1. Elektroniske nocturner

Berlin og elektronisk musik hører sammen som pot og pande. Siden 1999 har CTM været et sted, hvor nye æstetikker, politiske strømninger og klubkulturens næste bevægelser har kunnet spores. I år kunne man på en af de første koncertdage sætte sig i mørket og lytte til elektroniske nocturner på Radialsystem.

feeO tog afsæt i klubmusikken, men det var som om, pulsen var vendt indad. Man skulle vente længe på klimaks i sangene, som bevægede sig mellem drone, ambient og minimalistisk rytmik med stemmen i centrum. Jeg hørte dem som dæmpede, næsten private nocturner.

»After the performance, the audience is invited to stay with the performers to share impressions, thoughts, and feelings together – both in conversation and in silence. Anne Cecilie’s famous Røst fish soup and a vegetarian alternative will be served to warm our bodies. Together, we can reflect on what has unfolded on stage, process the loss of biodiversity we are witnessing, and perhaps sow a seed of hope.«

Welcome to Borealis. Here, we do everything together. Before the opening performance Vedøya – Laments to the Birdmountain Who Lost Their Voice, we were invited – following Pauline Oliveros – to greet one another and look each other in the eye in the foyer of Cornerteateret.

Der er ganske enkelt noget ved Cisternernes grandiose radikalitet, som passer godt til performancekunstneren Marina Abramovićs kunstneriske dagsordener. Og det bliver bedre endnu, for til trods for – eller måske på grund af – værkets gennemgående voldsomhed er Abramovićs filmiske operainstallation Seven Deaths utroligt livsbekræftende. Derfor: Enhver i hovedstadsområdet, som netop nu befinder sig i en mere eller mindre radikal livskrise, burde begive sig ned i Cisternernes dyb under Frederiksbergs muld og bruge en time på at opleve, hvad der udspiller sig dér. Det kan kun hjælpe, er jeg overbevist om. 

»Du giver mig din tid, og jeg giver dig syv dødsfald,« siger Abramović på skærmen i den instruktionsvideo til tilhørerne, som kan ses ved nedgangen til Cisternerne. Hun forklarer, at filmenes dødsfald er symbolske udtryk for de mange gange, vi alle igennem livet »dør«, når tæppet trækkes væk under os. Kærlighed, forstås. Som hun siger: »Du forelsker dig, du mister dig selv, du overlever – og så gør du det hele igen.«

What does nostalgia sound like? Is it a fragment of a childhood melody, a dusty cassette tape in a basement – or something more elusive that appears only in fleeting glimpses? In the genre of dungeon synth, it is neither old instruments nor authentic recordings that awaken the longing for what once was. Here nostalgia emerges in the noise, in the decay, and in the analogue shadows of a past that has long since vanished, yet still feels strangely familiar. In many ways, one might call it a nostalgic music. But is that really how it is experienced?

The forgotten ghosts

Dungeon synth began in the early 2010s as an attempt to recall the more obscure solo projects from the margins of black metal, where musicians such as Mortiis, Wongraven, Depressive Silence, and Burzum once reigned. As often happens with revival movements, however, the return soon became something different from its point of departure.

Where else would Bára Gísladóttir premiere her new orchestral work DÆGRIN than on the luxury liner of a music house, Harpa – of course, during Dark Music Days, in the middle of þorri, the darkest phase of the year in the old Nordic calendar, where the fourth month of winter begins on a Friday between January 19 and 26? Hardly anywhere.

Gísladóttir is shaped by this country’s basalt, wind and winter light, and although she is now based in Copenhagen, she has for many become the very sound of Iceland. Of course, the darkness was massive in her new work – deep, vibrating undercurrents – but there were new elements too: the Iceland Symphony Orchestra unfolded a more spacious, panoramic sound field than in her earlier, more compressed works. Screeching violins carved sharp lines through the orchestral mass, while subtle displacements slowly undermined any sense of stability. The piece took on the character of a pent-up hiss: one long, almost immobile tone was held like a strained breath, and around it arose a teeming world of rustling, friction and microscopic string movements. And listen – were there not glimmers of light here and there? Yes, there were. Still, a perfect opening to Dark Music Days.