Peter Effiom and his Rabalac Messengers esuk utan
Scoundrel Days , a-ha’s sophomore powerhouse, remains the moody, cinematic peak of their discography. The Remastered & Expanded
edition (specifically the 2010 Deluxe and subsequent vinyl reissues) finally gives this dark synth-pop masterpiece the sonic depth it deserves. The Core Album While their debut Hunting High and Low was a pop phenomenon, Scoundrel Days
is where a-ha proved they were a formidable rock band. The remastering sharpens the bite of Paul Waaktaar-Savoy’s aggressive guitar work and Morten Harket’s soaring, often haunting, vocals. Standouts:
The title track's frantic energy, the Bond-esque grandeur of "The Swing of Things," and the enduring melancholy of "I've Been Losing You." The "Expanded" Perks
The real treasure for fans lies in the bonus material, which peels back the curtain on their 1986–1987 creative peak: Demos & Rarities:
You get early, raw versions of hits like "Cry Wolf" and "Manhattan Skyline." These versions often trade the polished 80s production for a grittier, more experimental atmosphere. Live Recordings:
The expanded sets usually include live performances from their 1986 tour (like the Croydon recordings). These tracks highlight the band's ability to translate complex studio layers into high-energy arena anthems. Unissued Tracks:
Inclusion of songs like "This Alone Is Love" (original version) and "Soft Rains of April" (piano version) provides a more intimate look at the album's emotional core. Why It Matters Now
This reissue reframes a-ha not just as "the 'Take On Me' guys," but as pioneers of Alternative Pop
. The expanded tracks show a band restless with their own fame, pushing into darker, more sophisticated territory that influenced later acts like Coldplay and Keane. Should we look into the tracklist differences
between the CD and Vinyl versions, or are you hunting for a specific limited edition
The remastered and expanded edition of 's sophomore album, Scoundrel Days, was primarily released as a 2-CD Deluxe Edition in 2010 via Rhino Records. This version significantly builds on the original 1986 release by adding 21 bonus tracks, including previously unissued demos, extended remixes, and live recordings. Expanded Content Overview
This edition is designed to showcase the band's creative process and live energy during their "darker" transition from synth-pop to a more atmospheric sound. Disc 1: Remastered Album + Remixes
Contains the original 10 tracks, such as "I've Been Losing You," "Cry Wolf," and "Manhattan Skyline," all digitally remastered.
Includes three extended versions/remixes: "I've Been Losing You" (Extended Version), "Cry Wolf" (Extended Version), and "Manhattan Skyline" (Extended Remix). Disc 2: Demos and Live Tracks
Features 18 bonus tracks consisting of rare demos and alternate versions.
Notable inclusions are early demos for "Scoundrel Days," "The Swing of Things" (Demo #3), and "October".
Includes live recordings from their 1986/1987 tour, such as performances of "I've Been Losing You," "Cry Wolf," and "Soft Rains of April" recorded at Fairfield Halls and other venues. Recent Updates & Vinyl Reissues
The Scoundrel Days Remastered and Expanded edition, released in 2010 by Rhino Records, serves as a definitive tribute to a-ha's "difficult second album". Originally released on October 6, 1986, Scoundrel Days was the follow-up to their massive debut, Hunting High and Low, and saw the Norwegian trio—Morten Harket, Pål Waaktaar-Savoy, and Magne Furuholmen—pivot from "bubblegummy" synth-pop toward a darker, more atmospheric, and guitar-driven sound. The Core Album: A Darker Evolution
While their debut "shot for the stars" with hits like "Take On Me," Scoundrel Days remained more grounded, leaning into a "chilled gothic flavor" reminiscent of bands like The Cure. The original 10-track album is anchored by high-energy singles and moody deep cuts:
"I've Been Losing You": The lead single, which reached #1 in Norway and #8 in the UK, featured a harder rock edge than previous efforts.
"Manhattan Skyline": A unique "cut-and-paste" project co-written by Furuholmen (the quiet parts) and Waaktaar (the rock parts).
"Cry Wolf": The most successful single from the album in the U.S., peaking at #50 on the Billboard Hot 100.
"Scoundrel Days": The title track is often cited by critics for its "tense edge" and Morten Harket’s soaring vocals. Remastered & Expanded Content
The 2010 deluxe reissue expanded the original tracklist significantly, adding 21 bonus tracks to provide a deep look into the band’s creative process. Disc Content Key Features Disc 1
The original 10-track album, digitally remastered for improved clarity and "vibrancy," plus three extended remixes: "I've Been Losing You" (Extended Version), "Cry Wolf" (Extended Version), and "Manhattan Skyline" (Extended Remix). Disc 2
A collection of 18-22 "rare and unreleased gems," including early demos from Octocon Studios in Oslo recorded before the band signed their first major contract. Live Performances
Previously unreleased live recordings of "Train of Thought," "The Blue Sky," "We're Looking for the Whales," and "Cry Wolf". Demos & Alternates
Highlights include a guitar-led version of "Soft Rains of April," the "This Alone Is Love" original version, and multiple demos of "The Swing of Things".
Here’s a short story inspired by "Aha Scoundrel: Days Remastered and Expanded (upd)".
"Aha Scoundrel: Days Remastered and Expanded"
The city had learned to sleep with one eye open. Neon sighed against wet cobblestones; the tram bells echoed like distant judgments. Above the market, a holographic billboard looped an old ad for a soft drink—its colors too bright for anything that had lived through the EMP. In the alleys, citizens traded memories the way their grandparents once traded stamps: carefully, in envelopes, with quiet reverence.
Scoundrel wasn't his name—no one used real names anymore—but it stuck because he was always two steps ahead of shame. He was a small man with a big grin and pockets full of other people's troubles. Once, decades ago, he'd been a fixer for corporations, soldering ethics into devices that could make a lover forget a night or a board member forget a debt. Later, when the contracts dissolved into rumors, he graduated to a more lucrative trade: salvaging lost days.
"Days" were literal now, compact crystalline chips that held a tight loop of a person's memory for a single twenty-four-hour cut. You could relive your best birthday, save the taste of an ocean you'd never visit again, or sell a week you couldn't bear. The market had rules: consent, tagging, and a ledger so painfully slow no one trusted it. Still, where there was need, there was Scoundrel.
One rain-smeared morning, a woman in a moth-eaten coat found him under the collapsed awning of the Old Archive. "You handle days?" she asked, voice like paper being folded.
He flicked a cigarette apart with two fingers, short as the day. "I handle days that need handling."
She set a small cube on the table. It hummed faintly. No tag. No consent signature. The kind the ledger's clerks call "unpenned."
"Stolen?" Scoundrel asked.
"Found," she said. "With a note—'Remember me well.'"
He should have turned it over to the authorities. He should have let the slow gears eat it and left him clean. Old instincts were like old debts; they kept you awake at night. Instead, Scoundrel did what he did best. He opened it.
The memory wasn't his practice as usual—no tango at a rooftop bar, no speech to a graduate class of would-be hackers. It began in a kitchen flooded with late-afternoon light. A young man—thin, with hands like a carpenter—drawn in laughter as he taught a girl to slice an apple without bruising the fruit. The day unfolded like a paper map: the argument about a misplaced key, the agreement to meet by the river, the sudden collapse when the call came. The hum changed; the memory loop skipped like bad vinyl. The last moment was a child on a doorstep, handing the man a red ribbon and whispering, "Don't let them take our days."
Scoundrel sat back. The room seemed smaller, as if the memory had borrowed some of his oxygen. There was grief in that cube—sharp and private—and something else: a map hidden inside the laughter, coordinates burned into the backbeat of a song. He squinted; his fingers trembled.
The note, he thought. The woman—was she the thief, or a messenger? Either way, the ledger would pry eventually. He could wait; that's what respectable citizens did. Or he could follow the song.
He followed.
The trail took him past the Neon Grave—where billboards went to die—and through a subway that still smelled of copper. He traded a memory for a forged pass, another for directions, each exchange subtracting a small slice of his past until he suspected he might run out of himself. That was part of the job: barter away pieces you no longer needed to keep secrets you wanted to keep.
Days could be remastered, he knew—polished, loop-smoothened, expanded with extras the way dealers added illusions: a warmer sky, an extra hand held. People asked for remastering because memory is forgiving when it's edited. Scoundrel didn't always comply. He believed in keeping the fractures—the small, honest breaks that proved something real had happened.
But this memory wanted expansion. In its silence were echoes of a movement—a group of archivists calling themselves the Keepers—who had been erasing days wholesale, purging histories that made the right people uncomfortable. They'd gone underground after the Crackdown, scattering their servers across the city like breadcrumbs. The man's kitchen belonged to one of them. The child's ribbon was a signal.
By dusk, Scoundrel had assembled a ragtag map: two names, a cafe-turned-black-market, and an abandoned factory with a single light on the upper floor. He needed tools: a pair of eyes who knew the ledger's blind spots, a locksmith who believed in ghosts, and a kid who could coax data out of dead servers without waking the house ghosts. He recruited them, not with promises but with fragments—heads tucked into small glass vials, laughing in someone else's memory until his recruits paid in favors and loyalty.
They called themselves a crew, though they never agreed on the romanticism of the term. Each had been remastered in some way: a war medal polished into a paperweight, a birth certificate smoothed into oblivion, days purchased to bury a shame. They also had reasons to hate the Keepers—not for their mission but for their method. Erasing wasn't liberation if it made people gods of other people's pain.
The factory's night air tasted of oil and old music. The single lit window glowed like a tooth in a dark jaw. They pushed through metal lungs and found a room stacked with drives, diodes, and a scent like hot plastic. Blue margarine light showed a woman hunched over a console, her hair braided with tiny circuit beads. She was older than the man's memory, older than the day it came from, but when she looked up, her eyes were the same.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said, and it was matter-of-fact, not surprised. Her voice carried the weight of somebody who'd watched too many people choose forgetting.
"Someone left this," Scoundrel said, producing the cube. She didn't reach; she didn't need to. She recognized it. The console sighed and opened a channel.
"You shouldn't have," she repeated, but there was warmth now—an admission that, like the Keepers, they'd all done things they believed were necessary.
They were archivists, she explained. Keepers in the old tongue, but that was only half the truth. Their mission had been to protect choice—safe vaults for people who couldn't bear a memory, archives for those who couldn't let go. After the Crackdown, a faction splintered. Some believed in erasure as mercy; others in preservation as rebellion. The faction that remained had started stealing days not to erase them but to hide them from tyrants who'd weaponized nostalgia.
"And this day?" Scoundrel asked.
She shrugged. "It belongs to a family gone quiet. We thought they'd come back for it."
"Then why the note?" he asked.
She inhaled slow. "So someone would find it who knew how to open it."
There was a different kind of remastering they could do together. Not polishing the edges, but expanding the day itself—placing it back into the world where it belonged. Scoundrel proposed a swap: he would broker its return, stitch it into the ledger as a living day, not a commodity—rebroadcast the memory so the family could choose it back.
The plan was narrow as a knife. They would hijack a municipal broadcast—one of the old "public service" frequencies that still hiccupped in the dead of night—and play the day across the neighborhood. The child's ribbon, encoded as an audio trigger, would call any listener who'd lost that home to the riverbank. People would respond in pieces. Some would cry. Some would deny. Some would come forward, and the net of recognition would catch the family back into itself.
It was illegal, risky, and utterly beautiful.
On the night of the reclamation, they were two dozen: technicians, couriers, a choir of amateurs with voices for the moment when someone remembers. The city's sky was a bruise above them. They climbed the broadcast tower like a flock of sky-ants and set the cube into the transmitter with a trembling fist. The woman with braided beads typed with fingers that knew the taste of a deadline. Scoundrel held the ribbon, thinking of the child—of how a small loop can rearrange a life.
The day played.
It started in the kitchen again, but now the memory spilled out of the speakers and into the street. It wasn't just seen; it was shared—scent and laughter translated into sound that made people look at each other. A neighbor recognized the ringtone and crossed the street. A shopkeeper heard the specific clink of jars and touched his own chest like remembering a lost pulse. A woman at a bus stop—face lined with years of not-sleeping—gasped and clutched her bag. The city tilted; the night reconstituted into a thousand small altars.
Someone in the crowd carried the same red ribbon. A man—older, but his eyes like the young carpenter's—stood frozen, fingers white on a lamp post. The child, grown now, stepped forward with a daughter on her hip. She had the same laugh. The man sobbed in the street, laughed, and then sobbed again, and the crowd made room like water making way for a stone.
The Keepers' consoles rang like bells. Some of their servers were tracked and ripped down; others escaped. The ledger noticed anomalies—the broadcast had been unregistered, permissions absent—and sent its vultures. The city's law, always a hungry instrument, sharpened.
Scoundrel and his crew disappeared into the alleys afterward, because that is what they did. They had saved a day—not to sell, not to polish, but to restore. The woman's cube was empty now, its hum gone. The note vanished back into a pocket. For a heartbeat, Scoundrel wondered if he'd made a mistake. People would come asking for favors, for brokered memories, for edits. The ledger would tighten. The noise would get louder.
But in a small apartment near the river, three generations sat at a table and ate an apple that tasted as if the city had been rewritten. They were not perfect. They were messy, forgiveness jagged like cut glass. The man traced the child's ribbon with fingers that had done a carpenter's work and wept not to be healed but to be present.
Scoundrel lit a cigarette later, watched the smoke fold into the city's breath. He had days to trade—some he would sell, some he would keep. He had learned that remastering could be theft when it smoothed over truth. Expansion, though—expansion was different. It gave memory room to breathe again.
He pocketed a sliver of the memory they'd broadcast—saved it like a splinter. When a new face appeared on the market with a note tied to the corner, he would open it. He would decide whether to polish or to unspool. He would choose, as always, the lesser tyranny: the right of people to keep what made them, even if it was only a single, stubborn day.
Outside, the city slept with one eye open, but for now, in a small cluster of apartments by the river, several eyes stayed awake, and that was enough.
The End.
The 2010 remastered and expanded Deluxe Edition of a-ha's sophomore album, Scoundrel Days, is widely regarded by critics and fans as the definitive way to experience the band's transition from "bubblegum" pop stars to serious, atmospheric songwriters. Critical Consensus & Musical Shift
Artistic Maturity: Reviewers from PopMatters and Classic Pop Magazine highlight that this album "rights the balance" from their debut. It trades the synth-pop sheen of Hunting High and Low for a "darker, moodier" sound characterized by "cracking live drums" and cinematic arrangements.
Vocal Performance: Morten Harket’s vocals are praised as "soaring" and "underrated," with critics noting his ability to move from fatalistic verses to hopeful, high-octane choruses in tracks like the title opener. Key Tracks:
"I’ve Been Losing You": Often called the "best James Bond theme that never was" due to its brass-heavy, bluesy grit.
"Manhattan Skyline": Noted for its audacious structural tricks, shifting from a chilly ballad to high-energy rock.
"October": Praised for its thick, jazzy atmosphere that captures a "foggy English night". The Remaster & Expanded Content
Audio Quality: The remastering fixes the "thin and lifeless" digital sound found in original 1980s transfers. Listeners on Amazon note that the sound is now on par with modern recordings, allowing previously lost details to shine through. Bonus Material (Disc 2):
Demos: Includes demo versions for nearly every album track, revealing how much some songs "veer from the demos" during the creative process.
Live Recordings: Features high-quality live tracks from Croydon (1986), proving the band was a "professional, dynamic live act".
Extended Mixes: Contains the original "old-fashioned, hand-edited" 12-inch remixes of hits like "Cry Wolf" and "Manhattan Skyline". Shopping & Availability
The album is available at various retailers, often in different formats:
Deluxe Edition (2-CD): Available at Amazon UK and Amazon.de.
Vinyl Reissue: A 180-gram vinyl version from Rhino Records is popular among collectors for its sound quality.
Digital/Streaming: Full deluxe content is available on platforms like Apple Music. A-ha's Scoundrel Days album review and discussion
Original CD pressings of Scoundrel Days suffered from low volume, muddy bass, and a lack of clarity in the high frequencies. This new update was overseen by original engineers using modern digital tools (and in some versions, analog tape transfers at 24-bit/96kHz).
What you hear now:
The UPD campaign began rolling out in Q4 2025, with wide availability by May 2026. Check:
What’s next? Rumors suggest the team behind this Scoundrel Days reissue is already working on East of the Sun, West of the Moon (1990) and the legendary Memorial Beach (1993) for similar Remastered and Expanded UPD treatments in 2027.
Let's look at a few key tracks and how the remastered and expanded upd changes the listening experience.
1. "Scoundrel Days" The opener originally felt slightly muffled. In the remaster, the reverberated piano and Harket’s whisper-to-crescendo vocal are separated perfectly. You can hear the room tone.
2. "The Swing of Things" This seven-minute deep cut is the fan favorite. The new update reveals a hidden layer of acoustic guitar strumming that was previously buried in the mix. The orchestral swells at the 4-minute mark are breathtaking.
3. "Manhattan Skyline" Perhaps the band’s most beloved non-single. The remaster highlights the dramatic dynamic shift from the gentle verses to the explosive chorus. The guitar distortion is gritty, not fuzzy. The bonus disc includes a string-only version that will give you chills.
4. "I’ve Been Losing You" The lead single now has a punchier kick drum. The synth bassline (played on a Yamaha DX7) is articulated with machine-like precision.
The keyword “UPD” stands for the global, unified release strategy—simultaneous physical (2CD, 3LP vinyl, Blu-ray audio) and digital rollout across all platforms. This is not a cash-grab repress. It is a comprehensive archive.
