Länk till streamad konsert: https://youtu.be/HCYrqn-a9lo'
ENSEMBLE DASEIN
- Alfred Sillén: Gråzon (durata ~4’20’’)
- Rasmus Petersson: Perseverate (durata ~5’)
- Per Lönnqvist: The Colors of the Sleeping Old Oak’s Dream (durata ~6’)
- Pontus Carling: Three Seasons (durata ~6’)
- Filip Wernerheim: hhhnnn (durata ~4’)
- Emil Nilsson: Riktning (durata ~5’)
- Hannah Elisif Grandahl: Skogsmörker (durata ~5’)
- Edwin Klaesson: Paralys (durata ~5’)
- Anders Flodin Peterson: The Pond Garden of Saint-Michelle (durata ~5’30’’)
GAGEEGO!
- Jakob Thonander Glans: 6 Scenes of 40 hours (durata ~8’)
- Corinne Dominique: Fixations (durata ~5’)
- Molly Ploom: that is the valley in mind (durata ~5’30’’)
- Emil Wingstrand: Fora till Laglöst Land - Rapsodi (durata ~7’)
- Isak Björn Hedlund: Age comes more easily than wisdom (durata ~5’)
Kommentarer till verken
Alfred Sillén: Gråzon
Frekvensspannet mellan 10-20 Hz visar på ett glapp i vår perception. Tonerna är ohörbara för oss och rytmerna smälter samman till en ljudmassa. Här uppstår en gråzon.
Pontus Carling: Three Seasons
Tänk dig tillbaka till torsdagen den 17 december år 2020. Bakom dig har du 9 månader som präglats av en global pandemi och ett samhälle i lockdown. Ovanför dig har du enligt meteorologer på TV ett mer än 200 meter tjockt molntäcke, som inte släppt igenom en enda glimt av blå himmel på över en månad. De redan allt för korta dagarna känns ännu kortare av den konstanta vinden och regnet. Du minns inte när du senast såg solen.
Framför dig har du en högtid som du avråds från att spendera med din familj och vänner, och det pratas om att pandemins tredje våg är på väg. Om fyra dagar, den 21 december, infaller vintersolståndet. En dag som om möjligt kommer vara ännu mörkare än de du upplevt hittills. Men det är också då det vänder. Efter den 21 december, kommer dagarna istället för att bli mörkare och kortare, bli ljusare och längre. Det är tanken på våren som får dig att orka dig ur sängen den 17 december. Längtan efter ljus och värme, och längtan efter att allt som sker i just denna stund snart ska vara över.
Hannah Elisif Grandahl: Skogsmörker
I detta stycke får vi följa en besökare som får möta skogsmörkret och dess värld. Det startas med att skogen är mörk och aningen kuslig och det är nästan helt tyst. Skogen börjar sedan kalla på besökaren. Ber den stanna i skogen, men också att vända om. Besökaren sugs in i mörkret och följer en stig.
Skogen kommer sedan till liv och förändras från en mystisk och mörk plats till en färgstark med magi och romantik. Grenarna rör sig, löven flyger, vinden dansar och skogen är fri!
Vinden går sedan tillbaka till lugnet och viskningarna börjar avta. Skogen kallar men blir sedan tyst. Det är bara vinden som hörs och besökaren lämnar.
Edwin Klaesson: Paralys
Följande stycke skrevs under en period av intensiv skrivkramp. Ursprungligen var det menat att ge en känsla av viktlöshet och frid, men i och med att tiden gick och inga riktiga framsteg gjordes i komponerandet, så började det att reflektera något annat.
Nu kunde jag även höra min känsla av att vara fast på en formlös, obekväm plats, utan varken tydliga vägar framåt eller utgångar - min kreativa paralys.
Jakob Thonander Glans: 6 Scenes of 40 hours
Stycket är dedikerat kampen för 30 timmars arbetsvecka.
Emil Wingstrand: Fora till Laglöst Land - Rapsodi
En förstudie till en opera under produktion i western-stil som utspelar sig på 1800-talet i Västerbottens djupa skogar.
Per Lönnqvist
The Colors of the Sleeping Old Oak’s Dream
Once a seed was planted.
No one knows who, or what planted the seed.
A small river could be seen from atop of a small hill, and the sound of flowing water could be heard in the distance. In the dark nights, when the river couldn't be seen; the sound of the river alone could confirm of its existence.
On top of that small hill a seed was planted.
As soon as the seed was planted the seed did what a seed does. It took root in the earth and with nutrition of the earth, the sun and the water from the river it began to slowly expand. Its roots spread out searching for nutrition, seeping away the life of the earth, while the stalk started to rise above. As time passed the seed began to become more than just a seed. Soon the roots had completely taken over the nearby underground, robbing it of its lifeforce and then the stalk had turned into a trunk with deep brown bark. On top of the trunk a green crown had begun to take shape, as if the tree had become king of the small hill.
In Fall birds would begin to build nests on the branches. The animals that would visit the tree were as jewels to the green crown. The sound of flowing water could be heard, mixed in with the habitants of the grown seed. As Summer came the crown would be shining green, as if the roots had sucked up all the energy of the world and offered it to the leaves. Cicadas roars could be heard in the dazzling heat and soon summer would be over. In the Autumn the shining green would fade to a bronze yellow, soon to brown and then the leaves would flee the tree; as a sign for the birds to leave. When the cold winds of Winter start blowing the grown seed would be left with the harsh truth of what's next to come, and be left alone with the sound of flowing water.
And so seasons passed.
The once planted seed had turned into a grown tree. On top of it's small hill the tree had seen and heard many things, looking out over the world.
As time went, soon the environment around the tree started to change. A small wooden house was built beside the tree. A small group of hunters, probably attracted by the nearby river and the hill as an advantage point, had decided to settle down. In the day, children's voices could be heard playing. Meanwhile the adults would prepare for the hunt, polishing their weapons and adjusting their traps. Others could be heard talking about the weather and other small things people talk about. In the evening sounds of people talking could be heard mixed with the crackling of an open fire. At only night could the pure sound of flowing water be heard.
When none of the first hunters and none of their grandchildren was left, the surroundings had once again changed. People could be heard walking from one place to another, some in a hurry and some with no direction in mind. The wooden houses that once were built next to the tree were gone, replaced with concrete buildings as far as a tree could see. The constant noise of people and machines could be heard throughout day and night, as if sleep and what once was silence no longer existed. The sound of flowing water could no longer be heard.
The seed had been able to see and hear since it was first planted. If someone were to see the small hill the same time as the seed was planted and compare it to how it looked now, anyone would have been amazed. But for the tree it simply looked the same. Change is slow and for the tree, which had stood there since it was planted, it had always looked the same. Birds and other animals would come and go, season would pass only to come again. The sun would be up during the day and the moon would be up during the night. The wooden houses had turned to concrete and soon the concrete was to be replaced with a new, better material. And with enough time the houses would turn to dust. The only thing that had changed for the tree was the sounds around it.
There once was someone, or something that planted a seed. No one knows why it was decided to plant this specific seed on that specific small hill. Maybe they/it thought the seed would look good on that small hill, maybe they/it had to get rid of the seed and just so happened to be standing on that small hill at the time. Or maybe, they/it hated the sound of flowing water.
So the tree would keep looking over the world from its small hill, waiting for the sound of flowing water.
