Efterklang, the Barbican
Efterklang concerts reverberate.... Not just sonically, but as markers in time.
Hello! You’ve found Faye’s Wing, a series of multimedia scenes about the creative quest for fulfilment beyond a fixed spiritual identity. It comes out every Wednesday, and features music and visuals from contributing artists. If you are new here, I suggest you start at the beginning and read the story sequentially. You can also check out my project overview for more info, or view the list of scenes you might have missed.
Marguerite’s life speeds up: after an euphoric Efterklang concert at the Barbican, a new virus sends her life spinning.
Previous scene / Next scene
The Barbican, London, February 29, 2020
I have loved the music of Danish band Efterklang, who were also at PEOPLE, for over ten years. The last time I was at the Barbican was for their opera, LEAVES, The Colour of Falling. This time, there is something ominous about being in London around so many people, and I might have avoided the trip, were it not for tickets bought the same day the tour was announced. The threat of the virus is still distant enough for people to joke nervously about a sneeze or a cough, I haven’t been to Panda or Pasta Land, haha, but close enough that it is worth mentioning, even if in jest. On the bus, on the tube, I find myself aware of surfaces, keeping my gloves on, trying not to touch my face. I have barely recovered from a bad cough and am not keen for another bout of nastiness.
But this tour, for the Altid Sammen album, is coming to a close. Despite my wariness, I’m eager to hear the songs that have kept me warm all winter, the ones the band tinkered with at the Festival. But first, I must find my friend Jamie in this thronging maze. The concert hall is cavernous, inhospitable, and I lose my way down airport-like halls several times before spotting him in the pit of the café, content in the bustle and scraping of chairs. We have not seen each other since the Festival, but I’m fond of his raw sincerity. In fact, that week was the longest we have ever overlapped, our friendship mostly evolving through flurries of correspondence about music. In Berlin, we bonded over a shared impostor syndrome (his presence as a musician and photographer massively more justified than mine) and laughed about recurring moments of panicked confusion—Which way is Saal 2, already?
We hug with the familiarity of having shared the madness, joys, and exhaustion of a week under wraps with so many eclectic musicians, then settle into an easy rhythm of banter and creative developments, interspersed with inner-life updates. Before long, it’s time to head upstairs—Jamie will be covering the evening as a photographer.
The moment I heard Efterklang in Sweden, I was struck by their ease, be it performing pop or opera, electronica or choral music. I love how they take classical instruments on walkabout from stilted settings, include children without being didactic. I admire their inventive engagement with the tiresome promotional aspects of professional musicianship. They offer membership to their Sock Society, invite fans to host private/public film screenings of arty, album-length videos, and made a concept album inspired by an abandoned Russian mining island. I have embraced it all.
In the maelstrom of my years in Sweden, their early electronic and orchestral dreamscape albums were a fitting score for the ice, emotions, and uncertainty of an imploding marriage. The band has grown out of that earlier, somewhat darker, disquieting streak, and what remains is a layering of atmospheric sounds. They are brilliant at building from a simple tune to boisterous, rambling, bold songs that make you grin wide within seconds—much like they do. Here is a band that does not shy away from joy, matter-of-fact about their open hearts, without cheesiness. Perhaps what is most special is that they still enjoy playing together, in that overgrown puppy-dog way teenagers have, despite inching towards their forties. They love life, and there is nothing more contagious than that.
Tonight again, magic is at work. The core band, Casper, Mads, and Rasmus, are in fine form, accompanied by Indrė’s haunting voice and kanklės-playing and the concentrated power of Øyunn on vocals and drums. The women’s aloofness contrasts with the trio’s boyish warmth. They have assembled a set from their most exuberant, heart-bursting tracks, an antidote to the bitter drizzle and menacing headlines of February, and soon my cheeks hurt from smiling. I tap, nod, sway, dance in place as much as my folding seat allows. Casper paces the stage, clasping his mic like a lover’s face. The intensity of each emotional shade hits his angular face like weather at sea, shifting from broad shafts of sun on lapping ripples to the furrowed angst of ominous clouds. Rasmus, meanwhile, is all smiles and bopping head, his groove underpinning their enduring friendship, his steady humour immune to any shadow of torment, while Mads, the band bard, tweaks and fiddles, infusing the room with grace, lost in the invisible mysteries of his keyboards.
I marvel at so much togetherness at play. How do they pack so much life and poignancy into songs they have played hundreds of times? How can their tight-knit togetherness be this palpable, connecting not only with each other, but with their audience, perhaps even with something that transcends them? Eyes closed and basking in sound, I am transported back to my twenties, when hour-long chants in packed yoga halls would crest in tingles of bliss. Surely these states stem from the same source, I muse. Sacred or secular, articulate or hummed, certain sounds and luminaries act like an inner trip switch, flooding my heart with presence to the point of inebriation, the body a vessel for something both vaster than and intrinsic to us all.
Blinking my eyes open again, we are being waved upright, beckoned to sing along. As I rise, Casper floats down from the stage, followed by his merry crowd of pipers, a scene out of an enchanted storybook. The musicians disperse into the glowing crowd, step over seats, fade into the upper stalls holding plastic kazoos, a chime, an open hand. The separation between stage and pit is now so blurred that, miracle of miracles, usually ubiquitous phone screens dangle dark and limp at people’s sides. Our voices swell and ebb in unison and the Barbican Hall is alive with gladness, all sparkling eyes and glowing faces.
The next morning is an early one as I make my way back to Bristol. I feel hungover from so much joy, guilty that I have rumbled through the liturgies in my hotel bedroom without actually setting up my implements. On the bus, I tap out a message to the Teacher but have to stop, overcome with emotion.
You asked me what my passions are, to name my desires. Music and connecting through sound is still very much alive for me. And sunshine - ten years of northern climes and I long for sunshine and gentleness.
Last night Efterklang performed in a massive Brutalist hall. There was barefoot singing on seats, dancing. Huge grins, happy tears. We were the Goddess’s children, beautiful in our humanity and kinship, making the world good with our delight.
I am jostled into sleep and my message goes unanswered. It hurts that so much joy and beauty are not received by the person to whom I am entrusting my heart.
* * *
I have barely stepped through the door when life hits the fast-forward button. I have hugged the boys and am opening mail when Luke howls and collapses, clutching his eye. In under 24 hours, we visit the emergency room and the eye hospital—twice. While messing around, Sacha has badly scraped his brother’s cornea. Luke’s agony is reactivated every time I dispense antibiotic drops, creating a painful cycle of care, lashing out, and helplessness between us. At yet another hospital visit, we notice patients squirming ever farther from one another, eyes riveted to the muted news briefs overhead. I have a flashback of Casper’s hushed tones after the concert, telling me that the tour stop in Milan has been cancelled. Although the epidemic has taken a massive leap into Italy, I only felt concerned for the band, not clocking personal danger or the unfolding geographical ramifications. My Efterklang experiences tend to reverberate for a while. Not just sonically, but as markers in time.
I’m supposed to be flying to Paris next weekend, but my bones ache, something isn’t right—I’m not even motivated by the prospect of seeing Adam. Luke’s accident has kept me focused on immediate concerns, and I haven’t fully paid attention to French news whipping up a frenzy around possible 'restrictions'. With its wartime ring, the word brings my unease to the foreground and I worry about being stranded far from the boys. Julian, my brother-in-law, is part of a group of medical professionals in the know about forthcoming recommendations. He confirms the rumour and urges me to stay put.
By the time an email lands, a few days later, cancelling my meeting as a precaution against what is now a declared pandemic, I am shivering. Eager to put the teachings into practice and well versed in pushing through obstacles, I ignore the discomfort, putting it down to fatigue. Something pushes me into intense clearing, anything to get the ball rolling for my summer move back to France. I start sorting through redundant crockery, papers, toys, shoes, dividing an already succinct collection of belongings into Take It or Leave It stacks around the flat. The front hall becomes a tip, with black bin bags piled atop chairs and tables, ready for the boys to take to Clifton’s many charity shops. Budgeting for a minimal removal volume will mean leaving behind furniture collected over eight years in England and being ruthless about anything superfluous. I might get a good price for the old Singer sewing table from our Swedish years, especially since it’s complete with tools and original instructions. The boys haul a first load of books to the library, pull things out of bags (Hey, we can’t give Chewbacca away!), lecture me about the fortune we could make selling Lego on eBay.
'Remember the time you gave all our Pokémon cards to Johnny?' Sacha says. I mentally roll my eyes, remembering all the times I slipped on a sea of cards, hours spent dislodging them from between the floorboards, fishing them up from beneath carpets.
'We had loads of really valuable cards, Mom. You didn’t even ask us,' calls Luke from his bed, where he’s trying to catch up on missed schooldays.
I twinge, remembering hours squished together with the boys on the lower bunk of their old room, leafing through tomes of cards.
'Which one is your favourite on this page, Mommy?' they would press, eyes wide with expectation as each of my answers shaped their world, confirming or disproving their idea of me, urging me to take a side.
I loved feeling their warm bodies, hearing the delight rise in their voices, making them laugh with my irreverent comments.
'Definitely not that green one, he’s hideous. Looks like he’s about to be sick,' I’d say, deadpan and twinkly, waiting for the outrage to spark.
'Mom! He’s my favourite. Look at his spiky back—he’s so OP!'
But I’m too tired and sore for nostalgia, my patience too razor-thin for a round of guilt-sparring from across the hallway.
'Sacha, you haven’t played with this stuff in ages. I don’t get it; last week, you said you were too old for dragons, and now you’re giving me a hard time about Chewie?'
The conversation is serious enough for Luke to leave his bed.
Squinting his bad eye out of the spotlight, he says, 'Just ask us, okay? It’s our shit. We don’t clear out your balls of yarn when you’re not looking.'
'Ah, Luke,' I say, ignoring the lob, 'since you’re here, can you try these on for size?'
He eyes up the hand-me-downs lined up against Ben and Sacha’s bedroom walls, ready to be culled by size, and picks out an outfit at random. A pair of shorts, Bermuda-length on him last summer and now closer to boxers, a midriff t-shirt that conjures Winnie the Pooh, floppy linen hat, and Lolita sunglasses. He strikes a bodybuilder pose and examines himself in the mirror. Anyone else would look ridiculous, but Luke always manages to ooze coolness.
'That’s my t-shirt—the cousins gave it to me! Give it back, Luke,' Sacha says, tackling his brother.
'Guys, not now,' I bark, stepping in before things get out of hand and Hannah, our downstairs neighbour, texts me an apologetic complaint. Surprised and exhausted by my violence, I lower my voice. 'Not now. It’s late and we can’t keep bothering Hannah. I want to get these sorted before bed. Help me, please?'
When I crawl into bed, it is nearly one. Thankfully, we’ve begun the integration phase between two cycles of Goddess study, so I don’t have to set up for practice. Turning off the light and about to say my prayers, my phone lights up the bedroom. Darn, am I about to be ticked off by the Teacher? I’m supposed to lie down in front of my shrine with the liturgies to remain connected to their energy. Yet, despite wrapping myself in two shawls and spreading out my duvet and pillow, the floor feels too hard, the draught from the window too vicious.
But the Teacher doesn’t chide me; she is concerned:
Get meds. Your body needs rest to heal. Treat yourself like one of your kids. Did you pick this up at the hospital?
Or the concert, the bus, the train, I fret, before falling into fitful sleep.