Sonne Hagal - Tarja et Aud - Neofolk 7" Vinyl Picture Disc

- A Sepulchral Hymn of Shadows: Sonne Hagal’s Tarja et Aud and the Art of Haunting Silence

Limited to a meager 500 copies, this 7” picture disc from 1991 feels less like a record and more like an artifact unearthed from the crypt of a long-forgotten past. Tarja et Aud isn’t just a release by German neofolk alchemists Sonne Hagal—it’s a whisper from the void, an eerie hymn to love, loss, and the sweet inevitability of decay.

First off, let’s talk about the packaging. Picture discs are already the peacocks of the vinyl world, but this one strides into the room like it owns the graveyard. The visuals on Tarja and Aud are macabre poetry in motion—Bengtsen’s skeletal figures, haunted parlors, and sepia-soaked morbidity scream louder than most bands can manage with a 10-piece drum kit and a wall of Marshalls. This isn’t just artwork; it’s a séance pressed into vinyl, waiting for the needle to resurrect it.

Then, there’s the music. Sonne Hagal isn’t here to hold your hand or rock you to sleep. No, they’re leading you into a dark forest where medieval instruments creak and groan like ancient trees, and every melody feels like it’s been exhumed from some forgotten chapel. On Tarja, the band builds an atmosphere so thick you could cut it with a ceremonial dagger. It’s a slow burn of gothic rock, darkwave, and neofolk all tangled together like vines over a forgotten tombstone.

Flip to Aud, and the mood shifts from mournful to outright sinister. There’s a brooding, almost hypnotic quality to the track—a soundtrack to the end of days, if ever there was one. Sonne Hagal’s blend of medieval instrumentation and modern melancholy is so effective it’s almost unfair. They don’t just play music; they conjure it, summoning spirits of love and loss and twisting them into something dark and beautiful.

If you’re looking for hooks, choruses, or anything resembling the verse-chorus-verse formula, look elsewhere. But if you want to lose yourself in an atmospheric swirl of existential dread, Tarja et Aud is your golden—or perhaps more appropriately, sepulchral—ticket.

This disc is no mere novelty for vinyl collectors. It’s a statement, a dark jewel that sits somewhere between musical experience and occult object. Limited to just 500 copies, owning one of these feels like stumbling upon a cursed artifact—you’re not sure if it’s going to transport you to another realm or doom you to a lifetime of melancholic obsession. Either way, you can’t resist spinning it.

Tarja et Aud isn’t just a must-have for fans of Sonne Hagal; it’s a siren song for anyone enthralled by the gothic and the macabre. It’s a record that doesn’t just play music—it lures you in, wraps you in shadow, and refuses to let you leave. Put it on the turntable, and you’re not just listening—you’re descending.

There’s something about vinyl that resonates deeper than the grooves in the wax—like it’s alive, carrying whispers of history and heartache through time. But then, along comes something like this Sonne Hagal picture disc, where the visuals scream louder than the sound itself. This isn’t just a record; it’s an invitation to a haunting, a banquet for the damned.

On the A Side—ominously titled “Tarja”—we find ourselves in a ghostly Victorian parlor. The skeletons have risen from their graves, not to haunt, but to sit around a table as if discussing the weight of mortality. There’s something unsettlingly polite about it, as though death itself has learned to play cards and sip tea under dim gaslight. A clock looms ominously in the background, its hands marking not hours but the silent march toward eternity. This is no place for the living. This is art designed to remind you that you’re only borrowing your body, and the lease has an expiration date.

The colors—sepia tones dipped in decay—transform the scene into a surreal snapshot of the afterlife, curated with twisted precision. This is what you’d get if Edward Gorey collaborated with Salvador Dalí after spending a long weekend with Baudelaire. It’s eerie, it’s poetic, it’s Sonne Hagal’s sonic world visualized.

Flip to the B Side, “Aud”, and the madness deepens. Now we’re not just witnessing a ghostly gathering—we’ve walked into the feast itself. Here, the skeletons let loose in what feels like a baroque inferno of the grotesque. A devilish creature lounges on a couch, crowned like the king of nothing, while skeletons perform bizarre rituals around him. One lounges in a cauldron, as if preparing itself for some unholy communion. The backdrop is opulent, almost decadent, with rich patterns and overstuffed furniture—a stark contrast to the skeletal forms that haunt the scene.

Peter Bengtsen’s artwork doesn’t just complement the music; it enhances it, giving the sounds a tangible presence. These aren’t just tracks—they’re memento mori etched into vinyl. Each spin of the record isn’t just listening; it’s an initiation into a shadowy underworld where Sonne Hagal reigns supreme.

What makes this disc even more intriguing is the audaciously cryptic presentation. The label, Divine Comedy Records, isn’t just selling music—they’re selling an artifact. A talisman. Something you might find buried in a cursed attic, whispering secrets of old-world mysticism. The catalog number, DC 030, feels like the designation of some forbidden text, and the contact details printed right there—well, let’s just say you might hesitate to email, fearing what kind of spectral response you’d get.

Together, these two sides tell a story that transcends the neofolk genre Sonne Hagal is known for. It’s not just about music; it’s about atmosphere, philosophy, and the unshakeable reminder that all things—no matter how beautiful—fade to bone. This isn’t your standard collector’s item. This is a masterpiece of death and art, spinning eternally at 33⅓ RPM.