in brief
16.12.2023

Orgel, ynde og bad ass-minimalisme

Organ Sound Art Festival: Hampus Lindwall, Matt Choboter, Ying-Hsueh Chen, Simon Mariegaard, Paulina Rewucka & Neža Kokalj, Ellen Arkbro, Hanne Lippard
© Daniel Oxenhandler
© Daniel Oxenhandler

Det er muligt, at julen er hjerternes fest, men det er bestemt også orglets. Mange støder i løbet af december på kirkeorglets mægtige klang i forbindelse med julens mange kirkekoncerter, men i Koncertkirken på Nørrebro er december blevet en helt særlig slags fest med orglet som hovedperson og med et efter fremmødet at dømme til andendagen af Organ Sound Art Festival ganske dedikeret publikum, fascineret af orglets klang, struktur og mangfoldige muligheder.

Aftenen åbnes af den svenske organist og komponist Hampus Lindwall, der også runder aftenens program af i et trioformat med organist Ellen Arkbro og vokalist Hanne Lippard. Solosættet indledes af værket Unmounted / Muted Noun af amerikanske Phill Niblock, som Lindwall præsenterer som en bad ass-minimalist. En form for bad ass-minimalisme, der egner sig godt til orglets rige væld af klange og overtoner, og med langstrakte droner får Niblocks værk da også hele kirken til at knirke og knage, mens Lindwalls eget Music for Organ & Electronics byder på et kvadrofonisk set-up, hvor publikum opfordres til at sætte sig i midten af kirken for at lade sig omslutte af både orglets klang og de elektroniske toner.

I det hele taget er det en aften, hvor publikum opfordres til at flytte sig meget efter, hvad det enkelte værk kræver. I det efterfølgende bestillingsværk, And Then There Were The Sounds of Birds, af den herboende canadiske komponist Matt Choboter, må publikum trække helt ud til siderne for at give plads til to ekspressive dansere, der sammen med to orgler, et præpareret flygel, percussion og elektroniske collager skaber et både melankolsk, legende og meget fysisk rum, der kredser om fugles stemmer og bevægelser. Orglet indtager her en mere tilbageholdende rolle, men værket synes samtidig at indkredse et paradoks ved netop orglet som et instrument, der med sin klang stræber mod det sfæriske, men som samtidig er ladet med en tyngde, som også kommer til udtryk i danserne, der snart nærmest svæver, snart falder klodsede til jorden, samtidig med at de indgår i symbioser med de instrumenter, der er fordelt ud i hele rummet. 

At udforske orglet er således også at udforske rum for musikken, både for komponist, performer og publikum, og på sin vis bliver det næsten en del af aftenens oplevelse, at vi, mens vi drikker ud og snakker om aftenens koncerter, er vidner til det franske ensemble Pancrace, der omdanner hele salen til en sand orgelbyggeplads for at gøre klar til deres koncert den efterfølgende dag. Nysgerrigheden bliver i hvert fald vakt på mere. 

© Mira Campau

»Music to me is like water to plants. And a space to connect us, to ourselves, others and the world.«

Astrid Engberg is a contemporary artist with roots in the past, blending electronic-organic jazz, soul and percussive minimalism. Her sound combines heavy, minimal productions with personal storytelling and a spiritual edge, carried by a voice that balances sensitivity and strength. Since releasing her debut album Tulpa in 2020, highlighted by Bandcamp as one of the summer’s best releases, she has received the Steppeulven award as Producer of the Year 2021 and won Vocal Jazz Release of the Year at Danish Music Awards Jazz, alongside a nomination for Experimental Album of the Year.

Engberg has performed live and as a DJ at major Danish festivals and venues, including SPOT, Heartland, Roskilde Festival, DR Koncerthuset and SMK – Statens Museum for Kunst.

in brieflive
13.02

Ash in the Ear

Farvel & Peter Laugesen
© PR
© PR

There was something liberating about watching 83-year-old Peter Laugesen step onto the stage at Phono with a new band and not a trace of nostalgia. There was no hint of a poetic lap of honour. But plenty of noise. The trio Farvel – Halfdan Magnus Stefansson (guitar), Gustav M.K. Lauridsen (bass) and Jens Højbøge Mosegaard (drums) – did not play politely around the poet. They laid down a massive carpet of stoner rock and free improvisation beneath him, as if the words had to be wrenched free from gravel and distortion. At first the music moved heavy and viscous. For a long time. Then it accelerated. And Laugesen accelerated with it.

He sat on a chair in the corner, leafing through his books, speaking of dawn, of children at play before they disappear, of Finnegans Wake, Winnie-the-Pooh and an irate »then thaw, for fuck’s sake.« The words did not fall in rhythm – they landed like bolts on a workshop floor. Laugesen’s baritone is still as coarse as steel wire; the Brabrand accent refuses to be polished. He played the harmonica. It sounded more than off-kilter – a twisted blues.

Farvel emerged from a jazz ambition that dissolved and found another path in the abrasive aesthetics of 1990s noise rock. It suits Laugesen. The three young musicians did not play behind him, but with him, across generations, on equal footing. This was no solemn celebration of an ageing poet. It was a workplace filled with friction. At Phono, Laugesen sang – yes, sang – the prose of life across a wall of sound. His voice cut in between the rumbling bass and the grit of the snare drum. He spoke of »ash in the ear«. You left carrying precisely that: a tremor in your hearing. When language meets resistance, it can still strike sparks.

Phono. 12.02

in briefrelease
11.02

Echoes from the Olive Trees

Mai Mai Mai: »Karakoz«
© PR
© PR

Grief is hereditary. It is collective and more than mere streams of tears – as countless generations of oppressed Palestinians can attest. On the album Karakoz, the Rome-based musician Mai Mai Mai creates a resonance of this collective sorrow and attempts to grasp the desperate hope of the Palestinian people. Not through political slogans, but through dark spiritualism and synthesizers.

Karakoz is an ancient form of shadow theatre with roots in the Ottoman Empire, and the album title serves as an omen of the musical pulse that sets in from the opening track, »Grief«. Here the music sounds like an archaic folk hymn: slow, repetitive percussion creates a tear-soaked minimalism, and the piece feels like a ceremony passed down through generations. With synthesizers slowly coiling around Maya Al Khaldi’s yearning vocals, »Grief« becomes a cultural bridge between forgotten traditions and the painfully current tragedy that today envelops Palestine in an all-consuming darkness.

Across the seven tracks, one hears trauma like a wind murmuring through the streets and among the olive trees. This may be because the album was created in collaboration with local artists and includes archival material from The Palestinian Sound Archive – an archive of decades of forgotten music, poetry, and album covers. Karakoz is a reinterpretation of Middle Eastern spiritualism and forgotten music. It is a testament to grief as lived experience, and as an archival bulwark, Karakoz thus takes part in the struggle for a free Palestine.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

© PR

»For me, music is a secret safe place. It is a refuge from society, from who you're expected to be, and from the idea of belonging. It is a space where you're free from conflict and dualistic ways of thinking. It is a place to feel the world without needing to understand it.«

Masaya Ozaki is a composer born in Niigata, Japan. His work is deeply influenced by the transient nature of space and the subtleties of sound within physical environments.  Ozaki views sound not just as a medium, but as a form deeply intertwined with the spaces it inhabits, something that he explores extensively in site-specific projects like Echoes, which involved live performances inside a lighthouse. 

Ozaki’s latest album, Mizukara (2024), is a reflection of his personal and artistic journey, primarily shaped by his experiences in Iceland. The album embraces minimalism and introspection, incorporating field recordings, sparse instrumentals, and the textures of the Icelandic landscape to explore the fluid relationship between self and environment. In recent interviews, he emphasized his shift from purely sound-based compositions to ones that deeply consider the environment and space. His relocation to Iceland has profoundly influenced his work, encouraging him to further merge the boundaries between music, nature, and architecture.  He is also a member of the Reykjavík-based emo anime doom metal band MC Myasnoi.

© Julie Montauk

»For me, music is a journey through time; one song can send you back to a childhood summer, a packed dance floor, a breakup – or a sense of hope you thought you had given up.« 

Danish-Corsican Malu Pierini has created her own musical universe somewhere between Copenhagen, Corsica and 1960s Paris. Here, Nordic soul/pop and French chanson meet as she draws threads to her family’s roots in the Parisian cabaret scene, the raw beauty of the Mediterranean and stories that bridge the gap between past and present. Pierini has just released her debut album Libera Me – a cinematic and personal journey into family history and an examination of what we carry with us from those who came before us. The album unites French 60s sounds, bossa references, Corsican folk tunes and indie pop in a story of love, heritage and identity.