In the world of experimental music, it now takes quite a lot to be truly surprised – it’s a space where both treasures and old debts are often revisited. That’s why listening to Colors, the improvised duo album by Maria Laurette Friis and Thomas Morgan, feels like a fresh revelation. Pairing an experimental vocalist and composer (Friis) with an experienced double bassist (Morgan) and letting them improvise for three hours may not sound groundbreaking at first. Yet somehow, a rare and unique symbiosis arises between voice and double bass – a connection so special that one rarely hears anything quite like it.

Friis is a dazzling singer, and her wordless expressions draw on everything from Mongolian throat singing and jazz to Nordic darkness. She shifts effortlessly between pure singing and guttural sounds within a single improvisation. Morgan’s double bass provides an intriguing contrast, exploring the instrument’s outer edges without ever becoming unpleasant.

The three-hour recording session has been distilled into nine tracks spanning a total of 45 minutes, and the concept of using only voice and double bass is maintained throughout – despite both musicians’ backgrounds in vastly different musical expressions. The unique language that emerges is often both unsettling and deeply beautiful. When they give each other space – as in the seven-minute »Eight« – and when the bass plays alone, it’s impossible not to sway along, even without a proper beat. Colors proves that great art can still arise from nothing – in both the strange and the more familiar dialogues. That is exactly what Friis and Morgan achieve on this captivating postcard from another world.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

På den eksperimentelle scene skal der efterhånden meget til, før noget virkelig overrasker – her bliver både guld og gammel gæld ofte gjort op. Derfor føles det som en frisk åbenbaring at lytte til Maria Laurette Friis og Thomas Morgans improviserede duoalbum Colors. At sætte en eksperimenterende vokalist og komponist (Friis) sammen med en erfaren kontrabassist (Morgan) og lade dem improvisere i tre timer, lyder måske ikke umiddelbart som det mest nyskabende. Men på forunderlig vis opstår der en helt særlig symbiose mellem stemme og kontrabas – en forbindelse så sjælden og unik, at man sjældent har hørt noget lignende.

Friis er en blændende sanger, og hendes ordløse udtryk trækker på alt fra mongolsk strubesang over jazz til nordisk mørke. Hun veksler ubesværet mellem skønsang og grynt i samme improvisation. Morgans kontrabas udgør en interessant kontrast og afsøger instrumentets grænser, uden at det på noget tidspunkt bliver uskønt.

De tre timers optagelser er skåret ned til ni skæringer på i alt 45 minutter, og konceptet med kun vokal og kontrabas fastholdes konsekvent – trods begge musikeres erfaring med vidt forskellige udtryk. Det særlige sprog, der opstår, er ofte både foruroligende og rørende smukt. Når de giver hinanden plads – som på den syv minutter lange »Eight« – og når kontrabassen spiller alene, kan man ikke lade være med at rokke med, selv uden egentligt beat. Colors beviser, at stor kunst stadig kan opstå af ingenting – i både de sære og mere genkendelige dialoger. Det er netop, hvad Friis og Morgan formår på dette dragende postkort fra en anden verden.

The term Dadaism must be used with caution – it easily risks becoming a cliché and trampling disrespectfully on its origins. Nevertheless, it’s hard to avoid Dada when listening to The Swamp, created by Norwegian experimental composers Maja Ratkje, Torstein Slåen, and Sigurd Ytre-Arne. The album is a 40-minute chaotic mirror of our times, shaped by merciless improvisation, noise drones, and Ratkje’s absurd vocalizations.

The music is raw, rancid, and deliberately un-beautiful – a constant stream of manipulated field recordings, reminiscent of a horror film foley studio. Bells, metallic clanks, white noise, and industrial sounds are warped together, driven by a syncopated, menacing rhythm and an underlying fuzz drone. Most fascinating is Ratkje’s voice, which appears as a riddle: is she singing in Celtic, Norwegian, or pure gibberish? The latter seems most likely and evokes the Dada poetry of Kurt Schwitters, particularly his 1932 Ursonate. At the same time, her vocal techniques dig deep into Nordic soil – conjuring the spirit of völva chants and Viking songs.

The combination of controlled noise and purposeful chaos elevates much of the album, with the opening track and the completely unhinged »Discomanic« standing out. The former is as close as the trio gets to something conventional; the latter borders on pure sound art. Only the two slower pieces – the seven-minute-long »Oligarchification« and »Lullaby for Trembling Hearts« – tend to drag a bit. Otherwise, the group manages to keep the material focused, sharp, and intensely trippy. It’s impressive how effectively it all works, even as the expression remains so relentless and challenging.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek
 

Begrebet dadaisme må bruges med varsomhed – det risikerer let at blive en kliché og trampe respektløst på sin oprindelse. Alligevel er det svært at komme udenom netop dadaismen, når man hører The Swamp, skabt af de norske eksperimentalkomponister Maja Ratkje, Thorstein Slåen og Sigurd Ytre-Arne. Albummet er et 40 minutters kaotisk spejl af samtiden, formet af nådesløs improvisation, støjdroner og Ratkjes absurde vokal.

Musikken er rå, harsk og direkte uskøn – en konstant strøm af manipulerede reallyde, som leder tankerne hen på et foley-studie fra en horrorfilm. Klokker, metalklange, hvid støj og industrielle lyde warpes ind over hinanden, mens en synkoperet, truende rytme og en gennemgående fuzz-drone driver musikken fremad. Mest fascinerende er Ratkjes vokal, som fremstår som et mysterium: synger hun på keltisk, norsk eller blot volapyk? Det sidste virker mest sandsynligt og vækker mindelser om Kurt Schwitters’ dada-poesi, især Ursonate fra 1932. Samtidig trækker hendes vokalteknikker tråde ned i nordisk muld – mod vølvesang og vikingeviser.

Kombinationen af kontrolleret støj og målrettet kaos løfter det meste af albummet, hvor åbningsnummeret og den komplet ustyrlige »Discomanic« bør fremhæves. Førstnævnte er det tætteste, trioen kommer på noget konventionelt; sidstnævnte grænser til rendyrket lydkunst. Kun de to langsommere numre – den syv minutter lange »Oligarchification« og »Lullaby for Trembling Hearts« trækker lidt ud. Ellers formår gruppen at holde materialet fokuseret, skarpt og ekstremt syret. Det er imponerende, hvor effektivt det hele virker, når udtrykket samtidig er så nådesløst og udfordrende.

Surely, I can’t be the only one who nearly choked on my oyster on New Year’s Eve, when King Frederik X delivered his first New Year’s speech. What a modern take on the old tradition! Instead of sitting solemnly at a desk, he calmly walked into the room – a room demanding attention, where a futuristic mural stole the show. I could barely focus on the speech itself, distracted by the psychedelic imagery behind him: a visual nod to Yellow Submarine by The Beatles. Was this a sign of a rock star ascending the throne?

Wishful thinking, as it turned out. The speech turned into a parade of predictable platitudes. The same can be said about the King’s new Honour March, composed by David M. A. P. Palmquist, former conductor of the Royal Danish Life Guards Music Corps. A traditional and sluggish piece that plays it entirely by the book.

Since H.C. Lumbye gifted a march to Frederik VII in 1861, it has been a tradition for members of the royal family to be granted personal marches. Take the lively and self-ironic Parade March for Queen Margrethe, which includes quotes from both »I Danmark er jeg født« and »Daisy Bell«. Or Crown Prince Frederik’s brisk and quirky Honour March in 6/8 time – written by Fuzzy for the now-King’s 30th birthday – tipping its hat to Carl Nielsen’s »Som en rejselysten flåde«.

But where is the personal character in Palmquist’s march? The composer approaches the task far too conceptually, attempting to give the piece a musical signature with a kind of rebus at the beginning. The first note is an F, followed by one ten steps higher – thus spelling »Frederik the 10th« in musical code. The many references to other military music are just as internal. What’s missing is something that breaks with protocol – just like King Frederik himself has done in his most memorable and beloved moments. In the end, it sounds like a march that has forgotten who it was written for.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek. Proofreading: Seb Doubinsky