Ólafur Arnalds

Score: 8/10

Born of paroxysmal strings and tender piano, Icelandic artist Olafur Arnalds cradles his solo debut from the moment it escapes the womb, perfecting every moment of its growth and existence with the nurturing touch of a new parent.

Only 20 years of age, Olafur has shed the skin two prior musical projects and immersed himself completely in the world of delicate symphonic compositions in a near weightless orchestral undertaking. Comprised of eight nameless tracks, the early portion of the record is driven by the above-mentioned passive piano work and concerted strings that crisscross each other’s paths, often rolling off one another and intersecting in gentle, wavy shifts of classical sound.

It can’t be stressed enough just how delicate the first side of the album is. Each piano key is touched, almost stirred, with the utmost precision and hope. The sound plays like an open mouth preparing a whisper; fullness of breath on lips, ready to send a mouthful of warm wind and words to another, hoping they understand, both verbally and emotionally. Add this up a multitude of times and weave in a series of orchestral movements that pull the heartstrings like a marionette, and you have a decent idea of where the album stands. If not, we can just try this: Ludovico Einaudi meets a lyric-less, down tempo Sigur Ros.

Arnald’s compositions skate across frozen ponds of classical synthesis, spinning on the ice and sketching their lines in the thick palette of frozen water. If you were to pull yourself up from the world and gaze back down at the landscape, you’d see gentle loops laced like winter crop circles across the slice of an urban glacier. Perhaps a winter scene, but something here echoes with an eerie amount of heightened warmth.

As the tracks progress, a subtle shift in their architecture becomes evident. The piano remains soft on the surface, but things below seem to strengthen as the strokes become sharper, fiercer, and almost augment the shape and sound of their string counterpart. Eventually, things spill over on the fourth song, and as if being antagonized by the jabs of the piano, the string section literally launches itself to the forefront of the piece, surrounding the listener with an ephemeral bubble of eurythmic ego. It’s completely stunning, really.

From this moment on, the record takes on a different mood, as the strings now seem to have become comfortable in their identity and aren’t bashful about showering the songs with their presence. In response, the piano passages become staunch and determined, but in a strangely unique way maintain their fragility and composure. For nearly twenty minutes a nearly paralyzing, surreal interplay takes place between the two classes of instruments, who instead of casually crossing each other’s path, are now embroiled in a heated discourse. It’s incredible how quick the music present here can push you back into the viewer’s seat, as you listen to things develop, unravel, and play into much thicker plots. Hamlet à la headphones, but prettier.

However, midway through the sixth song, something very strange takes place, smack in the middle of otherwise engaging musical dialogue: drums. And even though they seem to appear for only a brief moment, they completely mud things up and push the whole atmosphere of the disc into a strange place, like an uninvited guest barging into a conversation. Whatever their purpose, they scare the hell out of the harpischord, as it disappears entirely on the next to last song, while instead we’re treated to an impassioned screech of string tumult. The keys make a quick visit on the last track, but just as things are returning to their prior mood, the whole scene blows up into a mish-mash of progressive rock clamor-- a strange, and bitter, conclusion to an extremely solid record.

Shakespeare and ice-skating aside, Arnalds has put together one cookie of an album here. The underlying classical layer coupled with the unique distinctive emotional attachment to the detailed character of his compositions is really baffling, considering his newness to this genre. Now, with one album popped out and well into puberty, one can’t help but wonder what this Icelandic lad will knock up, and knock out, next. - The Silent Ballet

Enchanting Icelandic songsmith Ólafur Arnalds has been a favourite at DiS towers for a while but he's only gone and endeared himself to us even bloody more now!

In an especially ambitious endeavour, Arnalds is writing, recording and releasing - for free - a song a day for the whole of this week. Named Found Songs they are Arnalds' attempt to reclaim some of his "lost and found" compositions which failed to make it further.

DiS' was blown away by his bleak soundscapes at last year's Iceland Airwaves festival, so why not check him out f'yourself?!

Even though it feels like Tuesday, we're already at Wednesday, so today sees the third instalment in this Arnalds' septuple saga. - Drowned in Sound

21 year old Olafur Arnalds wrote some of this debut when he was 15. His controlled pieces for piano, strings, and occasional electronics will have fans of Max Richter and Johann Johannsson as happy as dreaming dogs having their bellies tickled.



Erased Tapes

Arnalds is from Iceland and the stereotypical reaction might be to suggest his work is clean, cool and somehow emotionally detached. In interviews about his creativity, though, he has largely played down the influence of native landscape, preferring instead to speak of the effects of interactions with real people and of life in his hometown. Certainly Eulogy for Evolution seems a structured reflection of a passage of time such as that of a human lifespan and Arnalds’ music engages emotions immediately and does not let them go. He achieves this by sound alone as the titles of tracks are depicted by numbers rather than through the use of phrases or names. These numbers apparently allude to the timing of imaginary snapshots throughout the album. Hence “3326” refers to a possible picture of the scene at 33 minutes 26 seconds. Opener “0040” features crystal piano notes framed and seemingly held in the air by the plainest of string arrangements. “0048/0729” is an exercise in delay and restraint with added atmospherics and (perhaps) accordion, with quite epic results.

Parts of “1440” are almost too lush for my tastes but stop just about shy of full-on sentimentality. I also like the fake ending on this piece and the ending which is a repetition of just a few notes. The important thing is: they are the right notes. Calling your record Eulogy for Evolution shows a certain confidence but Arnalds has the talent to match and critics have murmured like contented lambs suckling on their mother’s milk. While the rules of composition were ripped up decades ago it’s a trifle hard not to feel something approaching negativity when someone so young combines melancholy and optimism with so little fuss: almost as if he should have to do a longer apprenticeship if only to acknowledge that evolution takes time. No matter, Arnalds has studied Arvo Part and has been chosen to tour with Sigur Ros later this summer so his gravitation toward sparse impressionism is probably a natural path.

In any event his debut sounds full of the reverence and awe normally reserved for God, or at least George Best or Sir Vivian Richards at the absolute peak of their powers. As exquisite as the first few tracks are, by “1953” I was thinking that evolution (in alphabetical terms) would only be progressing from about A to H. However, on the gorgeous but more dramatic and nuanced “3055” a dynamic of change is writ in fuzzed electronics, speedy piano and booming percussion. “3326,” the shortest piece on the album, adds to the variety with a quasi-violent rubbing of strings evoking the brief passion of Jacqueline du Pre: chopped down before she was barely a woman.

I once upset the host of a party by changing the music after what was starting to seem like 48 hours of lute music. Unbeknownst to me, she had set up a series of tapes to gradually delight the ears of her guests with a timeline of sound encompassing early music right through to (what was then the happening sound of) Eno and Byrne! Let me offer belated apologies to the host, Melanie. In my defense, party goers were impatient and, as with evolution itself, unable to predict when, or if, swift and radical changes would ever occur. Olafur Arnalds has not released an album encompassing the entire history of Western music, but Eulogy for Evolution will reward the patient listener. - Brainwashed