I am probably being dim and dense, but I’ve trawled the booklet
notes for this release in an attempt to find out the relationship
between the predatory-looking big black pumas on the cover and
elsewhere inside. Other than generating dynamic and exciting expectations
I am so far flummoxed. I do like the cover however: the animals
remind me of a Rorschach inkblot. The question remaining is then,
does the music of Jon Řivind Ness indeed provide us with the new,
the sleekshiny slipstreamed and the instinctively stylish, or
just smelly old cats.
As is often the
case with modern music releases, I could very easily write two
subjectively accurate reviews reflecting entirely opposite poles.
The first goes ‘wow!’ and the second goes, ‘for gawd’s sake
switch it off!’ Both can apply to the same disc and
the same listener depending on their mood, but the second does
indicate something of the high-tensile demanding nature of much
of the music on this release. It’s not that it is essentially
‘difficult’ music in the atonal squeaky-gate sense that has
affected serious composition in great swathes of the last century,
but as Henrik Hellstenius describes in his admirable notes,
“A typical feature of Jon Řivind Ness’s music is short, rhythmic
cells. Small musical building blocks are thrown together at
frenetically high speed... we are given the impression of music
moving along at high speed constantly presenting something new.”
Later on he says “In what at first may seem to be a desire to
confuse the listener, to maximise chaos or deconstruct any opportunity
for continuous, linear development, there is coherence.” It
is an abstraction which requires high-octane intellectual engagement,
and these first impressions need to be broken down and evaluated
before one can establish a real rapport with this music. I’m
not saying we should only live off a diet of slow chorales,
but as the Violin Concerto Mad Cap Tootling increasingly
lives up to its name as the music progresses, I can imagine
those of an already highly-strung disposition becoming rather
twitchy and distressed. The first time I heard it was outdoors
in a sunny park on my MP3 player, and the contrast between relaxed
recreation and what was coming through the headphones seemed
at odds. I was inclined to be argumentative; my initial response
misunderstanding what at first seemed a chain of expertly performed
tricks. I was challenging the music to talk to me in ways that
were different to the apparent virtuoso trickery of placing
lots of notes very close to each other, and allowing preconceptions
to gum up my objective critical faculties.
Mad Cap Tootling
begins with a sustained atmosphere, over which the soloist,
dedicatee Peter Herresthal, weaves increasingly wild and frenetic
cadenza-like violin lines. The title derives from the way in
which former American president George W. Bush came across in
the media, and there is a suggestion that these aspects are
expressed in elements of the solo part. As a protest against
the Iraq war, this is then a rock solid statement, filled with
hammering rhythms and urgent contrasts. There is no indication
of programmatic content, but I hear missiles or bullets flying
and impacting at 7:30 very explicitly. Jon Řivind Ness’s relationship
with popular music is alluded to in the introduction to the
booklet notes, but there is little sense of post-modern irony
that I can detect in this piece. The descending parallel chords
introduced at 10:50 might be grim laughter – they are certainly
far enough removed from Tom and Jerry cartoons not to raise
a smile. The elegiac section which follows might be funereal
wailing, and the half-erased question mark with which the piece
ends provides no sense of relief or release.
Wet Blubber Soup,
the cello concerto, emerges almost as a continuation of the
violin concerto. On-off beat Petrushka/Sacre-esque orchestral
pushing and pulling is an element in both pieces, and the intense
fragmentary nature of both gives them a family identity. The
title is a pun on a 10CC song ‘Wet Rubber Soup’, in a possible
allusion to the ‘remixed’ nature of the material in both. Introduced
by some purposely banal contrary-motion figures in the clarinet
and bassoon, the most impressive section for me begins at 4:40,
where a low, throbbing and uneasily shifting bass line suggests
rather than states a harmonic progression of memorable force,
guaranteed to make you sit up and take note. Jon Řivind Ness
and I also share a liking for those endless ‘telegraph-wire’
sustained lines, and here they appear in the winds rather than
in the strings which opened the violin concerto. This texture
is extended later on, leaving room for the cello to describe
filigree lines in the air with irrepressible harmonics. Assemblies
of fragmented rhythmic blocks in the second half allude once
more to Stravinsky. Towards the end they seem to imitate a faulty
CD: dddd-booibooibooibooi-dogdogdog..., and after having
been made to sound like an indignant foghorn once or twice earlier
on, the cello is allowed a minutes worth of final enigmatically
restrained coda.
The two final pieces
on this disc are later than the concerti by a couple of years,
and Gust is said to introduce a new direction in Ness’s
music. Already released on a disc called ‘Bass Trip’ PSC1288
and written for the double-bass player Dan Styffe and viola
player Catherine Bullock, the piece opens with a kind of ominous
‘Rothko Chapel’ feel, with the bass rumbling under more rhapsodic
lines from the viola. Later on, the bass introduces its own
harmonics, rising to join the tessitura of the viola, and contributes
more thematically, while reminding us of the bass pedal at frequent
intervals. This is a work of intriguing colour and variety,
with some of the sweeping/brushing sounds which briefly appeared
at the beginning of the violin concert also cropping up, and
the whole thing setting up a constant synergy of disparate and
confluent elements like a Socratic discussion. In the final
bars the two players end up shouting at each other with their
strings in a state of domestic dissolution.
Low Jive is
described as “a dance, a jive, in the dark.” The intensity of
the fragmented elements in the two concertos is more elongated
in this piece, and as a dance it has a heavier tread. As the
music unfolds the pace increases, but a preponderance of low
brass and deep percussion keeps our feet firmly on the ground.
There are elements in this piece which reminded me of the Polish
aleatoric techniques of the 1970s, manifesting itself in some
of the orchestral colouration, but also in the multiple-tempo
layering which occurs, lending sections of the piece a sense
of freedom such as one might find in Penderecki or Lutoslawski.
The hand of the skilled collage composer is clearly at work
however, with little images and memories popping out to surprise
at any moment. This is virtuoso orchestral writing, and the
players give the impression of revelling in every moment.
As a recording,
this disc is a remarkable technical achievement, with the complexities
and dynamics of orchestra and soloists held in tight and impressive
balance. The SACD effect is of demonstration quality, and listening
with eyes closed you can immerse yourself in worlds uncharted.
The performances are all superlative, with the Oslo Philharmonic
Orchestra playing out if its collective skin, and bringing together
a collection of excellent soloists, all of whom have already
established a considerable track record, and most as recognised
names in contemporary music. I am already a big fan of Peter
Herresthal. Jon Řivind Ness’s music is of a kind which requires
a certain kind of patience and acceptance. Don’t expect to respond
immediately in the same way as you might to less demanding post-minimalism
or more overtly pop-influenced contemporary works. Experienced
collectors and fans of modern music shouldn’t have much difficulty
here, and for those this has to be a straightforward and absolute
recommendation. If you expect to feel resistance then, on sampling
a few measures, you may start with little more than a ‘hey,
there’s something going on here – not sure what, but...’, in
which case it’s worth persevering and entering a world which
has a great deal to offer. My own first reaction was one of
impatience with what sounded like ‘zap culture’ restlessness.
I was missing the ‘humanist’ element of a certain kind of expression
which requires a different kind of logic and emotional space.
After giving my brain a chance to catch up however, I realised
that this was a valid way forward, advancing the kind of intensity
you can hear in something like Dominic Muldowney’s piano and
saxophone concertos. Jon Řivind Ness has his own touch, and
an individual approach which is hard to resist once you’ve allowed
it to take hold.
Dominy Clements
Peter Herresthal
(violin); Řystein Birkeland (cello); Catherine Bullock (viola),
Dan Styffe (double bass) (Gust) 
[57:25] 
