A mist and a deluge conspired to hold Ólafur Arnalds captive at Brisbane airport last Wednesday evening.
He finally made it onto a Sydney-bound flight, but touched down just an hour before his sold-out show.
Nothing appears to have gone missing in the rain - including Arnalds’ temperament, although more importantly, his cellist, three violinists and drummer.
Arnalds’ gait is breezy. He is unruffled and smiling. For bringing the Icelandic weather with him to Sydney, he apologises.
He is forgiven.
As laughter abates, Arnalds opens with an old one - Only The Winds. The childlike, pulsing, two-note melody claims the awesome silence. It is a tiny creature breathing: rhythmic, gentle. Gradually, it fills out with strings, a synth and percussion, then egresses into aching placidity.
Although no doubt discoverable on meditation playlists everywhere, Arnalds’ innovations are not dazed: each new element grows within the music; is emboldened by what has come before it.
Arnalds the melodist is revealed in the gentle Saman, from his new album. The trilling passages on the muted piano are exquisite and warm. It is like being told a secret: one leans in to hear, to catch every word.
In many ways, the Icelandic composer and multi-instrumentalist hovers above genre. Beyond his classical instrumentation, sound does not answer to the structural expectations of classical music, nor is it under the same social scrutinies: somewhere, an early applause spilt out before a piece had finished. No one glared or huffed. The early clap simply subsided, and life went on.
Re:member, the title piece, sets a scene of ruminating melancholy with an ebbing, two-note fragment on muted piano. Two notes become three, three become four. Melodies grow in time with the ebbing repetition, like flowers springing out the crannies of concrete slabs. Violins, percussion, momentum. Arnalds’ arcs are intoxicating.
Evoked in Arnalds’ new album is the wonderfully inexact euphoria of memory. The whole thing is a tonic for the pain you never knew you had, and a journey within yourself.
Lighting designer Stuart Bailes’ visual display breathed even more life into the experience. Twinkling, flashing, glowing colours seemed somehow responsive, or attached to the music. Could this be possible?
While the recorded album is enthralling, this was the sort of concert that, as a critic, you succumb to nauseating cliche about. The atmosphere Arnalds and Bailes created was soul-charging, breathtaking. The Icelander has made a remarkable musical contribution with re:member and is thrilling to watch live.
