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 

En kvæstet svane ligger begravet i tang i et hjørne af salen, mens fire livløse kroppe er spredt ud på gulvet. Fra loftet hænger mere tang, og lugten rammer os allerede, da vi træder ind gennem et blåligt latexlignende forhæng. Foyeren var fyldt med bunker af tang og restplast, og nu er vi inde i et ukendt undervandslandskab. Det blålige lys flimrer på væggen, lydsiden bruser svagt som en fjern strøm af støj. Vi er under vand.

Langsomt kommer kroppe til live igen. De strækker sig i lidende bevægelser, vakler, kæmper – men de rejser sig. Subtile beats og Mads Emil Nielsens urolige droner skubber sceneriet frem. Spørgsmålet om, hvad der er sket, er retorisk: alt peger på klimakatastrofen. Roskilde Fjord er gået over sine bredder. Menneskene fortsætter – trods undtagelsestilstand, trods oversvømmelse – mens svanen er bukket under.

Dystopien bliver levende, når danserne med imponerende undersøgende bevægelser afsøger måder at tilpasse sig en ny verden på. Her spiller scenografi, lys og dans kraftfuldt sammen, og man mærker, hvordan sanserne overvældes. Netop derfor er det en skam, at lydkvaliteten er mat, når det soniske spiller en rolle i historiefortællingen.

Alligevel lykkes Vi fortsætter… med at skabe et univers, der på én gang er absurd og alt for genkendeligt. Det minder om en mild version af Ruben Östlunds katastrofepos Force Majeure: menneskets komiske og tragiske personlighedstræk sat over for naturens uafvendelige kræfter. Til sidst forlader danserne scenen og lader os tilbage i stilhed – med eftertanken om, hvorfor vi fortsætter sådan, og følelsen af selv at stå og træde vande længe efter, vi har forladt fjordens oversvømmede univers.

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

På Kaikō – trioen Treens anden udgivelse – demonstrerer saxofonist Amalie Dahl, pianist Gintė Preisaitė og percussionist Jan Philipp både selvsikkerhed, indbyrdes tillid og en tydelig musikalsk eventyrlyst. Åbningsnummeret »Hylē« folder sig ud med klaprende percussion og slag, der synes rettet direkte mod klaverstrengene, stavrende frem over en underliggende drone. Saxofonen bryder ind med fraseringer, der på én gang virker formanende og fortumlede. Intet føles minutiøst kalkuleret; i stedet fremstår musikken båret af en skarp sans for de tre musikeres individuelle stemmer i det fælles lydbillede.

Den samme grundformel foldes ud på albummets tre øvrige numre, men altid i nye variationer. På »Kinetic« træder Dahls saxofon frem med langt større tyngde, og dens langsomt voksende crescendo spejles og udfordres af Preisaitės klaver. Ofte kan improvisationsmusik havne i høflige ventepositioner, hvor musikerne på skift tager ordet – men ikke her. Dahl, Preisaitė og Philipp fremstår som tre drivende øer uden anker, båret af egne strømme, men alligevel uafladeligt trukket i samme retning. Resultatet er både pludselige forskydninger og et organisk flow, der kan opsluge lytteren i en trance, hvis man giver slip og lader lyden skylle ind over sig. Netop tilliden til hinanden gør, at de tre tør spille frit, uden frygt for at forlade eller miste hinanden. Dermed skaber de et momentum, som det er svært ikke at lade sig rive med af – uanset om man vælger at lade de tre øer passere eller selv flyde med i deres strøm.

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