable placed in a strategic spot - ends up being repeated as many as fifty times in a single song. Often culminating, at the end of one of these barrages, in sobs, nasal vocalizations and desperate screams, as has become the norm. The rest is down to the constant mood swings, from sensual to furious, from mysterious to mirthful. It's a relentless assault, reinforced by the fact that his bandmates back Ciechowski on vocals, creating in places true walls of voices steeped in hysteria.

The title track goes straight on the attack: "⟦Q1⟧".

The reference is to the protests against the party that had swept through Poland the previous year. Despite numerous arrests and the temporary suspension of Solidarność, Ciechowski sensed that the population hadn't yet lost hope and that negotiations were bound to resume. His instinct proved right, and on 22 July 1983 martial law was suspended, although there would be plenty more abuses to witness between then and 1989.

The manifesto of "Mój imperializm" needs no explanation: "My imperialism will consume you [...] Now you're mine, not yours, not yours, not yours, no. Foreign capital will devour you. I'll make you believe revolution is a sin, and you'll do nothing."

The symbolism of "Arktyka" is more layered. "⟦Q2⟧" sings Ciechowski, before going on to describe, in the final scene, people freezing to death in their own homes. It can be read both as a snapshot of bourgeois complicity with the regime and as a slice of real life, given that among the rationed goods of the time were also heating fuels. To underline the point, parts of the track are accompanied by a ghostly gust of wind, while Krzywański carves out long, blade-sharp guitar barrages.

Though dense with dark omens, the lyrics of "Śmierć w bikini" are among the few that aren't political. Seduced by a woman in a swimsuit, Ciechowski realizes she is actually death. For once, it seems to be simply an evocative image.

The album closes with "My lunatycy", where young people unable to fall in line with the rules withdraw into their own world and are swallowed up by it: "⟦Q3⟧". The contrast between the bleakness of the lyrics and the music's drive is striking, thanks in large part to Kuczyński's bass, mixed right up front.

Even though none of its songs have remained as popular over time as the singles that preceded it, the album as a whole is regarded as a classic of Polish rock, if not its very pinnacle.

There's also a version sung in English, titled 1984, released on the British market by the independent label Mega Organisation. As one might expect, the pronunciation is imperfect, but the exercise proves interesting nonetheless, since the instrumental tracks were re-recorded from scratch, presenting some subtle differences from the originals.

The second album and the boycott

In the summer of '83, the band was admitted - presumably with some reluctance on the organizers' part - to the national festival in Opole. Their popularity was such that leaving them out would have been impossible to justify.

Nieustanne tango was recorded the following year. It's not an easy record: compared to the debut, the melodies are less immediate, the art-rock element is more pronounced, and some intriguing instrumental flourishes emerge, despite the disappearance of the flute. Either way, the overall result is unmistakable, and the tension never lets up: the piano pounds like an anvil, the vocals grow ever more theatrical and distorted, and the guitar, while happy to conjure up atmosphere, is still capable of corrosive, rust-edged riffs.

As one might guess, the title track adapts the new formula to a tango beat, while "Psy Pawłowa" is a whirlwind alternating martial moments with sinister swerves. The lyrics wipe the slate clean, as man in his housing-block cell survives without thought and without hope: "⟦Q4⟧".

"Fanatycy ognia" is about as extreme as anything that could still be put out in Poland today, let alone back then. "⟦Q5⟧". It's hardly surprising that this far from subtle - though certainly realistic - depiction of Catholic fanaticism is one of the band's least-known songs, practically never performed live after 1984, perhaps also due to Ciechowski's later ideological shift toward more personal and spiritual themes.

The most elaborate track is perhaps “Obcy astronom”, a rich dish that folds in reggae influences (Ciesielski turns in a performance that, had it come from Stewart Copeland, would have earned universal praise), liquid guitars, slapped bass, mysterious whispers, delectable harmonies, hypnotic piano riffs and a liberating instrumental coda.

Everything seems to be going well, until someone in a position of power decides Republika have played the villains for long enough. The album is granted a distribution of just 45,000 copies, a pittance compared to the results of the previous record. After an unsuccessful legal appeal, Ciechowski is forced to serve a stint in the army, though the sources remain vague and contradictory about the real reasons. In any case, with the new record becoming impossible to find within a month and the singer temporarily out of action, the band has no choice but to go on hiatus.

The Jarocin festival and the final singles

Starting in 1980, Walter Chełstowski, a television director with little patience for the party's heavy-handedness, organizes an alternative music festival in Jarocin. Young people, especially those most marginalized by society, converge there from all over Poland to celebrate their favorite artists and meet others like themselves. Over the years the festival has been criticized by the party, described as disgraceful by the news broadcasts, and often placed under police watch. After the fall of the regime it emerged that fake neo-Nazis, paid to do so, would mix in with the crowd to stir up trouble, giving the police an excuse to arrest a few unruly kids and shut down the events, or at least delay them. Still, through more or less bearable hardships, the festival has been held every year with growing success.

When, in August '85, Republika announce they are resuming activity for a headlining performance at the event, a crowd of twenty thousand gathers to see them. As soon as the band takes the stage, some troublemakers in the front rows shower them with whistles, eggs and tomatoes, accusing them of being sellouts (they are the only famous band on the bill, all the other names still belong to the underground). Most people, however, are there to listen to them, and Ciechowski, despite the filthy stage, decides to play anyway. The concert turns out to be so powerful and passionate that by the end the ecstatic crowd hails them as heroes, eclipsing the initial protests.

Several of the songs played are brand new, among them the single “Tak długo czekam (ciało)”, which had premiered just a few days earlier on Radio Trójka and shot straight to number 1. The lyrics carry a strong sexual charge, but the constant sense of waiting they describe can equally be read as a metaphor for popular dissatisfaction with the organs of power. My hands almost starve, I wait a long time, but I know that what you do, you do for me. The sound marks a turning point compared to the first two albums: driven by a dark bassline, the rhythm has become slow and solemn, while the piano has been replaced by blankets of electronic keyboards. It's Republika's atmospheric masterpiece.

In October, again via radio, it's the turn of “Zawsze ty (klatka)”. The track fits into the new direction, blending electronics with noir undertones, this time leaning toward a swing feel. The lyrics are among the most suffocating Ciechowski ever wrote: Wherever I am there's a cage, I can't touch it, a cage, its shadow on my face, it always slips away and I chase it, but behind me I can feel its breath.

In March '86 the last two Republika songs are released, on a 45. Side A features a catchy, airy little gem, “Sam na linie”, the only one of their songs to which the term AOR could apply. The flip side, however, tells a very different story: “Moja krew” is in fact one of the most brutal moments in 1980s rock. “Il mio sangue, bevuto dai sacerdoti sui pulpiti, sui palchi, nelle trattative riservate. È il mio sangue. Stacks of printed newspapers scream every morning with headlines written in blood. Il mio sangue. The anchorman spits it out on TV, I follow the trail of my blood […] My blood, and yours too, my blood, and yours too”.

If the words alone are chilling, especially given they were uttered under a regime, imagine them sung in unison by a choir that intones them in an aggressive, militaristic tone, while the electronic piano underneath exudes a kind of funereal blues. Halfway through, sax and rhythm section come crashing in, unleashing a fanfare of blaring dissonance. Such psychological violence can't even be found in Einstürzende Neubauten. And although it's pure coincidence, it's amusing to note how the ghostly falsetto that appears at 1'23" and 2'31" clearly anticipates the wails of Thom Yorke.

The single sells fewer than 10,000 copies, but it should be noted that shortly before, the local 45-rpm market had suffered a genuine collapse, so the figure shouldn't be taken as indicative. What is indicative, however, is “Moja krew” reaching number 1 on Radio Trójka, the fourteenth such chart-topper in just five seasons of their career.

The four tracks from the two-year period just described were never included on an album, but you can conveniently find them gathered on the already-mentioned anthology 82 – 85 (note: the time frame in the title refers to the recording dates, not the release dates).

The Nameless Citizen

By mid-1986, Republika no longer exist. On top of the difficulties encountered in distributing their music, personal clashes between Ciechowski and the other members have piled up, leading to an amicable split. The singer then adopts the moniker Obywatel G.C., using his own initials paired with the title “citizen”. Giving up his own name can be read as yet another accusation leveled by the artist at the depersonalizing society surrounding him.

The first album, simply titled Obywatel G.C., comes out in the fall of '86. Its creation was swift, since the author made use of the songs he had been writing for Republika at the time of the breakup, plus a reworking of “Tak długo czekam (ciało)”.

“Paryż-Moskwa 17.15” opens with a hard rock riff played by his friend Jan Borysewicz, guitarist of Lady Pank, before veering into a more subdued sound marked by electronic drums, swelling synthesizers, mandolin and gloomy choral vocals likely warped through a sampler. There's no doubt about those on “Kaspar Hauser”, barely whispered over a bed of percussion, programmed rhythms and bursts of brass.

The most striking track is "Przyznaję się do winy", a polished slice of sophisti-pop complete with an angelic female countermelody, though its lyrics are far harsher than the genre's average fare: "In the darkness I hide my face, over and over, so you won't see what's in my eyes [...] If you confess today, I'll let you sleep. Today I'll torture you again, and I'll do it crying [...] The jailer has brought you back here and put you in my hands. Now I can't hide it anymore, and I whisper: I love you."

Backing Ciechowski on production is Rafał Paczkowski, at the time still unknown but destined to become an important name on the Polish scene in later years, including as a film-score composer (Krzysztof Kieślowski would later choose him for the colour trilogy).

Unfortunately, the album goes unnoticed, partly due to the shock of Republika's split, partly because of the new project's low profile, and partly because of sonics quite different from those of the old band.

Backed once again by Paczkowski, the artist plots a comeback that succeeds beyond all expectations with the release of Tak, tak. With over 300,000 copies sold, it's the best-selling Polish album of 1988. In particular, "Tak… tak… to ja" and "Nie pytaj o Polskę" become two of the most popular songs of the decade.

The former is a singular hybrid of hard-rock power and the most sophisticated Eighties pop. Despite the thunderous guitars, the arrangement keeps it from recalling the hard rock typical of that decade, which was often overblown and hard to take seriously. The magic is made possible by the warm bed of electric organ, the powerful sax solo, the staccato piano in the chorus, and the acoustic guitar, perhaps a little hidden in the mix but important in enriching the dynamics. The narrator accuses himself of cowardice, but it's really just a release valve for the sense of powerlessness felt by so many young people of the era: "Only now, when no one can hear — don't worry, you're alone at home — you've filled the tub with hot water and declare to the mirror that you want to change the world. I know you do try a little, but tell me how many days you've spent in front of that mirror."

The masterpiece, though, is "Nie pytaj o Polskę", one of the high points of the entire Eighties. The velvety drum machine, the atmospheric keyboard backdrop, the melancholy piano, the synthesized bassline, the peculiar structure in which instruments are added one by one, the romantic sax in the middle section, the wall of dreamy voices carrying the chorus, the acoustic-guitar flourishes, the epic ending that fades out as the arrangement grows ever denser. It's striking that such delicacy could come from the very same artist who, just a couple of years earlier, was still playing in Republika.

The lyrics are a love song addressed to Poland as if it were a woman: "She's so tired, and always drunk, and that's why, no, don't ask me. Don't ask me why I'm with her, don't ask me why not with another, don't ask me why I think that there's no other place for me."

Although it's one of his simplest lyrics, it's also one of the most laden with references to local culture: the passages where he sings of wanting to make love to her recall the famous Budka Suflera ballad "Jolka Jolka pamiętasz", while the line "as long as we live, she too is alive" echoes a verse from the Polish national anthem. This isn't mere patriotism, but rather a moving portrait of that sense of love one feels for one's own homeland, even though those in charge of it have reduced it to a rag, as Ciechowski is quick to point out.

Epic new-wave sonics, full-throated vocals and cascades of vocal samples provide the backdrop for "Umarłe słowa", a definitive indictment of censorship: "Keep your splendour, dead words. You always sound as if spoken for the first time. Liars have raped you, over and over, again and again. They said: it's not rape if you're fine together now."

It's an album that reveals itself without a single weak spot, from the bitter intimacy of the industrial jazz of "Ani ja ani ty" to the galloping "Piosenka kata", pierced by noise and metallic timbres. The success, sealed by the concert at the Sopot festival, couldn't be more deserved.

Republika reunion

It's 1990, the dictatorship has ended, and the Opole festival decides to celebrate the Polish rock of the previous ten years, by now recognised as a bastion of freedom. For the occasion, Republika are also invited, and they accept. The event causes such a stir that Ciechowski decides to turn it into a permanent reunion. Kuczyński doesn't believe in the project and bows out, but the others don't bat an eyelid and carry on as a trio, recording 1991. Four new songs sit alongside a handful of old hits, polished up in versions that are admittedly a bit by-the-numbers, but the record is a success.

Partly for this reason, the drop in popularity that hits Republika in 1993 is as sudden as it is unexpected. After Bez prądu, a superfluous limited-edition unplugged release notable mainly for the permanent addition of Leszek Biolik on bass, comes Siódma pieczęć, the first album made entirely of new material since 1984. Despite the effort and good intentions, something goes wrong, and the result is a dozen songs dominated by Rhodes piano, which are far too soft when they're soft and sound like tired imitations of the classics they once were when they try to bare their teeth. Even the production, while flawless, is too dry, and some tracks sound as if they were recorded live in one take.

The sales flop leaves Ciechowski embittered, not least because, at that very moment, old friends/rivals Maanam and Lady Pank are enjoying some of the biggest successes of their careers.

With the catchy hard rock of the title track and the atmospheric midtempo "Zapytaj mnie czy cię kocham", Republika marzeń (1995) at least improves on the care taken with the arrangements, though sales still fail to recover.

New creative outlets

During breaks in Republika's new life, Ciechowski kept using the alias Obywatel G.C. to sign a number of film scores, none of which were especially notable (worth mentioning is Obywatel Świata, if only because it contains "Tobie wybaczam", a shifting, ethnic-tinged art pop piece that has become a classic over time).

In 1996, taking advantage of another lull, he decided to make a solo album, his first since the Eighties if you don't count the film-related ones. It was titled ojDADAna and came out in October, credited to Grzegorz z Ciechowa (literally "Grzegorz from Ciechów", as if his surname had turned into a place name).

The greatness of artists capable of crossing different musical eras can mainly be measured by their mental flexibility. By this point Ciechowski had been going through a long rough patch. He could certainly have taken the easier path and kept sliding downhill, settling for the role of elder statesman of national rock with records fit for a retiree. Instead, he found a burst of pride and showed up with ten tracks that resembled nothing he had released up to that point.

From the relaxed tones of "Oj zagraj ze mi zagraj" to the archaic ones of "I tesknila, tesknila", a fresh, rich and experimental sound takes shape. Whirls of samples and manipulated instruments, atmospheres borrowed from contemporary new age, alternative dance beats, hard rock seamlessly interspersed with house and ambient, playground noises and children's choirs, trip hop, recorders, polished funk guitars, and ancient folk songs drawn from Poland's rich tradition. All of it blended with great irony, often creating grotesque combinations of sound. Try picturing a folk version of Avalanches' "Since I Left You", four years ahead of time, and you won't be far off the result.

The first four songs are each accompanied by a video, which, played in sequence, form a striking short film, easily found on YouTube.

Some controversy also flared up when the relatives of the late folk singer Anna Malec complained about the use of her voice in the album's flagship track, the rooster-crow dance number "Piejo kury piejo". Still, all publicity is good publicity, and Ciechowski found himself at number 5 on the charts with the strangest work of his career.

Buoyed by the experience, he also tried to bring Republika back to the top, and hit the mark in December '98 with Masakra.

Granted, the macho rock of "Mamona" could have been spared, yet there are plenty of tracks worthy of the band's best work, and the blends with electronics come off brilliantly. Worth noting are the splendid nocturnal atmospheres of the downtempo "Raz na milion lat", the swarm of dreamy keyboards driving "Gramy dalej", a "Przeczekajmy noc" that Portishead would envy, the apocalyptic electro-industrial of the title track, and the romantic single "Odchodząc" with its understated acoustic guitars. "As you leave, take me with you, find me a spot in your new life, somewhere on a shelf or a windowsill, once a month dust me off". Who would have expected such a relaxed lyric from the master of tension?

The album wasn't an instant hit, peaking at number 18, but it stayed on the charts for six months and its songs built a lasting reputation over the years. Today it is rightly regarded as a classic.

A death felt by five

In 1999 Ciechowski composed "Moja Angelica" for the drama film of the same name directed by Stanisław Kuźnik. A track with a melancholic, understated chorus, it blends electronic arrangements and acoustic guitars superbly.

In April 2001 the single "Nie pójdę do szkoły" came out, a prickly funk rock number with robotic vocals marking the band's thirtieth anniversary and seemingly reviving its old combative streak. "No, I won't go to school anymore, it won't happen again, the verdicts have been handed down, there will be no further improvements to our cerebral cortex, my thoughts are just scribbles".

Both songs can be found on the various reissues of Masakra.

In the summer of 2001 Republika performed for the third time at the Opole festival; the concert was broadcast in full on television and is remembered today as the last event Ciechowski ever took part in. Out of nowhere, an aortic aneurysm ended his journey on December 22 of that same year. A few days later, several of the most important Polish musicians and journalists attended his funeral. What is hardest to come to terms with, beyond the premature death itself, is that Grzegorz still seemed to be in excellent artistic shape.

On March 23, 2002, the double commemorative album Republika was released. The first disc is a live record comprising a series of sessions for Radio Trójka, recorded between 1994 and 2001. The second is an EP with four new songs, which were meant to feed into a new studio work. Among these is Ciechowski's final masterpiece, “Śmierć na pięć” (literally “a death worth five,” but since five is the top school grade in Poland, in Italian terms it should be understood as “a death worth ten”). The lyrics, with their grim brooding on death, leave one stunned, as if the artist had foreseen his own fate. “A cat jumped, and behind the cat a dog, behind it a horse, and behind the horse me. Five times, I jump five times. You're not there. The world leaps out. First a trout, behind the trout a carp, then me, after me a seahorse, a shark, and finally a cat. You're not there. My death worth five.”

These are words that seem to pour straight out of a troubadour's songbook, like an ancient nursery rhyme with a Gothic flavor, dense with the animal symbolism typical of the Middle Ages. A sort of bestiary in rock form that expresses an understanding of the order of things and of one's own place in society, before leaving the earthly world. The procession of animals in which Ciechowski finds himself represents the passing of time, its weight made heavier by the absence of the loved one by his side. It's no coincidence that the instrumental backdrop consists of a kind of limping waltz in odd time signatures. Though shot through with post-rock moods and distorted sounds, it retains a danceable feel from start to finish, honoring the old tradition that holds dancing to be among the favored moments for the Grim Reaper's appearance.

The album reaches a respectable number 5 on the charts, but doesn't become the bestseller one might have expected on the wave of public emotion. Ciechowski's death is in fact one of those whose echo has grown louder with the passing years. Today it's practically deafening: besides the various official honors mentioned at the start of this profile, there's a steady stream of covers and tribute concerts. The most disparate names on the rock and singer-songwriter scene, both mainstream and alternative, have reinterpreted his songs (Kasia Kowalska, Kasia Nosowska, Grzegorz Turnau, LemON, Tomek Makowiecki, Mela Koteluk, Skubas, Lipali, Agressiva 69, State Urge, Czesław Śpiewa, and many more besides). In Radio Trójka's hugely popular annual poll of the greatest Polish songs of all time, Ciechowski always places seven or eight songs in the top hundred, and usually two in the top five (“Biała flaga” by Republika and “Nie pytaj o Polskę” by Obywatel G.C.).

In 2014, the surviving members of Republika returned to the stage under the name Nowe Sytuacje and appeared at the Jarocin festival to perform the great classics of Ciechowski's repertoire. The concert turned into a crowd-pleasing triumph and convinced the musicians to carry on. To this day, Nowe Sytuacje are still touring, committed to keeping alive the memory of the genius to whom they owe their songs, and to whom Poland owes a significant part of its cultural identity.

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