Andy Richardson: Remarkable building but Norwegian folk-jazz – oh, no!
We took a holiday. Man, it was good. It was detach-from-the-rest-of-the-world-and-get-blood-pressure-back-to-normal great. It was get-a-sense-of-perspective-and-stop-running-round-the-hamster-wheel fabulous. It was reconnect-with-the-important-people-in-life-and-ditch-all-the-baggage brilliant. That’s what it was.
I sat in the car with Future Wife Three – the very same as She Who Must Be Obeyed, for regular readers – and marvelled at the brilliance and beauty of Scandanavia after flying to Norway for a long weekend. Lucky us. Amid the fjords and fields, the cool, clear air and still, crystal waters, we found some sort of peace.
Dipping into Sweden for a day, we made the most of a halcyon time in one of Europe’s most beatific and tranquil places. Like kids at Hamley’s on December 24, we immersed ourselves in the beauty and the brilliance, we were the acme of excitement.
It’s become a habit to soak up the local culture in whatever part of the world we end up. So in Scotland, that might be a comedy show in Edinburgh or a Highland walk in the Cairngorms; in Milan, that might be a dreamy restaurant and the fashion boutiques; in Canada it will be the wide open spaces and the local cuisine while in Australia it will be the graffiti-painted alleyways of Melbourne and the narrow alleyways of Sydney’s Rocks.
So in Norway, aside from the breathtaking countryside and delicious seafood and in addition to Oslo’s magnificent gallery dedicated to Edward Munch and the cheap thrills of hiring electric scooters, we booked ourselves front row seats at the Oslo Opera House.
The Opera House is one of the world’s most remarkable buildings and is listed as the third most incredible concert hall on the planet; after the Frank Gehry-designed Walt Disney Concert Hall in Downtown Los Angeles, and the National Centre for the Performing Arts, in Beijing, which is colloquially described as The Bird’s Egg and is a masterpiece of titanium and glass.
The Oslo Opera House is the home of The Norwegian National Opera and Ballet, and the national opera theatre in Norway. The building is situated in the Bjorvika neighborhood of central Oslo, at the head of the Oslofjord. Its angled exterior surfaces are covered with Italian marble and white granite and make it appear to rise from the water. It is, quite simply, stunning.
Before the show, we did what the locals do: walked all over the roof and sides of the Opera House. The building has long ramps to the left and right that allow people to clamber all over it. And so we walked to the top, stood above the concert hall itself and drank in the views of Norway’s beautiful capital. Given the choice between a cheap glass of red wine and a packet of peanuts or standing on top of the venue you’re at, I know what I’d like my pre-show ritual to be when I next go to a show.
The show itself was intended to be easy on the ear. We’d booked tickets for a pianist who read as though he might be some sort of cross between ambient Godhead Brian Eno, Black Country rocker-turned-Hollywood film score writer Clint Mansell and the beloved Italian pianist Ludovico Einaudi, a perennial favourite of listeners to Classic FM, Scala and more.
And so we settled into our seats. We’d made it to the heart of Northern Europe and we were at the happening event of the evening; what could possibly go wrong.
The announcer took to the stage and offered an enthusiastic introduction. We watched transfixed, trying to pick up cues from her body language while failing to understand a single word. And then the star of the show shuffled onto the stage. And we realised this wouldn’t be an evening of light classics or ambient musings; this would be an evening of Norwegian folk-jazz. I like to consider myself culturally broad-minded. When people ask what music I like, I habitually reply ‘anything’. From Mahler to Bob Marley, from Beethoven to the Beatles and from Public Enemy to Pink Floyd and Patti Smith; if it’s decent, I’m in.
Ketil Bjornstad began to play. And remorse filled our hearts. For try as we might to find something to admire about the European jazzer, we were hopelessly out of our depth. We’d booked seats slap bang in the middle of the theatre, unable to make a diplomatic exit – for which, read tactical retreat – without being observed by 1,500 people. The audience loved it. We sat stony-faced; trapped by a welter of esoteric and discordant notes.
There will be fans of Norwegian folk-jazz among you and I make a humble apology now. It is my fault, not yours. I am missing the point, you aren’t. I am idiotisk and dum, you are flink and strålende, as they say in Oslo.
But, man, I won’t be going again.
