Bøtteballetten, Takra, Skjeggløsning
REVIEWS by Franziska Mucha
Without hesitation, without warning, without transition
when there is no definition there’s no border to cross, no no, no no, no no, there’s no limit, sound check, isolated movements which all of a sudden flash over into show – Bøtteballetten strikes up, a daring liaison of beer barrel, steel cable and a bow. Walk the line, walk the tightrope. Backgroundish, spinal columns seem to animate deep penetration, 90s style, black and white, rough transparency of technology, multimodal cocktail, psychedelic saws skirl, it’s the final countdown and buzz, the artist crashes, the wire cracks, the audience gasps…and he’s comforted, soft-landing in the confident embrace of the everlasting loop, safety net sound check is reactivated, beep beep, scanning for options, a lunar probe on test run, unknown areas need to be explored, almost silence, only the loop is looping itself in infinity. But not here, not now – lawn mower and chainsaws unite! The empire strikes back and life is like a roller coaster…three, two, one, zero – ready for take off, we’re waiting for the stroboscope, the techno beat, the launching but the countdown goes on and on and on distorted into absurdity, surrealistic till…zigzag, final cut.
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Gods and mermaids
Origami is levitating, a guitar gets tuned, the second row fills up and Takra is accommodating themselves, with the nonchalance of the sophisticated, orangeness and eye makeup, clockwork, clockwork. She’s shaking the microphone with the accuracy of a lab assistant mixing DNA in vitro, jellyfishes are diffusing, shadows overlap the projection and spoken Norwegian fragments become seriously articulated, god is praising itself, the choir rises and bass is insisting, sacral worship and then someone flushes, the whole creation disappears in the oversized toilet of civilization, the microphone transforms into a research instrument, black tongue, blue plectrum, paramecia and arachnid sink into chaos.
And then enlightenment, lamp talking to amplifier, soughing and dolphins communicate, echo-sounder and resonance, into the blue, longing for the wide, the open, the dark sea, rapture of the deep but we survive, we come back into life, we turn the wheel of fortune, carnival of the animals, what else do you have in store? This is not a love song, noisy guitar, defiant singing, the train is rumbling and trundling, like a virgin, and feedback, i have been looking for someone, all i want to do, i can make it through the, and if, and no one… Pieces of lyrics, noise in the scenery, music.
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Oh kitchen, you misleading coziness
Water is sparkling like oil in a pan, Skjeggløsning is tonight’s chief of cuisine, rope of sand! Carefully he strikes the bow over porcelain, contact, back and forth, it vibrates in excitement, it sings out loud: bowl ritual. Let the chi pour down the walls, experimental heartbeats, do the meditation monk. Behind the control desk everything is set, and the oil crackles and splashes on, inside, collective sound fryer. Wind effervesces outside, tempting to leave the focus, out out and play. Take my hand, i’ll lead you in the garden, in the rain, where the hosepipe gently weeps and the rain drain triples lost to the world. Shake it off, electric feel now, stormy acceleration, windswept faraday cage and didn’t your mother tell you not to play with water and electricity? Wind whistles, tingler, shark attack, we are waiting for the final boom; suicide bomber, bass, ear-piercing blast and in slow motion, in the middle of the complete catastrophe we suddenly remember that we left the stove on, that we forgot to say good bye and that ear plugs may have been a clever arming – but even a whole-body-protection wouldn’t have saved you, my dear. Dissolving into shock waves we feel we will never lose this feeling again, swallowing is impossible, it’s so cold here and it cools down and lights dim, this is the end, my only friend, the end.
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