Wow!
There, my dear friends, I would leave it. At Musicweb-International
we do things differently however, so I shall qualify my ‘Wow!’ with:
Aaaaah!
So, there you have it: another winner from BIS – buy it,
now.
What, you really want to know what this is all about? Oh,
I’m sorry – I realise you can’t always take a man’s ‘Wow!’ or
even his ‘Aaaaah!’ for granted, so I shall expand and expound. The
Four Beasts´ Amen (Mass for organ and electronics) is
a fairly intimidating title, and at over 45 minutes I wasn’t
really preparing myself for any kind of ‘Wow!’ I have admired
Hans-Ola Ericsson’s organ playing in the past however (his
Messiaen cycle on BIS is still among the best - see link for
Ericsson's other BIS recordings), and was intrigued to
find out that he is also active as
a composer.
Ericsson begins his booklet notes with a confession of ‘composer’s block,’ after
ceasing to write music since 1986. This Organ Mass was
the first work written after this long period of silence,
and is an amazing creation. Performed on the instrument
for which it was written, the new research organ at Őrgryte
New Church, the electronics are derived from the sounds
of other organs used in this research project. The project
receives no further explanation unfortunately, but the
full characteristics of each organ on the CD, and the texts
by Olov Hartman which inspired each movement of the Mass are
given in full and translated, and indeed give important
insights into some of the atmospheres and textures which
appear in the music.
Just to give some kind of reference, the half-closed stops
and idiosyncratic strangeness of Keith Jarrett’s Hymns & Spheres (from
1976 – flared organ pipes!) go a very small way toward
illustrating what you can expect here. In other words,
if you liked that, you will probably be blown away by this.
Organ traditionalists who treasure their Buxtehude and
Karg-Elert box sets may be less enamoured of the kinds
of sound-worlds which Ericsson explores, but organ fans
who are prepared to take one of life’s lesser risks (buying
a CD you might not like – a luxury problem, you must admit)
are at the very least guaranteed a true sonic spectacular.
The Preludium is a bit like the opening of Couperin’s Messe
pour les paroisses, a clever softening-up which leads
the listener in, inspiring confidence but leaving one
completely unprepared for what follows. The Kyrie opens
with a vast exhalation of air, and consists almost entirely
of strange knockings and low whooshes of air: ‘What help
to us is our broken-down ships’ hateful anxiety in the
silence.’ This ‘organ at sea’ emerges with fragments
of plainchant, strangled and enveloped in extraneous
noises from the depths – a powerfully understated image.
The Gloria is titled Wing-mirrors, and
introduces a magnificent, titanic struggle between stabbing,
heaving organs both real and reproduced. The Halleluja continues
in this vein, but with sustained notes emphasising the
glorious tuning differences between the organ sounds,
something then prolonged (the previous two movements
being no longer than two minutes altogether) in an extended Interludium: ‘The
heavens are concealed in every stone upon the ground.’ Textures
wash in slow waves, the abrasion of different stops creating
uneasy beds of noise, or chiming and fading like Mervyn
Peake’s vast and horrifically mouldering ‘bell of felt.’
After this experience, we are plunged once again into a stabbing
and echoing multi-organ world in the Sanctus. Hold
onto your surround-sound hats in this one. Organs to the
left of you, organs to the right and behind – some even
seem to be above, dropping chords on you like the guano
of some flock of evil, leathery birds. This all builds
to a completely mad climax which will have some listeners
hiding behind the sofa (ah! you’d have been better off
under the table) – a genuine Dr. Who musical terror moment.
Thus beaten and shocked, you will be transported to heaven
by a truly beautiful Agnus Dei, whose overlapping
chorale is indeed ‘…branching out…;’ extending the rising
harmonies with subtle dissonant crunches which massage
the mental lobes. Whispering birdsong inhabits the Communion,
which is dedicated to Olivier Messiaen who is also quoted
musically. Aeolian, harmonically treated heartbeats develop,
and the upper registers of the organ introduce a further
layer of birds – or are they angels? The ‘scala angelica’ rises
slowly, gradually revolving around your head, wrapping
it in a kind of surrealist bandage. Thus clad, we are released,
or rather expelled by the Postludium, whose subtitle ‘Nails’ refers
to the crucifixion. A fragmentary exploration of space
and distance grinds away, pushing great gobs of sound into
the prevailing silence. It is as if the entire church;
every inch of interior wall has an infernal organ pipe
crowding its surface. At the climax the walls themselves
seem to start moving, eventually collapsing under their
own weight of lead in great, loose pillars of sound.
In other words, Wow!
Ericsson hasn’t finished with us yet however. Melody to
the Memory of a Lost Friend XIII is a potent meditation
on death initiated by the suicide of a close friend.
The last of a cycle on this theme, the work is also coloured
by the work of Hieronymus Bosch in which the tunnel described
in near-to-death experiences is depicted. The organ envelopes
us in a crescendo of sound-waves with overlapping – ever
developing intervals, the colours of which are extended
by electronics which add a strange dirty sparkle to these
monumental progressions.
The Canzon del Principe is an arrangement of Gesualdo’s Canzon
francese del Principe with added improvisatory outbursts.
In no way a weak piece, it is however slightly disadvantaged
on this CD by being set in the relatively, unexpectedly
drier acoustic of Luleå Cathedral. The less grand soundstage
is however more than compensated for by the insane quarter-tone
interpolations and rocket-powered runs which Ericsson
has invented. The wonderful final ‘turn’ will make your
hair stand on end and have Scots bagpipers banging on
the walls (whether in search of peace or premature Hogmanay,
you may never find out).
Our faith in vast, nightmare acoustics is restored in Flügeltüren,
which uses the sounds of the organ shutters of the great
Hagerbeer/Schnitger organ at the Grote St.Laurenskerk in
Alkmaar as the source for the electronics. An ocean of
resonance is populated with quasi whale-song wailing, while
the organ pipes drench the upper registers like bizarre
wind-chimes. It is sometimes hard to tell where the percussion
part starts and ends, but a shifting assortment of metallic
objects adds to the uneasy spectrum of sound. This is another
remarkable sonic experience which rises and falls, inexorably
developing and causing the cat to leave the room. Seriously
- it most certainly is not a track to be listened
to in the dark on your own. The final Vocalise is ‘a
wordless song that celebrates the wordless nature of love.’ Rich,
Messiaenesque chords support Susanne Rydén’s remarkable
range in a suitably dark apotheosis to this remarkable
and immensely stimulating CD.
Aaaaah!
Dominy
Clements
Anders Hannus (sound
direction/electronics); Susanne
Rydén (soprano); Tommy Björk (percussion); Hans-Ola Ericsson (organ) 
[79'49] 
