Hildur Guðnadóttir celebrates two decades of music on This Will Be Us, placing old compositions in new skins with Robert Ames and the DSO Berlin. When initially recording her first album, Mount A (as Lost in Hilderness), she set out to “involve other people as little as she could;” now she admits, “I always dreamed of having more people playing with me.” This is not to say that the new versions are the definitive or even better versions, because there is great appeal in the intimacy of her solo work, which jump-started her career. In her early years she worked with luminaries such as Jóhann Jóhannsson, Ben Frost and Múm; in later years she has become famous for her scoring work, from the award-winning Chernobyl and The Joker to this year’s The Bride! and 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple.
This Will Be Us also boasts an interesting release strategy, as two of the pre-release tracks are not found on the album. “Elevation,” from 2009’s Without Sinking, is one, in its original incarnation a pensive piece that borders on drone, suffused with an undercurrent of sadness. The orchestral version is nearly four minutes longer, extending the emotion; the pace seems slower, more like an underwater creature than the title might indicate. “Floods” hearkens all the way back to Mount A, and was one of that album’s highlights. The new version is fuller, as the cello is no longer alone; the drama remains intact.
The album proper includes Mount A‘s “In Gray,” in which the strings continue to embrace the glockenspiel, the sharp offset by the smooth, like sunlight attempting to break through the clouds. Fully half of the album is given on to tracks from Without Sinking: “Overcast,” “Opaque,” and the three closing tracks, “Ascent,” “Erupting Light” and “Unveiled,” now appearing in a different order save for the finale. In the titles, one gleans a fascination with weather and light. The rearranged sequencing allows the themes to travel from cloud to sun, depth to height, ending on notes of triumph as sweet as those of the artist’s career. The orchestra allows the music to ascend even further, making even “Overcast” seem less like a gray sky than a promise. The new version of “Opaque” is particularly grand, as new instruments fill in the soft spaces like water rushing into sand. “Erupting Light” was astonishingly brief in its first incarnation, while the additional minute allows one to enjoy the effect of the glissandos. “Unveiled” remains slow and moody, a revelation in progress, ending the album on a note of introspection; much has yet to be revealed.
From 2014’s Saman we encounter “Birting” and “Bær,” the latter the album’s first single proper. These slower pieces are wisely moved toward the front of the album, creating anticipation for the shifts that will come. Guðnadóttir saves a special treat for the center: the appearance of two new compositions, led by the exquisite “Song That Never Was.” One can imagine the composer looking back on her life, thinking of threads that were never woven, paths that were never explored, and rescuing this incredible piece from oblivion. The strings strive to reach ever-higher peaks, and succeed. A period of perspective arrives midway, an inventory of all that has come before. The composer’s film work is evident here, as this seems like a grand theme, not to a movie, but to her life. The final, patient minute allows the silent spaces to breathe, an approach applied next to the breadth of “Blind Sarabande,” which counter-intuitively celebrates the cello as a solo instrument, despite the fact that it is not solo here. Instead, one feels the bolstering presence of friends, who may not be able to transform overcast days into sparkling days, but can provide company and comfort, so that the peaks yet to be ascended no longer seem so high. (Richard Allen)