Reykjavík Grapevine - 24.05.2019, Blaðsíða 31

Music 31The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 08— 2019
The opening number, “Ísland
farsælda Frón” sets the words
of Jónas Hallgrímsson, Iceland’s
foremost Romantic poet and an
early advocate of independence,
to a stately medieval melody. The
poem first appeared in 1835 in the
inaugural issue of Fjölnir, a peri-
odical intended to revive Icelandic
cultural identity and kindle fervor
for an independ-
ence movement. A
nostalgic paean to
bygone glory, Jónas
focuses on an im-
age of Alþingi, now
o v e r g r o w n a n d
disused, to com-
municate the tran-
sience and decline
of Iceland’s distin-
guished antiquity.
With its dystopian
outlook, the song
serves as a logical
departure point for the utopian
reverie that is ‘Cornucopia.’
The choir, comprised entirely
of millennials in partial national
costume, conveys the possibilities
of a future fortified by the past, but
not tethered to it: later, they return
to the beautiful chaos onstage in
white robes, as if having attained
some paradigm-shifting apotheo-
sis.
The past is on loop
The perceived conflict between
past and future permeates ‘Cornu-
copia;’ nowhere is this clearer than
in Björk’s treatment of her earlier
works. In a pared down rendition of
“Venus as a Boy,” her vocals compete
against the melody and rhythm of
the flute accompaniment; “Isobel”
becomes clangorous and disjoint-
ed, thanks to erratic percussive in-
tervention; and “Pagan Poetry” is
turned inside out, beginning with
its wistful outro. With these decon-
structed, reconstructed classics,
Björk proves herself unburdened
by the expectations that typically
accompany an oeuvre as long and
eminent as hers, and she doesn’t
want her audience to feel compla-
cent either. The visual obfusca-
tion created by the set, and Mer-
ry’s face-obscuring
masks, emphasises
this urge to reject
the comfort of the
familiar in pursuit
of something in-
conceivably jarring
and new.
Still, not all the
reimagined classics
problematise palat-
ability: the lyrical
clarity and melodic
straightforward-
ness of an a cappel-
la “Hidden Place” (with the choir)
transform it into a gorgeous, sparse
soliloquy; on “Mouth’s Cradle,” a
thumping drum pulse provides a
rare moment of rhythmic regulari-
ty.
Assymetrical by design
The renditions from ‘Utopia’ more
closely resemble their recorded
counterparts—this is, after all, a
‘Utopia’-era project. These songs,
however, are already challenging
and asymmetrical by design: the
monologic “Body Memory” wends
a ponderous, meandering path be-
tween the prosaic (“This fucking
mist!”), the existential (“Do I accept
this ending?”), and the erotic (“Bos-
oms and embraces”). On “Sue Me,”
Björk’s vocal ferocity and colloqui-
al candidness make her anti-patri-
archal rage palpable and rousing.
Still, some tracks retain an un-
characteristic melodic coherence.
Following the choral introduction,
Björk begins with a lush, pulsating
version of “The Gate” whilst (aptly)
the curtain opens haltingly—the
individual cords of the scrim sway
with each tug, echoing her raspy
and vulnerable supplication: “Care
for me, care for me, care for me.”
State of emergency
In ‘Cornucopia,’ coherence, linear-
ity, and familiarity are indulgenc-
es rather than givens, underscor-
ing the overarching imperative
to reject comfort and precedent
in search of a better future. As on
‘Utopia,’ Björk illustrates her knack
for shattering the solipsism of the
lyric moment, collaborating with
an accomplished team of artists
to unearth the universal impuls-
es and implications of subjective
experience. Facing an imminent
ecological crisis, this collaborative,
universal ethic is crucial to sur-
vival; individualism and tradition
need not be hurdles to progress, but
they’re also not ends in themselves.
In the lull before the encore, a
projected image of 16-year-old
Swedish climate activist Gre-
ta Thunberg declares: “Until you
start focusing on what needs to
be done rather than what is polit-
ically possible, there is no hope.”
Musically and theatrically, Cornu-
copia echoes this denunciation of
“possibility”—a tub of water can
be an instrument, a flute can be
an extra limb, and a concert can be
an allegorical manifesto. Imagina-
tion flows seamlessly into action,
like two sides of a breath, without
a moment’s hesitation: so too, in
our sprint towards ecological col-
lapse, we just don’t have the luxury
of holding our breath.
“Imagination
flows seamlessly
into action, like
two sides of a
breath, with-
out a moment’s
hesitation.”
Flutes, harp, drums, water tubs, graphics, costumes and staging come together in a glorious whole
Laugavegur 116 • 105 Reykjavík • Tel.: +354-561-6663
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