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)

ANNA THORVALDSDOTTIR Aerial

Anna Thorvaldsdottir is a composer who frequently works with large sonic structures that tend to reveal the presence of a vast variety of sustained sound materials, reflecting her sense of imaginative listening to landscapes and nature. Her music tends to portray a flowing world of sounds with an enigmatic lyrical atmosphere.

Anna’s music is frequently performed internationally, and has been featured at several major venues and music festivals such as Lincoln Center's Mostly Mozart Festival in NYC, the Composer Portraits Series at NYC's Miller Theatre, ISCM World Music Days, Nordic Music Days, Ultima Festival, Klangspuren Festival, Beijing Modern Music Festival, Reykjavik Arts Festival, Tectonics, and the Kennedy Center in Washington DC. Her works have been nominated and awarded on many occasions - most notably, Anna is the recipient of the prestigious Nordic Council Music Prize 2012 for her work Dreaming, and The New York Philharmonic's Kravis Emerging Composer Award.

Some of the orchestras and ensembles that Anna has worked with include International Contemporary Ensemble (ICE), BIT20, Musiques Nouvelles, the Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Yarn/Wire, BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra, the CAPUT Ensemble, the Oslo Philharmonic, and Either/Or Ensemble.

Anna holds a PhD from the University of California in San Diego.

Anna’s debut portrait album - Rhízōma - was released in October 2011 through Innova Recordings and was very well received and appeared on a number of “Best of 2011” lists, e.g. at TimeOut New York and TimeOut Chicago.
Anna's new portrait album - Aerial - was released by Deutsche Grammophon/Universal Music Classics in November 2014 and appeared on a number of year end lists, e.g. at New Yorker Magazine, Boston Globe, iTunes Classical, and WQXR's Q2.