Heralded as a 'cultural prodigy' in his native Norway, Ketil Bjornstad is known worldwide as a novelist, poet and essayist, and perhaps most importantly as a prolific composer of modern music. Having a critically acclaimed back-catalogue which includes releases on the ECM label has cemented his reputation as one of the most sort-after performers on the european circuit; a fact made evident my the large and supportive crowd in the RNCM's spacious Bruntwood Theatre.
Before the arrival of the performers the stage set-up signalled an evening of varied and challenging music; piano and electric piano, full drumset, guitar amplifier and effects units, cello, upright bass, various microphones. It would be difficult not to make an interesting sound with such an ensemble. The arrival of the first three musicians, Bjornstad, guitarist Eivind Aarset, and cellist Svante Henryson is greeted by a simple and hypnotic piano motif that could introduce almost any ECM release, evoking the work of Steve Reich or Philip Glass. The repeated chord is fleshed out with a sonorous cello melody that struggles to avoid schmaltz, and atmopheric surges of dense guitar hum squeezed out of Aarset's volume pedal. The trio play three excerpts from a soundtrack to a Taiwanese film which, as Bjornstad later tells us, was never made. One problem that the trio face is that they all occupy a similar range of frequency, as a result of which the musical terrain seems flat and lifeless. This isn't helped by the rather unimaginative scoring which has all three intruments playing at a similar level most of the time, ignoring the potential for creating drama or interest. Without any images or knowledge of the original film, it is difficult not to focus on the monotony of these pieces, and when Aarset's switches to a conventional rock guitar crunch it all sounds a bit like Santana without the rhythm.
The series is followed by 'Intimacy', a short Bjornstad composition used by Ken Loach in the more saccharine moments of Ae Fond Kiss. This time however, the music is still evocative when divorced from its original context, and occasionally bristles with joyous melodic flourishes.
The second part of this first half picks up a little with the arrival of Andy Sheppard on saxophone, Alex Riel on drums and Arild Anderson on bass; a welcome addition of colour to the previously drab ensemble. The sextet make a lovely warm sound, full of breathy sax and fluid bass with the occasional sharp bristle of percussion. A key feature of Ketil's vision, which was previously hidden, seems to reveal itself through this arrangment. The music often seems to be bursting with joy and excitment, which is occasionally disseminated through controlled explosions of melody or noise, only to build up again. This excitment reaches a peak with a series of frenetic solos from sax, drums and bass, which are each greeted with rapturous applause from an aroused audience. There is no doubt that this in the highlight of tonights performance, though it is as much to do with the natural affinities of these intruments than with the composer himself.
The second half of the performance was perhaps one of the most pointless experiences of my listening life, a startling contrast with the lively and joyous close to the first. The whole ensemble reconvened to perform Bjornstad's song cycle 'Seafarer's Song', originally written for a festival in Norway. The whole ponderous sequence lasted well over an hour, during most of which I wished to escape from the hall. One off the main problems with the cycle is the English lyrics, rendered in Bjork-like squarks by singer Kristin Asbjornsen, which become ridiculous next to the overly sincere and frequently pompous music. To a Norwegian audience the use of English might well connote the strange other-worldlyness of the sea, or the haunting tones of the mysterious siren. Lines such as "When the police came they also beat me", "He emerged from the sea with a throbbing bruise on his elbow, on his elbow", "He awoke with fire on his face, and also on his arms" sounded clumsy and detracted from the serious nature of the music. I found myself struggling to suppress giggles. The cloying 'Dying to Get to Europe' sounded like something Rice/Lloyd-Webber might dream up, just as the ripped costume gave Asbjornsen the appearance of an extra from Les Miserables. Her bemused wandering off stage after each bount of singing was too theatrical, predictably signaling an arbitrary section of 'free' playing from the musicians still on stage, which recalled the 'Jazz Odyssey' section from Spinal Tap. That drummer Alex Riel actually walked off before the piece had finished suggested the lack of cohension amoung the musicians now. Gone were the interplay and joyous explosions of the first half. The cycle's final conclusion was greeted again with rapturous applause from an audience who were obviously devoted fans on Bjornstad's music. I, however, disappeared as quickly as possible in order the release my suppressed mirth and bemoan the fact that I could have spent the evening at home listening to Radio 4. At least I would have been able to turn it off.
Thomas Conolly
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