Bristol
21 March 2025
Jo Quail is up first, being quite impressed by her Bandcamp presence I was eager to hear how this lush orchestrated sound translated in a live context. Armed with only an electrified cello and a loop station, she ruled, skilfully building up the tonal layers, soaking them in an array of textural effects until it felt like there was an orchestra behind her. Pity she only played three songs in all.
The last — a powerful invocation of place full of gnarled trees and crashing tides somewhere in Sussex I think — a song called “Adder Stone”, “especially for all you witches out there”, she adds, before percussively conjuring a crooked beat, her bow lacerating up a storm-ridden sea, a weather-worn trunk, cross cut and layered, oxidised in dervish-like wildlings of tonality that tear scarily in there, skating manically then slamming into a satisfying repose of criss-crossed ascents. Very impressive indeed.
Lindy-Fay Hella occasionally thrown back into the shadows, then spotlighted as she cuts in with her smoky cauldron-like chant. What a voice, a snaky presence that branches off stratospheric, harmonises beautifully with Einar Selvik’s baritone burl, both holding plenty of surprise as their choral charades throw up a host of hidden dimensions within the music and visa versa. I’ve only ever heard Wardruna on record, but live they’re something else.
The light-show is just as awe-struck as the music being played. The vast textured backdrop behind them a-play with a strange tangle of shadowy shapes, the intersect sometimes causing illusionary animals to leap then twist back to raised human arms like a live-action cave painting. That fiery glow of an eclipsed sun is particularly spectacular, the towering symmetry of those double trumpet shadows too, visually thrusting extra energy to their mysterious dronic colours, not to mention the long horn heralds dramatically side-cast behind the performers, churning up the drama spectacularly. I’m caught in the cantering tribalness of it all, as vocal arms beckon or thrust chest-clasped. Heart-felt words flung skyward on upraised arms and cascading yell. The mediæval-like knit of that hurdy-gurdy-esque rub is intense, an enriching circular that just keeps giving, the dual vocals spiralling to its gait. Hella’s lullaby-like rhythmics going full crow-footed cackle as she circles the stage, arms outstretched the music’s trance-like hold curving its centrifuge.Einar’s booming voice cuts across, the bowed instrument in his arms swaying into and across it. He throws his voice in a deep booming yell to retract it to runic words. The energy flows outwards, is reflected back from the audience; most of which were slavishly swaying along, so many hand-held devices on record.
Each song totally captivates, emperors a morphic emphasis that carves a heightened sense of discovery in its wake. Those adrenalised dual drums are insanely satisfying, empowering even — then out of nowhere the sound just erupts, ravens, reverent and dark, to collapse back into warm choral cushions. The epic enclave of the stage glows in their presence. This is inviting, inscribed, pulses porcupine. A gloriously resurrected ancientness that calls from within. The Dead Can Dance parallels abound, but this is less appropriation and more a living expression of a culture, authentically tied to the acoustic. Apart from the microphones, there’s very little hi-tech instrumentation here, all are handcrafted or ancient heirlooms hewed from the very nature that inspires the songs.Apologies to any die-hard fan reading this, I’m a pretty new convert to their music, after buying their latest release back in January (I hold Dave Pettit’s cracking review totally responsible). So apart from the songs on Birna, I’m not overly familiar with a lot of the other stuff they’re playing; however, what I’m hearing tonight has me hungry for more.
“Sky Daughter” hits to a rousing cheer. Even if you didn’t know the words, you found yourself singing along to the slow creeping majesty of it all. Full of aching warmth and clashing candour, that possessed war-chant explosion, its raising choral curve and fluted drones — bloody beautiful. The hypnotic folds and halo-like gravities of “Healing Mountain” wrapping me up in a cocoon of karmic energy. It’s hard to pick out highlights from this frighteningly consistent show of strength, but that pin-drop clarity from just Einar accompanied by stripped-back sparks of lyre is definitely one to be cherished, along with the taut tribals of older songs. Primal outpourings, filled with shutter-cuttled sabres and hex-like repeats. Einar finger-slashing his throat to a lightening-flashed ending.Others finding Lindy-Fay Hella’s tongued abstracts stealing themselves from the æther. Panthering possessed to return from the beyond — a harmonised bewitch, white bones in her hands clanking, the spiralling softness of beat to the song’s requiem-esque centre. A sculpted dynamism into which Einar’s words river hers with a twisted unity.
The reception is immense, cheering cut into by a humbled Einar talking about the importance of song, in keeping the old ‘mending’ ways going for future generations and the song’s galvanising power in culture. “Something we all need to do more of” as he points outward, humorously adding “something I know you don’t do enough of”. The cheering response, overwhelmingly prompting another surprise solo spot from Einar: “The earliest tunes”, he says “were lullabies” and this one was from the hibernating bear’s perspective, its slumbering tones beautifully cushioned in a steely pluck. Another show that’s going to burn eternal in the memory bank. The journey back succinctly accompanied by the eerie sonics of The Singing Ice Of Storsjön by Jonna Jinton, who happened to supply “Dvaledraumar”’s underlaid spookiness, and something which folded rather well with the headlighted road home.-Michael Rodham-Heaps-
