Tenhi - The arcane enchanters

Nature and mysticism from a faraway, alien and inaccessible place: at least in the imagination of those lucky enough to lose themselves in the magical music of Tenhi, a trio originally from Lapland who have embarked on a quest to rediscover their own cultural roots, the most ancestral ones, buried deep in memory.

Their story begins about ten years ago: Tyko Saarikko is a young student of architecture and visual arts with an insatiable passion for music. Also curious about the history and tradition of his country, in 1997 he launches the Tenhi project with his friend, guitarist Ilkka Salminen.

Inspired, in its vocals and its "concept", by Nordic shamanism, and guided by an eclectic, refined musical taste that blends folk, progressive, post-rock and more into an intensely personal formula, Tenhi (a term used in the ancient Finnish language to refer precisely to shamans) is a project born out of a perfect communion of intent. Naturally, since we're still talking about Finns here, at its root lies a shared passion for metal (Ilkka would later even collaborate with Children Of Bodom). But above all, there's the shared desire to push into uncharted territory. Soon the two are joined by another fellow student and occasional musical collaborator, Ilmari Issakainen. A versatile, experienced musician (piano, drums and bass are his specialties) already seasoned by a significant stint with the solid doom-metal band Mother Depth, Ilmari immediately clicks with the guiding ideas that Tyko wants at the core of Tenhi, and it's with his arrival that the newborn project gets its decisive push.

The first (and only) demo, "Kertomuksia", is thus ready in no time, and it lands the group a deal with the ever-worthy Prophecy Productions.

Moving fast, Tenhi release the EP Hallavedet (Frozen Waters) and prove themselves ready for a full-length debut. Sure enough, their first album, Kauan, appears shortly after (1999). It's a work that suffers from a still somewhat raw production, but already reveals a superior musical quality: chiaroscuro compositions like the magnificent "Näkin Laulu" elegantly marry undulating post-rock rhythms with the most ascetic side of Popol Vuh. "Huomen", with its choral refrain, strikes straight at the heart. The already-known "Hallavedet" treads the romantic, epic paths of labelmates Empyrium, while lively folk interludes like "Revontulet" are chilled by the pitch-dark piano introspection of "Taival" and "Soutu"; and it's precisely this path that Tenhi would decide to pursue further.

Beautiful calling card: Kauan show an uncommon talent for synthesizing the most fascinating and moving elements of folk and post-rock. As Tyko Saarikko put it: "The most interesting thing for us is to give new shape to things we already think we know." Critical response is excellent, and - for a band as difficult to access as this one - so is the audience's. So much so that Tenhi are invited to take part in the 2000 edition of the Wave Gotik Treffen in Leipzig, the annual gathering that for four days turns the German city into the world capital of "dark": unfortunately, the disastrous 2000 edition of the festival also penalizes the three Finns, who end up forced to play just two songs. The live dimension, after all, is something the band will always have a rather conflicted relationship with. In the studio, on the other hand, things go the right way: securing total autonomy, Tenhi set up their own private studio, where they themselves handle every aspect of their releases, from sound to artwork.

The 2001 EP Airut:ciwi opens a trilogy (whose final chapter is expected in 2007) and marks a pivotal moment in their career, because it's here that Tenhi present their manifesto - and masterpiece - to the world: "Kielo", a very long, very slow duet between piano and voice, steeped in regret, pain and unheard-of beauty. A track so overwhelming that its authors Tyko and Ilmari decide to build the entire "airut" saga along the same lines, and to that end give life to the side project Harmaa.

Meanwhile, Tenhi release their second album Vare (2002), with which they abandon the pianistic, experimental paths of the EP, choosing instead to emphasize their ongoing rewriting of the finest melodies of Nordic folk tradition, while at the same time complicating the arrangements through more explicit nods to certain strands of progressive rock, as the gorgeous "Katve" clearly shows. But while there's certainly no shortage of splendid moments like "Vilja", the record overall loses much of what made the debut so precious.

Steeped in esoteric overtones, Vare is perhaps a more significant album for the spiritual, cultural and personal journey of leader Tyko Saarikko than for the band's musical evolution. In any case, this bare, inhospitable record is followed by a long silence, broken only by occasional live appearances (including a second attempt at the Treffen, this time far more successful) and by the reissue of the debut album, enriched with bonus tracks including a new version - even more beautiful - of "Kielo".

In fact, work on the third album begins taking shape as early as 2003, with a pause in 2004 to allow Ilmari and Tyko to debut their side project Harmaa with the album Airut:aamujen, self-produced in an extremely limited edition and only recently reissued by Prophecy. An album made up entirely of elegant piano ballads, marked by Saarikko's deep, chant-like voice.

An interim experience, but one that helps the two authors mature and refine their craft: meanwhile, the long, difficult making of the new Tenhi album takes longer than expected, and it's only at the start of 2006 that Maaaet finally sees the light of day. Just the first minute of the opening "Varpuspaiva" is enough to suggest that rarely has a long wait been better rewarded: a calm, funereal drum pulse over which notes of piano, guitar and violin slowly begin to rain down. And the musicians' skill in lingering, with all the necessary patience, over every single precious note is astonishing, inducing feelings of intense, ecstatic estrangement. It's an overpowering beauty that erupts from the desperate swirls of the extraordinary "Vahainen Violetissa", or from the simple, lulling naturalism of the arpeggios that move like leaves in the wind on the delicate "Kuulut Kesiin". A beauty that turns instead into dark, pitch-black introspection on the lengthy "Viimeiseen" and, above all, in the icy stillness of "Sarastuskaivija".

So great is the expressive miracle achieved on these tracks that other songs - like "Kuoppa", which emphasizes the progressive-rock inflections of their music, or the refined folk-rock of "Rannaltu Haetta" - risk almost seeming conventional and going unnoticed by comparison.

Finally, rounding out the reflective journey undertaken by the album, come "Maa Syttyy" and "Aatos", two short, humble acoustic gems that are anything but mere filler, bookending the masterpiece "Tuulenkaato", the track that sums up all the (other)worldly artistry put forth by the Lappish trio.

An album that raises both the form and substance of their previous releases to a level of absolute excellence, with its nocturnal, introverted, precious coils, Maaaet gave us the certainty of a truly unique band in terms of style, charm, talent and spirit of exploration.

Tenhi's extraordinary mythology gains another chapter, a full five years after their last release. In the meantime, one of the Finnish group's founding members has split off: guitarist Illka Salminen, who had founded Tenhi back in 1996 together with Tyko Saarikko. It's no secret, though - and the band itself has said as much - that Salminen was merely executing what was created by Saarikko and the project's third permanent member, multi-instrumentalist Ilmari Issakainen, who joined the group shortly after its formation.

The long wait for the release of Saivo is also marked by a complete reissue of Tenhi's back catalogue by Prophecy Records, which also includes that Airut: Aamujen that makes up the first part of the saga which "Saivo" now ideally brings to a close.

On Saivo, in fact, everything is measured - there are perhaps some of the most minimalist tracks in Tenhi's career here (the reverent grace of the glacial arpeggios of "Surunuotta"), but it's a silence that fills the spaces and allows the rare percussive interventions to detonate with an intensity that feels almost physically "natural", as in the fervor-brimming gusts of "Haaksi".

Here it's progressive rock that winks at listeners, as in the sudden time changes of "Pojan Kiiski", where once again it's the choir that launches the group's instrumental excursions toward the permafrost plains and the snow-capped tips of Finland's ascetic conifers. Tenhi's miracle - akin, in its practical realization, to that of Sigur Ros (of whose formula our Finns hold at least partial paternity) and essentially never matched by bands from our own country - lies in using tradition consciously enough to touch, through it, the nerve of the contemporary world, from the longing for the natural world that permeates the group's poetics to the mythologizing of the past within a confused present.

Tenhi also risk, in the direct, almost sun-drenched, Jonsi-esque expressiveness of "Savoie" - a majestic ballad with epic tones - an almost estranging interlude in the flow of the record, certainly moving but not easily felt on an emotional level; of all the tracks, it perhaps best shows the marks, for better or worse, of the Finnish group's blend of the modern and the ancestral.

But it's the thrill of the shamanic evocation of tracks like "Vuoksi" that gives the album its charm, in the resonant solitude of a guitar arpeggio that multiplies, teeming, within the reverb of the double bass and the fleeting hint of violin, reproducing with great aesthetic sense that melancholy which is not the sum of subjective experiences but a genuine contemplative attitude and a yearning for Something. From this latter - which in Tenhi's paganism seems unfathomable, unnameable, made of an instinctive, faceless religiosity - comes the solemnity of "Pauluu Joelle", another track in which the strings illuminate the scene in broad strokes, and the beautiful polyphonic choir of "Sees", which slowly fades away before an invisible manifestation.

It would take twelve years before Tenhi returned with Valkama (2023).

The title, from Finnish, translates as “shelter,” but can also mean “harbour,” and the album is dominated by the theme of a journey toward inner peace, particularly as an allegory for the passage into the afterlife. Initially the concept involved arriving at Verisuma, the island of the dead where those who died in war rest, but the band changed course, opting for a more abstract, meditative narrative.

The album is reflective, punctuated by clever instrumental passages that help lend it a sense of serenity. It's also arranged with great delicacy, leaning toward minimalism, a factor that gives it a funereal aftertaste. Fittingly, the cover art is highly symbolic, showing a funeral canoe sinking into a still pond, dominated by the contrast between the icy blue background and the bright colors of the flowers wrapped around the indistinct body.

If the foundations are built on acoustic elements, the load-bearing pillars that bring emotion and atmosphere are above all the piano parts, always measured out with restraint.

The songs, as is tradition for the band, take all the time they need to express themselves, favoring tonal colour over cinematic sweep, often achieving a synthesis of the sacred and the bittersweet. Despite shunning instrumental excess, the album still comes across as varied. The opening “Saattue” stretches out to 11 minutes (the longest track on the record), letting acoustic progressions propped up by keyboard washes and distant choirs unfold one after another, steeped in a sense of the sublime. By contrast, the following “Kesävihanta” is already a gentle acoustic ballad, enriched by the contrast between Tyko Saarikko's rough voice and the softness of the female accompaniment. Here, rather than sublime, the feeling is one of rusticity and solitude. Everything then merges in the title track, the soundtrack to a journey through dark waters, before being deconstructed in the martial “Rintamaan,” still traced through by a mournful flute.

The most touching gem of all is perhaps “Hele,” with its dramatic, almost spectral climax of drums, keyboards and strings. The tones intensify even further in the strings of “Ulapoi,” before giving way to a deeply sweet keyboard passage. In closing, there's room for brighter tones, as in the pastoral “Sydämes On Tielä,” a fine ballad of acoustic guitar and flute. But it's above all the closing “Aina Sininen Aina” that astonishes, with angelic choirs that go straight to the heart.

Contributions by Lorenzo Righetto (“Saivo”) and Alessandro Mattedi (“Valkama”)

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