Erland Cooper has already received a great amount of publicity for the backstory around his latest album. Our fear is that the backstory will obscure the fact that this is a rather excellent work.
Carve the Runes Then Be Content With Silence takes its title from George Mackay Brown’s poem “A Work for Poets” (1996), the preceding line being “Here is a work for poets-“. Mackay was known for “the interrogation of silence,” which is also the title of his biography. This fascination has much to do with the recording, which might itself have fallen into silence save for a fortuitous intervention. Cooper buried the recording three years ago, disposed of all other existent copies, and invited fans to search for the treasure. One year later, it was unearthed in Stromness by Victoria and Dan Rhodes, and returned to the composer, remarkably intact.
One can detect only a tiny bit of wear; historically, peat has demonstrated remarkable powers of preservation. Whenever the poet speaks, there is a bit of crackle, and near the end of the album, the music wobbles just a bit and only once. One might guess that the relatively quiet portions of the suite, or the minute -long silence in “con la memoria,” are due to deterioration, but they seem to be deliberate, and that single minute is crucial for the appreciation of both album and poet.
This is the third in a trilogy dedicated to Orkney, and the specific dedication to Brown is ironic considering the fact that Cooper grew up only a few houses away and used to throw rocks at the poet’s house. When the tape was buried, it was marked only by the carvings on a rock, although likely not one the artist had thrown. Cooper demonstrated his willingness to “be content with silence” by given up control of his composition – both its sound and its very existence – and the universe has returned what was buried, establishing a new relationship between composer and poet, whose words stretch across the span of the recording. These poems lend elegance to an already majestic suite, one that unfolds in ten parts but is best heard as a whole.
As the suite begins with birds and a touch of solo violin, one cannot help but think of spring, an association cemented as the string group enters and the poet begins to speak. Even though “the reaper went round and round,” the reference to a yellow spindrift helps the listener to understand that the poem is about yarn, and that a good yarn is also a good story, and that a good story is being spun here. The early music is courtly, the spell momentarily broken midway into “you must dance in a beautiful coat,” when a slow melody sparks memories of Ennio Morricone’s theme from “The Mission.” The motif that follows – six major notes with minor notes in between – is exemplary.
There is so much poetry early that it threatens to obscure the music, but halfway into the album, Cooper allows more space for Daniel Pioro and Studio Collective. “walking through heather and peat” is nearly forlorn, until the moment in which the solo violin is no longer solo and the suite’s second great theme, a pairing of eights, is introduced.
And then the silence.
One minute of silence is not much, unless one is not expecting it. And as John Cage would note, this is not entirely silence. Turn up the volume, and one may hear the sound of the peat, the water, the quiet countryside, although the track is titled “wow and flutter of unearthed magnetic tape.” Many worship services incorporate a minute of silence for similar reasons: to allow space in which one might become reacquainted with another plane of existence. The strings ease back in, the mood transformed into something deep and ineffable.
“Lord, it is time,” Brown intones. “Take our yoke and sunwards turn.” In response, the closing piece is festive, celebratory, bursting with the sunlight of major keys. At this point, one knows that a second, long silence is forthcoming; that it won’t really be silence; and that one can withstand it, enjoy it, even be edified by it. The poet, who passed away in 1996, is both silent and not-silent today; the echoes of stanzas rise from the ground like buried notes. (Richard Allen)