It is difficult to keep pace with Masami Akita. The 69-year-old Japanese noise artist, who since 1979 under the name Merzbow has helped shape the genre, released no fewer than a dozen albums in 2025 alone. On a rare mini-tour with stops in Helsinki, Stockholm and Aarhus, he showed that his energy remains intact. At Radar he gathered an audience that had travelled far to experience the godfather of noise – an artist who has consistently insisted on noise as a physical, almost tactile experience. Wearing a bucket hat, Akita constructed his trajectories with clear architectural precision. Layer upon layer of distortion and feedback took shape and struck like a brush of metal: hard, cutting, physical – uncompromising, yet at the same time remarkably nuanced.

Akita worked not only with electronics, but also with homemade metal instruments – first a banjo-shaped device, then a square musical saw – lending the sound a raw, tangible materiality. Everywhere, microscopic shifts in texture emerged, small fissures of tone within the massive pressure.

The opening set by frã (Francisco Moura) began the evening with a more fragile, yet persistent electronic texture, a precise counterpoint to Merzbow’s compact blocks of sound. Some might have wished for a gentler entry into the musical year 2026, but the concert underscored the ambitions Radar is currently pursuing.

Det er vanskeligt at holde trit med Masami Akita. Den 69-årige japanske noise-kunstner, der siden 1979 under navnet Merzbow har været med til at forme genren, udgav i 2025 alene et dusin album. På en sjælden mini-turné med stop i Helsinki, Stockholm og Aarhus viste han, at energien fortsat er intakt. På Radar samlede han et publikum, der var kommet langvejs fra for at opleve noise-musikkens gudfar – en kunstner, der konsekvent har insisteret på støj som en fysisk, næsten taktil erfaring. Iført bøllehat byggede Akita sine forløb med en klar arkitektonisk præcision. Lag på lag af forvrængning og feedback tog form og slog som en børste af metal: hård, skærende, fysisk – kompromisløs, men samtidig bemærkelsesværdigt nuanceret.

Akita arbejdede ikke kun med elektronik, men også med hjemmelavede metalinstrumenter – først en banjoformet, siden en firkantet musiksav – der gav lyden en rå, håndgribelig materialitet. Overalt opstod mikroskopiske forskydninger i teksturen, små sprækker af klang midt i det massive tryk.

Opvarmningen ved frã (Francisco Moura) åbnede aftenen med en mere skrøbelig, men vedholdende elektronisk tekstur, et præcist modspil til Merzbows kompakte lydblokke. Nogle ville måske have ønsket sig en blidere indgang til musikåret 2026, men koncerten understregede de ambitioner, Radar aktuelt arbejder med.

It seemed to come like a bolt from the blue when the Icelandic cellist and composer Hildur Guðnadóttir broke the sound barrier with an uncompromising, inward-looking sound situated between contemporary classical and experimental music – most widely recognised through her suffocating soundtracks for Chernobyl and Joker.

Yet on her Deutsche Grammophon debut Where to From, it is the personal spaces we are invited into. The instrumentation is pared right back to a chamber ensemble, voices, and extended passages of near-absolute silence. The result is often achingly beautiful – and deeply affecting.

The work unfolds in small vignettes, rarely lasting more than a couple of minutes, before vocals are introduced in the album’s second half – most notably in »Make Space« and the exquisite a cappella hymn »I Hold Close«. The equally beautiful »Melody of Not Knowing« explores the cello’s darkest registers, striking blue midnight tones in the echo of the heart, especially as it glides into »All Along«, where voice and strings merge.

Where to From is a powerfully mood-saturated work that moves effortlessly between chamber music and neoclassicism, finding its uncompromising character in the quietest, most intimate sighs between human and instrument. It is neither too little nor too much – always precisely measured. And for that very reason, Guðnadóttir remains such a compelling musical presence.

English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek

Det syntes at komme som et lyn fra en klar himmel, da den islandske cellist og komponist Hildur Guðnadóttir brød lydmuren med en kompromisløs, indadvendt lyd i spændingsfeltet mellem moderne klassisk og eksperimentel musik – særligt kendt for sine knugende soundtracks til Chernobyl og Joker.

Men på sin Deutsche Grammophon-debut Where to From er det snarere de personlige rum, vi inviteres ind i. Instrumentationen er skrabet helt ned til kammerensemble, stemmer og lange passager med decideret stilhed. Og det er ofte gudesmukt og vedkommende.

Værket består af små vignetter, der sjældent varer mere end et par minutter, før vokalerne introduceres på pladens anden halvdel – blandt andet i »Make Space« og den underskønne a cappella-hymne »I Hold Close«. Den ligeledes skønne »Melody of Not Knowing« udforsker celloens mørke klange og rammer de blå midnatstoner i hjertets ekko, ikke mindst når den glider over i »All Along«, hvor stemme og strygere forenes.

Where to From er et stærkt stemningsmættet værk, der bevæger sig ubesværet mellem kammermusik og neoklassicisme og finder sin kompromisløshed i de helt stille, fortrolige suk mellem menneske og instrument. Det bliver hverken for lidt eller for meget – altid helt tilpas. Og netop derfor forbliver Guðnadóttir et så vedkommende musikalsk bekendtskab.

Varve – from the Danish varv – refers to the annual layers of sediment, a quiet geological archive of time’s passage. Lukas Lauermann’s album carries this meaning into its very sonic core. Here, organ and vocal samples taken from worn cassette tapes meet an inquisitive, almost ascetic cello that moves like fine strokes across a flickering, dust-filled soundscape.

The cello is restrained but never passive. It slips in and out of the cassette’s white noise, of fragmented voices and the organ’s gentle currents of air, until all elements ultimately merge into a single, organic texture. Lauermann himself describes the music as a depiction of irregularities, and it is precisely in these small shifts that Varve finds its quiet strength. The album’s idea of sonic sedimentation becomes an image of our longing to reconnect with nature’s tempo. The compositional motifs seem repetitive, yet they never repeat themselves entirely; they build layer upon layer, like organic growth. As a listener, one becomes witness to microscopic changes slowly unfolding – a process that can bring about an almost meditative state.

Varve is an album for those who prefer listening experiences at an unhurried pace; for those who find Hans Zimmer too grandiose and would rather follow the patient growth of grass than an orchestra’s emotional climaxes.