JÓHANN JÓHANNSSON Virðulegu forsetar

Listening to music by Icelandic composer Jóhann Jóhannsson reminds me of optical illusions, those little diagrams where you can't believe this line is really the same length as that line, or you're amazed that the swirling circle isn't really rotating. Our brains are complex computers but it doesn't take much to short the circuits. We're constantly constructing patterns based on context.

Virðulegu forsetar is a long piece in four parts that depends heavily on juxtaposition. Over the course of an hour it continues to repeat a single phrase on trumpets, french horns, and tubas. Though simple, it's a bold little cluster of notes with an inherent grandeur, and the brassiest voicing early in the piece suggests a fanfare before a great announcement. But Jóhannsson invests the refrain with a host of different meanings by slowing it down, shifting the pitch, putting it beside all sorts of interesting drones, and making it disappear completely for minutes on end. Over its length the piece undergoes remarkable shifts in mood and feel, which is even more notable considering the basic instrumentation (in addition to the brass, it's scored for organs, piano, bass, glockenspiel, and subtle electronics) is the same throughout.

So Virðulegu forsetar is about minimalism and repetition, obviously, but it's also one of the most patient records I've heard. Where last year's equally great Englabörn album consisted of chamber pieces at pop-song length, Virðulegu forsetar should be taken in all at once and in a proper way. Listen to it loud and the organ/electronic rumble connecting the melodic bits comes alive, with odd bits of noise perfectly mucking up the pristinely deep bass pedals. The held tones become vitally important as the piece progresses and the primary motif slows to a crawl; with more space between the notes the connecting drone that stretches to infinity becomes the focus. The horns are always around the corner. At times they're wounded and barely able to sound, but they're always there. Toward the end there's a stretch of silence almost two minutes long before one last gasp of the opening theme carries the piece out on an exhausted note. (Mark Richardson)

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