A newly composed opera staged in a courtroom may sound like a banal trick. But as I step into the waiting hall of the Aarhus Courthouse for Niels Rønsholdt and Louise Beck’s Den Stærkes Ret – Den Svages Pligt (The Right of the Strong – The Duty of the Weak), I wonder for a moment if I’ve come to the wrong place. An oblong room, tables scattered about, a balcony above – and then a sheet of music in a glass display case that normally would hold old legal documents. The scenography is discreet, but the legal framework immediately sparks reflections on law, power, and justice.

Soon, nearly 20 singers appear on the balcony. The music is tonal, carried by resonance and repeated phrases that gradually shift like a canon. You sense borrowings from minimalism, but also a near-folklike simplicity that makes the choir both enchanting and unsettling. The plot – a daughter confronting her father’s ghost to claim his weapon – emerges only in fragments. It is the atmosphere that drives the work, and it changes radically when the singers leave the balcony and place themselves among the audience, while three dancers move through the hall.

A pivotal moment comes when the choir suddenly strikes tuning forks and places them on the tables, sending a vibrating »wuu-uu« through the room. Goosebumps arrive instantly. Moments later, the singers address us directly, holding intense eye contact. It feels both intimate and transgressive, like being spoken to in court with no chance to reply. I wanted to look away, but felt compelled to hold their gaze. Here, the title became physical: the duty of the weak to submit.

As the work fades out, all the singers turn against the father and side with the daughter. Books are torn from the shelves, pages ripped out, and as »Listen and learn« is sung, Orwell’s 1984 flickers in the back of my mind. It is both disturbing and uncannily timely in an era where obedience to authority and manipulation again shape public discourse.

Den Stærkes Ret is one of the most intense musical experiences I have had in years. It unites aesthetics, body, and social commentary in a way that makes you shudder. I am already waiting for acts two and three.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

Rumor has it that the now-defunct British electronic band Coil once created a soundtrack for the cult horror film Hellraiser – so disturbing that it was rejected for being too frightening. With that story in the background, it almost felt like a natural opening to autumn’s darkness when Drew McDowall, former member of the mythical band, took the stage at Alice in Copenhagen on Wednesday evening. The Scottish musician is known for entering into striking collaborations – with Danish Puce Mary and, most recently, the American-Swedish composer Kali Malone – and it was precisely for this reason that it made sense for the evening to begin with an intense concert by Gintė Preisaitė. Like McDowall, she has the ability to transform even the simplest sounds into all-encompassing sonic landscapes.

Although both musicians clearly work from an electronic foundation, their sonic universes appeared remarkably organic, as if they were shaping living material. In her all-too-brief concert, Preisaitė created a mosaic of field recordings, voice fragments, and cassette tapes – chaotic one moment, ordered and transparent the next. With the same cool precision, McDowall unfolded his performance as if it were one long harmonium drone, slowly creeping under the skin with the inescapable logic of a horror film. For McDowall, darkness is not an alien force but a familiar companion, which he skillfully reshapes into soundscapes that are at once disturbing and reassuringly enveloping – like lying in a warm bed with the nightmare right beside you.

Both Preisaitė and McDowall moved effortlessly across the border between the acoustic and the electronic. Their music appeared as a contemporary legacy of the musique concrète tradition: an insistence that electronic music remains one of the most experimental art forms – vital, organic, and with the ability to let even the smallest sound open up an entire world in itself.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

An injured swan lies buried in seaweed in a corner of the hall, while four lifeless bodies are scattered across the floor. More seaweed hangs from the ceiling, and the smell hits us already as we step through a bluish, latex-like curtain. The foyer was filled with heaps of seaweed and leftover plastic, and now we are inside an unfamiliar underwater landscape. The bluish light flickers on the wall, the soundscape murmurs faintly like a distant current of noise. We are underwater.

Slowly, bodies come back to life. They stretch in movements of suffering, stagger, struggle – but they rise. Subtle beats and Mads Emil Nielsen’s restless drones push the scene forward. The question of what has happened is rhetorical: everything points to climate catastrophe. Roskilde Fjord has overflowed its banks. Humans continue – despite a state of emergency, despite the flood – while the swan has succumbed.

The dystopia comes alive as the dancers, with impressively exploratory movements, search for ways to adapt to a new world. Here scenography, light and dance interact powerfully, and the senses are overwhelmed. That is precisely why it is a pity that the sound quality feels flat, when the sonic dimension plays such a role in the storytelling.

Still, Vi fortsætter... (We Continue…) succeeds in creating a universe that is at once absurd and all too recognizable. It recalls a gentler version of Ruben Östlund’s Force Majeure: the comic and tragic traits of human nature set against the inexorable forces of nature.
In the end, the dancers leave the stage and we are left in silence – with the afterthought of why we continue like this, and with the sensation of treading water long after leaving the fjord’s flooded universe.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek 

On Kaikō – the trio Treen’s second release – saxophonist Amalie Dahl, pianist Gintė Preisaitė, and percussionist Jan Philipp demonstrate confidence, mutual trust, and a distinct musical adventurousness. The opening track »Hylē« unfolds with rattling percussion and strikes seemingly aimed directly at the piano strings, stumbling forward over an underlying drone. The saxophone cuts in with phrases that sound at once admonishing and bewildered. Nothing feels meticulously calculated; instead, the music is carried by a keen awareness of the three musicians’ individual voices within the shared soundscape.

The same basic formula unfolds across the album’s three other pieces, yet always in new variations. On »Kinetic«, Dahl’s saxophone emerges with much greater weight, its slowly growing crescendo mirrored and challenged by Preisaitė’s piano. Improvised music can often slip into polite holding patterns, with the musicians taking turns in the spotlight – but not here. Dahl, Preisaitė, and Philipp appear as three drifting islands without anchors, propelled by their own currents yet inexorably drawn in the same direction. The result is both sudden shifts and an organic flow that can pull the listener into a trance, if one surrenders and simply lets the sound wash over.

It is precisely the trust between them that allows the three to play freely, without fear of leaving or losing each other. In doing so, they create a momentum that is hard to resist – whether one chooses to let the islands drift past or to float along in their current.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek