Anna THORVALDSDOTTIR (b. 1977)
Rhízōma
Hrím, for chamber orchestra (2010) [8:03]
Hidden, for percussionist on grand piano (2009) [14:18]
Dreaming, for orchestra (2008) [15:51]
Streaming Arhythmia, for chamber orchestra (2007) [19:32]
Justin DeHart (piano)
CAPUT Ensemble
Iceland Symphony Orchestra/Daniel Bjarnason
Rec. December 2016, Harpa Concert Hall, Reykjavík, Iceland (Dreaming); Guđríđarkirkja, Reykjavík (Hrím and Streaming Arhythmia), Warren Music Studios, San Diego (Hidden) -dates unknown
SONO LUMINUS SLE-70018 [57:44]
Yet more new Icelandic music from Sono Luminus? Well yes and no: whist their fervent (and in my view, utterly justified) advocacy of Anna Thorvaldsdottir’s work seemingly knows no bounds Rhízōma was originally issued on another pioneering American label, Innova, back in 2012. That disc was the first to be exclusively dedicated to Thorvaldsdottir’s music. There is one important difference with the reboot though: the orchestral essay Dreaming has been re-recorded. This svelte new account can claim a double advantage; it benefits from the superb acoustics of Reykjavík’s splendid new Harpa Concert Hall, whilst resident producer Dan Merceruio’s engineering know-how has been largely responsible for the success of Sono Luminus’s two previous trailblazing discs of new Icelandic orchestral music,
Recurrence (review) and
Concurrence (review). The third release in this series,
Occurrence, is due imminently.
It is pleasing to see that the original release was picked up by MusicWeb nine years ago and received a pretty positive review from Byzantion. Whilst I concur wholeheartedly with his conclusions about Thorvaldsdottir’s music, I shall tactfully overlook his comments about the Icelandic musical pioneer Björk (Guđmundsdóttir) and his tart remarks about the packaging which has been retained by Sono Luminus and which I find most attractive – the album’s title, Rhizoma, refers to plant roots which run horizontally underground; not only is the idea reflected rather beautifully in the artwork but the term itself provides a most apt simile for the sound and structure of so much of Anna Thorvaldsdottir’s work, especially in the case of the music included here.
Hrim for chamber orchestra is a vivid slice of geophysical sound. We are told in the excellent booklet note (compiled by Daniel Tacke) that the Icelandic word hrim refers to the gradual expansion of ice crystals, and the glassy soundworld Thorvaldsdottir has imagined here mirrors the idea most beautifully, not least in the way individual timbres merge with adjacent sounds to refract new, constantly changing colours. It’s present at the outset of the piece with novel use of clarinet and strings. The composer’s expert control of a small instrumental group is most impressive – the variegated timbres that emerge frequently suggest a much larger ensemble. Familiar devices like tremolando and rising/falling scales seem strange and new in this context. The writing is remarkably detailed and always goal-oriented rather than contrived. The dynamic or timbral shifts that inhabit Hrim each seem to instigate a fresh process: in the faint whiffs of melody unfolding in the woodwind or in a piano flourish, frustrated by brass chords which seem stuck in a vacuum. The final episode of stasis in Hrim lays the foundation for a gradual winding down, a leaving lovingly decorated by twinkling flecks of glockenspiel.
My first impression of the spectacular orchestral work Dreaming was that it surely warranted a less ‘generic’ title, for want of a better word. But the more familiar one becomes with the music, the more apt the title seems. All our dreams are prone to different levels of cognitive reconstruction – we recall the highlights and in order to make sense of them we make stuff up to join them together and provide a narrative context. Thorvaldsdottir’s remarkable work is both immersive and monumental, and yet its tiny details unfailingly get picked up by the ear; distant knockings, hollow clicks, raw scrapings, and descending glissandi in the brass inter alia. They repeatedly pierce the glacially slow-moving sequence of bass transformations which might well elude our consciousness, like our deep breathing during sleep. Dreaming is one of those works that could only have emerged from the distant north; in spirit it particularly reminded me of Polaris, an outstanding if little known orchestral work by a much older Norwegian composer Ragnar Sřderlind (b 1945). For this remake, Daniel Bjarnason leads a stunning performance from the Iceland Symphony Orchestra, and it’s captured in recorded sound that is astonishing even by the standards of Sono Luminus. The celesta tinklings, woodwind yawns and violent percussive thwacks stand out yet never overwhelm the ear; Dan Merceruio’s production thus affords one the space to detect the tiniest threads of melody – wisps which coalesce at one point into something exotic and almost sultry. A passage in the final third of the work features tentative yet insistent repeated note flutings, mirrored in the strings and then elsewhere. Subsequently the whole edifice splinters into simultaneous fragments which defy easy understanding before a growling pedal fades, punctuated intermittently by the creaks, burps, growls and coughs of mother earth. Dreaming proves to be the perfect title after all – one will awake with a vivid recall which will be frustratingly short-lived – a state which demands an immediate repetition of the piece which one’s hi-fi can thankfully facilitate.
Streaming Arhythmia (for chamber orchestra) carries a more immediately striking title and begins with what could be could be the opening unison of Mahler 1 refracted through an echo chamber or a distortion pedal. Unfulfilled threats of melody emit from single instruments. The Caput Ensemble shakes off the torpor with a slow burning crescendo as notes begin to frenetically diverge from the initial near-monotone. From 3:35 the activity becomes even more restless before morphing into an exacting percussion duel. At 7:00 a rather plangent string passage materialises, resigned rather than self-pitying., This mood persists throughout the core of the piece, albeit in a more fragmented guise. Cavernous subterranean rumblings seem omnipresent in this score as well and fade in and out of one’s awareness, not unlike the elusive material of Dreaming. A dab of celesta at 11.10 hints at a chink of light before another string episode of fragile grace. This is short-lived and yields to long bass notes and gossamer threads of stratospheric glissandi. At 13.40 a fractured tutti chord threatens to overwhelm but suddenly withdraws. The splintered effects that punctuate the last couple of minutes seem unearthly and sound genuinely unsettling. Daring and immersive, Streaming Arhythmia is performed with singular precision by the players of the Caput Ensemble; it is an accomplished work which combines steeliness with snowflake delicacy and implies unfathomable mystery.
Connecting these larger-scale pieces are the five little movements of Hidden, performed by the percussionist Justin DeHart on a grand piano. These atmospheric studies provide an apt framework for the bigger works and seem to tap even more intimately into the nooks and crannies of the Icelandic landscape, enacted here by an instrument which is hardly ever played conventionally. Playing the five movements successively reveals an astonishing breadth of colour and texture. The second panel, Our, is extraordinary. A miniscule melody etched from a sandpaper surface, plinks and thuds, plucked and keyed notes set in cool isolation. Deceptively little seems to happen.
This re-boot of Rhízōma is unmissable. I reiterate; Anna Thorvaldsdottir’s music might well oscillate between extremes of sensitivity and ferocity, but hers is an utterly independent and authentic voice. Hats off to Sono Luminus for continuing to recognise her stature and document her inexorable progress.
Richard Hanlon
