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.

Saturday night at Huset’s Xenon stage was a true laboratory of sound, body, and technology. Two vastly different artists explored the expressive possibilities within sound and performance art. First, the Icelandic composer Sól Ey presented her performance Hreyfð («she is moved« in Islandic) wearing a suit equipped with microphones, speakers, and gyroscopes, her movements were transformed into sound. Through slow, deliberate motions, Ey tuned into different frequencies. Each gesture created a new auditory universe – ranging from soft, ethereal tones with the finest textures to distorted and aggressive noises, from cosmic whispers to fragmented radio signals that reminded me of NASA’s Voyager recordings. In complete silence, the audience observed Ey as she explored the sounds of outer space.

Afterward, the Japanese drummer Ryosuke Kiyasu stepped forward like a sonic warrior. With nothing but a snare drum, a table, and a microphone, he unleashed a relentless 30-minute sonic assault. He screamed, pounded, and perspired. He used both his own body and drumsticks. The audience held their breath as Kiyasu attacked his snare drum like a man determined to break through the limits of sound from within. And when he finally collapsed onto the floor, the room erupted in cheers.

While Sól Ey wove an intricate dialogue between technology and movement, Ryosuke Kiyasu launched a frontal attack on the material’s resistance. Both confronted the boundaries of sound with uncompromising dedication, demonstrating that sound art is not just about playing – but about transformation.