Cello Among Cows and a Love of Music
A farm near Rødvig on the Stevns peninsula, home to both pigs and cows, also houses an elite music school for cellists, the Scandinavian Cello School. The school was founded by the British cellist and professor Jacob Shaw, who is also a farmer and lives here with his family. It is a place where the young people in residence are expected to take part in the work on the farm as in a collective, when they are not working on their musical projects.
According to Shaw, this is very much an innovation. In one of the many scenes featuring the thoughtful, idealistic and selfless mentor, he remarks that the classical music world places great emphasis on competition and perhaps on musical development, but only rarely concerns itself with something as essential as well-being.
It is fascinating to follow not only the teaching and competitions on Stevns and elsewhere, but also to listen to the young musicians’ accounts of playing, alongside the many uncommented sequences in which large amounts of music – especially from the classical cello repertoire – are performed. Among them is an outdoor scene where the musicians have attracted a group of cows, who appear to be listening when they are not mooing.
This is a film about self-realisation through discipline, but also about discipline through self-realisation. The film continually circles around the human effort to become better at something, and it does so in a way that consistently places the participants’ love of music at the centre. This also applies to Shaw himself, whose previous serious illness, briefly referred to, forms a kind of counterpoint to the lightness that otherwise characterises the film.
Katrine Philp’s documentary A Classical Life is therefore warmly recommended – not only to parents of musically inclined children, but to anyone interested in music. Classical music? No. Music.
CPH:DOX, 14, 17 and 21 March
A One-Way Ticket To Illiyeen, Please!
Illiyeen is visual artist Eliyah Mesayer’s fictional state for the stateless, a group to which the artist herself belonged until just a few years ago. Since 2019, she has continuously added national symbols in Illiyeen’s characteristic black color, and today the state has its own postal service, national anthem, uniform, navy – and a steadily expanding list of collaborators.
It’s a clever concept, at once tightly defined and completely open. Because the state is nomadic and collective, it can arise anywhere and include a wider circle of like-minded artists, such as Angel Wei from Haloplus+ and the poet Zahna Siham Benamour. It is a state of mind.
At Den Frie, it was the drum duo Thicket – Adam »CCsquele« Nielsen and Dan Kjær Nielsen – who performed from opposite sides of a split drum kit. Through an improvised drum solo so energetic that drumsticks flew through the air, they explored the shared rhythm that emerged, broke apart, and shifted character along the way. A fitting symbol of Illiyeen’s community: a constant negotiation and coordination of tempo and movement.
Along the way, the toms gave way to a recorded sound piece, a spherical electronic composition with subdued spoken word woven into the soundscape. The work originated from an earlier installation but was extended for the occasion, with added acoustic elements recorded by Cæcilie Trier and Xenia Xamanek. It carried a mournful, sensitive vibe that stood in sharp contrast to the thundering intensity of the drums. Mesayer’s poetic, black-clad universe and Thicket’s simultaneously tight and improvisational energy bursts blended perfectly into a community one longed to be part of.
English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielzcarek
Gąsiorek Never Looks Back
Polish-born Szymon Gąsiorek has done it again – created a cornucopia of an album that both overwhelms and delights with its endless wealth of eclectic ideas, styles, and sound sources. As is often the case with this kind of release, where each track has its own distinct identity, personal favorites quickly emerge.
One clear favorite announces itself right away. The opening track, »TAK TAK NIE NIE«, explodes with an energy reminiscent of early Boredoms – a heavy dose of noise rock with shouted vocals, electric guitar, saxophone, gunshots, screams, synths, piano, and more. The third track, »STRACH LĘK NIEPOKÓJ«, also shines with a zeuhl-like momentum driven by militaristic vocals, insistent drums, jagged guitar, and saxophone. And even beyond the most immediately impressive tracks, Polofuturyzm is so packed with highlights and playful surprises that even half of it would have sufficed. Take, for example, »90s [NADZIEJA]«, featuring a trancey synth quickly and effectively sabotaged by free jazz-style drums and saxophone, or »JEDNOKIERUNKOWY«, which sounds like classic disco polo thrown in a blender and mixed with pitch-shifted vocals and clubby keyboards. Not to forget the eight-second slapstick piano flourish on »RĘCE«.
Polofuturyzm is driven by a manic refusal to ever look back. The only constant is the absence of consistency. Gąsiorek has been here before, but it still feels just as radical and refreshing.
English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek
Composition for Stone Walls
The contrast is striking when, on the hottest day of the year, you step down from the green lawns of Søndermarken into the underground world of the Cisterns, Copenhagen’s old water reservoir. The humidity is high, the light sparse, and stalactites hang from the vaulted ceilings, casting shadows in the puddles on the floor. And then there is the sound: in the empty columned halls, the reverberation can last up to 17 seconds. Even the slightest scrape echoes down here.
Since 2016, the Cisterns have functioned as an exhibition space, and this year Jakob Kudsk Steensen has transformed the halls into an underwater landscape of video projections, sculptural objects, and a soundscape created by Lugh O’Neill featuring Bjarke Mogensen on accordion. Mogensen, who is performing this evening, has a versatile taste. Perhaps a bit too versatile, I think to myself as I read the evening’s program, which spans from Bach to folk melodies from Bornholm. It turns out to hold together better than one might expect. These are compositions that seem to stretch time itself, where long tones – amplified and extended by the reverberation – form a murky foundation for short, pearling attacks, like marble balls ricocheting off a stone wall.
A shimmering, sorrowful composition by Nick Martin, inspired by Michelangelo’s Pietà – marble again – is followed by a meditation on echo among the cliffs of Bornholm by Frederiksberg-based composer Martin Lohse. Another piece rises slender and sacred like high vaults, while Mogensen’s own Passage crackles, snaps, and crunches like stones being broken. Mogensen’s accordion is in constant dialogue with the space; he calls, and the dark colonnades answer back – or is it the other way around?
The audience sits petrified, completely absorbed in the sound, as Mogensen masterfully makes his instrument sound like everything from a rapid breath to a thunderclap. When we finally emerge, heavy clouds hang over Søndermarken, and the heat is gone. The park feels transformed. The contrast is tangible.
English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek
Kristine Tjøgersen Crafts Unreasonably Beautiful Eco-Poetry
The wildlife of nature is both beautiful and playful – especially in Kristine Tjøgersen’s music. At the center of her new album Night Lives is the wild, unpredictable life of the night beyond the human domain. The album was created as part of the Ernst von Siemens Prize, which Tjøgersen recently received as the first Norwegian composer ever to do so.
The album is a seven-movement sonic version extracted from a staged work premiered at the Ultima Festival in 2023, and it works perfectly well as a standalone, semi-acoustic version performed by the Cikada Ensemble. The music ranges from playful, experimental, rhythmical soundscapes—full of rattling and crackling instruments – to intense, pulsating passages. Tjøgersen possesses a uniquely sensitive understanding of instrumental timbre, allowing her to morph seamlessly between acoustic and electronic worlds, cultural environments, and eras. From a simple, extended flute solo to a dancing computer universe – without blinking an eye.
Forty to fifty years ago, it was called postmodernism when old music appeared in new compositions as reused material. Back then, it made sense because many people had a mental library of historical classical music, a reflective space in which all new music was interpreted. Today, audiences’ minds are different. For example, Kristine Tjøgersen can easily use a completely straightforward Baroque movement as the album’s conclusion – serving as a starting point for music that gradually thins out and dissolves into a stunningly beautiful utopian world of acoustic strings and synthesizer. Without making you feel she is negotiating your sense of past and present. Natural sounds, imitations of nature, harmonies, and entire sequences are simply building blocks in her personal experimental lab. And what a lab it is!
English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek
When the Experiment Becomes Tragically Beautiful
Normally, I avoid quoting press releases directly, but this description of the intimate and multifaceted Confluencia is hard not to echo. On this album, the Danish guitarist and experimentalist has assembled a small ensemble of musicians from the borderlands between neoclassicism and jazz. The real stars of the record are pianist Simon Toldam and – especially – Susana Santos Silva, whose trumpet bleats, breathes, and scrapes against the ear. She toots in ways rarely heard in postmodern experimentalism.
Confluencia seeks to reflect modern communication – a kind of communication that ought to transcend boundaries of race, gender, and other dividing forces – through instrumental music. A form that seems to be fading day by day in a haze of misinformation, miscommunication, and mistrust. Toldam’s piano leans toward eerie dissonance, while Solborg’s guitar adds a tender, almost vulnerable tone – especially on »Southern Swag«. The music is at its strongest when the instruments converge in conversation and unison moments, such as in the strange funeral ballad »Planes«, which teeters on the edge of collapse with ghostly piano figures and diabolical chimes.
Confluencia moves between jazz, folk, ambient, and avant-garde – with a chamber-like intimacy that insists on intensity, melancholy, and reflection. What makes the album truly powerful is precisely what many experimental releases lack: space for contemplation and dialogue with the listener. Tungemål dares to be experimental without overpowering itself – and paints with a broad emotional brush, where tragedy is always lurking on the horizon.
English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek