An inner soundscape characterises being in love. You walk through the city with a new rhythm, a different melody. The same is true of depression, though here major gives way to minor. Yet the early phases of love, too, can contain moments of doubt and dark foreboding. In composer and guitarist Ask Kjærgaard’s musical staging of Naja Marie Aidt’s 2006 short story Store træers grønne mørke (The Green Darkness of Large Trees), released as an LP last year, this same interplay is palpable as the music moves us from gentle strokes through melancholy to a rougher sound. The recording features the trio LiveStrings – cello, violin and viola – with actor Jens Albinus as the first-person narrator.

In the concert version of Kjærgaard’s work in Aarhus, featuring Rasmus Kjær on keyboards, Albinus’s voice appeared even more exposed. The piece introduces us to a depressed man who, wandering through a park, finds moments of calm beneath the trees—and at times up in them. For when despair causes you to fall out of the system’s sky, through sickness benefits and social assistance, only to land at the roots of the trees, perhaps there is only one thing to do: climb into the treetops? But then our anti-hero meets a woman in the park, and the drama begins. Can infatuation lift him out of depression, or will it end up short-circuiting him?

At first, the music crept in quietly. Kjærgaard’s ability to support the flow of the text revealed his experience as a film composer, particularly in his blending of classical music, meditative new age, and piercing guitar. Words and music carried the narrative together. When Albinus fell silent, the music became the voice of the inner landscape. The strings, in particular, delivered the dreamlike tones of infatuation, but when the gloom returned with renewed force, it was Kjærgaard who, with a roaring guitar, sprawled across the emotional abyss. It was beautiful and brutal.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

Mathias Reumert Group is a playful and tightly knit percussion ensemble. This was already evident upon entering KoncertKirken: the long side of the hall was densely packed with an impressive arsenal of percussion instruments, ready to bring the space to life. The programme opened with a delightful performance of György Ligeti’s Síppal, Dobbal, Nádihegedüvel featuring soprano Anna Caroline Olesen. A work driven by humour and constantly shifting yet precisely placed sounds – harmonica, referee whistles, marimba, tubular bells, and much more. We were even fortunate enough to hear the final movement twice.

The early encore loosened up the otherwise somewhat conventional concert format – one piece followed by the next, and so on. In new-music ensembles, one increasingly encounters curatorial and conceptual frameworks for concerts. Perhaps this is a development from which this curious ensemble could benefit?

The concert concluded with Chiung-Ying Chang’s Solar Myth – a piece of music theatre rooted in Taiwanese culture, where prop and instrument became one. Three masked beings played softly on a bass drum, initiating what felt like a ritual. But the ritual was abruptly disrupted when a fourth percussionist stepped forward, offering resistance through the tones of a marimba. The three beings responded with sharp, piercing cracks from their bright red fans – but the marimba did not yield. What followed was an explosive soundscape of metallic percussion, bright, clattering, and dancing. The dramaturgy seemed shaped by a deep understanding of the nature of music itself. Enchanting. One left KoncertKirken a little taller, happier, and more playful.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

There are twelve tracks on Josefine Opsahl’s album Cytropia, each with the duration of a rock song. Remarkably, there is a straight line from the first to the last – both in timbre, rhythm, melody, atmosphere, and playing. The ears are embraced by a gentle melancholy created by small cello figures in long sequences, with a slow-moving cello melody on top. Some parts in minor, others more open.

She is receiving quite a lot of praise these days for her many projects – an opera and a ballet – alongside her work as a cellist-composer, and it must almost be due to the highly accessible, cohesive, and dreamy sound she consistently delivers. I must admit that I have become somewhat skeptical along the way. Both as a musician and as a composer, I wish she would challenge herself with new approaches and new visions for the stories her music should tell. On Cytropia, we approach a constant state of uniform sound, evoking thoughts of the deliberate inertia of New Age composers.

There are quite beautiful moments along the way. The track »Cyborg« is crystal-clear in its surface. A piece like »Leaverecalls«, in its mechanics, the American minimalism of Philip Glass. But once again, one misses displacements and rhythmic additions that could challenge the static soundscape. The last hundred years of experimentation have expanded the battlefield of cello playing. Opsahl draws on some of these experiences to create her own small mechanical accompaniments for herself. Yet, the setup with a sequencer and a cello seems limiting in allowing Opsahl to explore timbres and ideas where the gravity of melancholy can truly be felt.