It is a chilly Thursday evening in Old Aberdeen and a crowd of people have gathered around a set of tubular bells. They are By Reason of Darkness, a community choir well merged with their Scottish roots. Before the start, a voice pipes up "it's a bit windy tonight, we advise the public to get a bit closer than this" and all of us take a few steps into the quad, onto the grass, almost breathing on their necks. I wonder how it feels for them, but most of all I ask myself, what kind of choir is this if they cannot make their voices heard by the public? Then they start, and I understand. They are blowing, whispering, hissing, fafafafa, woosh woosh, ssh. I feel their voices are sliding under my feet to take me somewhere – the cold Northern sea, the almighty Highlands, a loud banquet in a castle. Only the clinking on the tubular bells to change scenery throws me back into reality. But reality is very much part of the performance, with the scenic buildings of King's College at dusk and the now quite cold breeze. It is over in just twenty minutes, leaving me wanting more. But it's only the start of sound festival's opening.
We are led into the Chapel, where an astronomer gives us an explanation of the constellations. Again, I wonder why and again I am about to get a surprising answer. Something I would never expect to experience by entering a church is stepping into the sky: no more walls and big windows; the music is a cloud about to fly us through Earth's nights. I am waiting for the start of Red Note Ensemble, admiring the golden wooden ceiling when a little girl sits next to me. She is holding her mum's hand, looking like her mini-me. When the concert begins, she stares at the very ceiling I was also looking at just a few minutes ago. I can see the colours of the music flying up there, telling her (and me) a story.
There we go, the questions I had before now have an answer. There is the night sky on that ceiling, but it looks different from the one we are used to. The narrator speaks up, "it's Australia "and everything is so clear now. It is “Southern Sky” that we are hearing, indeed. I would be so lost without that voice that leads me in a foreign land. There is a bush on fire in the woods of Canberra. An astronomer is walking towards his observatory when – drum – it gets warm – voice – so warm – and sees the fire. The flames become loose particles – winds – that are now the salmon and the goldfish popping out in the night sky. The little girl and I are still staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open but lost in waters full of stars with all those fishes darting all over the place. The narrator and the singer, our guides, take us in the final constellation, where clocks are ticking to remind us of eternity. Does the little girl know that the universe is expanding?
It is now the time for the last performance, “Northern Sky” by Griffyn Ensemble. Ironically, the little girl is now wearing her coat. The introduction by composer James Clapperton brings us in a cold and dark scenery – the surroundings of the Northern Circle. We see now a different ceiling, where the music of the Northern Lights unravels in a dark, still night in the icy moorland. A voice speaking Norwegian Viking Norn guides us to the next movement. It is not as cold as I expected in here. What I feel is just a hopeful longing for the sunrise. A Russian voice takes us to an anguished movement. The drum covering the winds’ howls unsettles me and I see the worried glance the little girl gives her mum. The last movement leaves the audience with a smile on their face. Is a sky that the composer calls home.
Photo by Simona Bisiani
