The collaboration as DEAP started during a joint residency at Andersabo in Sweden, where we worked on a soundtrack for a short film. We have made music together before under a different name, but this felt like a new chapter - so the name was more a common name for everyone in our family, who in a way was part of the group, whether they / we wanted it or not. 

Our collaboration on DEAP's first release, Musik i en tid, has been artistically exploratory, but also practically demanding on several levels, including because our children have been a big part of the project. When we started, Pernille had recently given birth to our second child, and we worked at intervals between breastfeedings. The fashion she was in at the time was influenced by the birth, both physically because her body was still hormonally changeable and characterized by a hard birth, but also creatively, as the birth had been a kind of spiritual experience for both of us. It definitely rubbed off on what we thought was exciting to explore in the music and what we considered possible in general. 

On the list of things you probably haven’t experienced much during the pandemic is a visit to a British Museum but here’s your chance – regardless of the world situation: Museum of Portable sound is a physical museum dedicated to collect, preserve and exhibit sounds as objects of culture raising debates on digital materiality, the bias of sound and sound as cultural heritage. Until the pandemic, visits have been purely physical but during the last year, it has been possible to do a personal guided tour around the museum with the curator, John Kannenberg, via Zoom or Google Meet. I met with Kannenberg for a tour around the museum and an interview. Upon my arrival I was informed that I was visitor number 1894 – or rather visit number 1894 since tours vary a lot in size and the last one included 117 people.

My gender is not. My body is not. My gender means. My body means. My gender does not matter. My body does not mean. My gender is. My body is. My body is a female composer, musician, songwriter and lyricist. 2021. I am 47 years old and with age ascertained, thoughts wander further into the mind and the personal environment, even the same mind sneaks around in there. I stop and do not know if I should describe this. Whether it is relevant to this text about my position in music. About my gender. Body. The physical working conditions. May I talk about the kids? About all that spilled out of me. Music, blood, semen, children. It created. That which creates. Why am I writing about this now? Why do I say it out loud with the scripture and wait and see the reaction? I'm doing this. What happens then? I take off my clothes and show the female body. Repeatedly. I decide when to show it. I decide in what context. I decide over my body. My body is. In spite. Just as the child's mind goes in defiance, it all takes off to extremes and the untamed imagination stands right behind me and whispers in my ear. These are sentences that do not make any kind of sense.

More than a year and a half passed before the concrete rooms of Kraftwerk, home of the first nightclub in East Berlin, could resonate again. The brutalist building in Köpenicker Straße opened at the end of September to host Metabolic Rift, a new project of the legendary festival Berlin Atonal that will run throughout the month of October. Besides a concert series, Metabolic Rift includes an exhibition in the main hall and in previously unused spaces, aiming to convey a »feeling of overload, of intense and transformative musical and artistic experiences«.



The title refers to the Marxist notion of rift between industrial society and nature, and to the flows of energies and materials that humans regulate between the two. The formerly most important powerplant of East Germany becomes not only an architectural manifestation of this relationship but also the infrastructure of a metabolism in itself, composed of chain reactions and intercommunicating vessels.

UNM (Ung Nordisk Musik) festival can now, at 75 years old, count itself as one of the oldest festivals of contemporary music in Europe. For comparison: Donaueschingen (Germany) turns 100 this year, Darmstadt (Germany) is also 75, Warsaw Autumn (Poland) is 65, Huddersfield (UK) is 43, and Ultima (Norway) has just reached 30. An interesting paradox for a festival that, by definition, is focused on youth. I have attended and reviewed the festival several times, and 2021 will be my last year, as I have finally aged out of consideration.



Each year I am struck by similar questions: What does UNM represent for young composers? How does this multi-committee, multinational structure manage to create a coherent festival? Is there any point in trying to divine the future from what happens at UNM, or is it just a random assortment of pieces haphazardly glued together?

I don’t particularly want better Danish music criticism. I particularly want an economic system that doesn’t make the planet uninhabitable while squandering the potential of millions of people through violence and drudgery. This is not to say that Danish music criticism isn’t largely dull, elitist, inconsequential consumer advice or factoid lists. It is, but this doesn’t make Danish music criticism special. It makes Danish music criticism like most music and cultural criticism around the world. But given the occasion to desire better music criticism, I’d like to make the case for the genre’s potential.

In August 2018, guitarist Mikkel Schou returned to his native Zealand, enrolling in the Royal Danish Academy of Music’s Soloist’s Class after a stretch studying in Aarhus. ‘I made a conscious decision to completely change what I was doing,’ says Schou of his move to Copenhagen. Anyone who has seen him in action over the last couple of years will have an idea what that means. Anyone who hasn’t can get a taste of it from his Debut Concert, live-streamed in two parts on the evening of 15 March. Schou isn’t even sticking to the guitar. He will set out his stall as a creative musician and improviser, producer and facilitator. Two thirds of the material has been specially written for the concert and the one ‘old’ piece on the programme dates from 2012. The online audience is likely to be more composers from the Academy than its guitar students. ‘I am friends with some of them,’ Schou says of the latter. ‘Of about 20, there’s only one who plays new music fairly often.’ And the others? ‘Let’s just say, we don’t have the same aspirations at all.’

The much talked about pseudo-scientific acronym ASMR – Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response – is said to be an anomalous trigger for what loosely relates to a certain type of visual and auditory-tactile synaesthesia bonding. ASMR allusions first emerged in online chat rooms in 2008 and were initiated by Jennifer Allen, who has significantly shaped ASMR’s thought and practice. Exchanges in these chatrooms developed around discussions of sparkly, wave-like, comfortable tingling sensations that start at the crown of your head and can spread through the neck and limbs to induce a luminous and calm environment in the person experiencing it.

It was David Harrington, leader of the Kronos Quartet, who introduced me to Inuit throat singing. Specifically, to katajjaq – an animalistic, rhythmic form of antiphonal vocalizing native to the Arctic land mass northwest of the Hudson Bay in Canada. ‘Tanya Tagaq is the only artist alive who can follow Kimmo Pohjonen,’ said Harrington of the leading international exponent of the art, a musician who has made katajjaq into a solo pursuit, ‘and Kimmo Pohjonen is what you get when you cross James Brown and Jimi Hendrix,’ he added for good measure about the accordion player from Finland.

‘I read the procedures. I multi-task. I work well at any altitude.’ Mathias Monrad Møller knows how to sell himself as a graduate singer-composer at a time when a global pandemic has changed all the rules and the culture sector’s centre of gravity has all but evaporated. In the second half of his graduation diptych The Combat (Takkelloftet, 7-8 October), Møller adopted the motionless stance of an astronaut experiencing the ultimate in self-isolation aboard a space station. He repeated those words as a mantra. Slowly but surely, the universe compressed itself into his view of things just as his mind lost any sense of a standard gravitational pull. ‘Love is useless ballast,’ he concluded.