Icelandic Symphony Orchestra: Kicking off 2016 concert season at Harpa

“What exactly have your gotten yourself into?” This was what I was wondering as I drove farther along this single track, punctuated by large rocks, ice and snow. I’d left early for the big New Year’s concert at the Harpa symphony hall, and thought I’d detour onto this interesting side-road. It had the name of some place just eight kilometers away. Eight kilometers. I could handle that. “This’ll be fun,” I thought. So—when my counter passed eight km and there was no end in sight, I started to re-think the whole situation. Besides the terrible road in no-man’s-land, I’d put on my good pants. I was out in this desolation wearing good pants. By good, I mean they had creases and weren’t stained with paint.

Shortcut to Reykjavik

To turn back seemed ridiculous. I still had daylight, and it’s not like I was in the middle of nowhere: I could see the lights of the main highway about a half-mile to my left. My thoughts returned to my good pants. They really are nice. The main hazard on this hell-blasted single track was a blowout. The little suzuki 4X4 was handling the snow and ice with little effort. But the rocks were big and numerous. I could picture myself getting out, jacking up the little off-roader in the snow and the muck, wrestling with a spare tire and stowing the old one away. Result: Perfect mess, pants ruined—and I’d be a prominent eyesore at the concert I was so looking forward to. Even worse, I might manage to get the truck stuck and have to trek over to the highway for help—a humiliating and unnecessary situation.

I could see up ahead the lights of some industrial center. I was now about halfway between Keflavik and the capital. I’d assumed that—since someone had taken the trouble to post a sign at the beginning of the road, and the fact that it actually had a route number—that it would lead somewhere. And I was well past the eight kilometers I’d allowed for this detour. I was approaching thirteen right about now. Which brings up another point and detour from the narrative: I’m skeptical about the distances listed on Icelandic road signs. As an example, I’d turned onto the main traffic circle leading out of Keflavik and took the direction towards Reykjavik. As I entered the circle, the distance to the capital was 41 kilometers. But—as I exited—the distance was now 43 kilometers. I think I should at least have gotten credit for the 200 meters I covered before exiting the circle. Instead, I was penalized an additional two kilometers.

So—the eight kilometers that was posted at the beginning of this very rough track—I can’t even call it a road—was a fantasy. But I stayed the course. I didn’t relish retracing my path, since what lay up ahead couldn’t be any worse than what I’d just covered. The lights of the industrial center got closer, then things got a little strange. Stranger even than before.

I crossed an area of disturbed ground, big and open, with the unmistakable crawler tracks of heavy equipment stamped in the snow and mud. It was that kind of place. A hulking bulldozer stuck out of the frozen landscape some distance away. Then, more strangeness: The area opened up even more, and now I was out in a very wide and flat place paved with solid ice. Nothing but ice.  At least it was much smoother than what I’d been driving on.

Off-roading en route to Harpa

Then the realization struck: I was on a landing field. I was driving on an airstrip. There were no runway lights, but the flat area was long and then ended abruptly some distance to my left. Great. Just as I was crossing this airfield, a pickup came from the direction of the industrial area. I rolled down my window, pulled alongside.

“I really just want to get back to the main road. I’m sorry.”

The driver laughed, pointed in the direction I was headed. I was so grateful he didn’t give me a hard time or call the cops. As sure as I am writing this I will never trouble him with my presence again. He can have the airfield all to himself.

The smooth ice gave way to an actual paved road. Then I followed it for a short distance to get to the main highway. This area was made up of commercial enterprises occupying large buildings. Construction contractors, tool rentals, truck repair--it was all here. This was great—I didn’t have to turn back, and had actually put a lot of distance behind me. Reykjavik was only about 15 kilometers away. I could handle that.

From memory I steered towards the old downtown part of Reykjavik, found a parking spot about three blocks from the shimmering Harpa concert hall. I was safe, all tires had enough air--no blowouts from my recent misadventure. I was ready for the concert that would kick off the 2016 season. It was a big deal.

First, something to eat. My ordeal that ended at the airfield had taken it out of me, so I stopped in at the Tea and Coffee place I like. They have sandwiches made on croissants, and they’re fresh and good. I had some coffee, looked at a design magazine, and lingered awhile. I still had time. 

The wind outside had picked up, so it was a good time to walk the few blocks to Harpa—the modern-art version of a concert hall. It really is impressive—with the vast arrays of glass and lights that change color, giving the exterior a shimmering look against the night sky.

Interior of Harpa

I picked up a program before going in, and leafed through it. I understand maybe one in ten Icelandic words, so there are rather large gaps in my comprehension. What I DID gather, however, is that near the end of the program was a little section devoted to other big names in music and literature. They all had things to say about Johann Strauss, Jr. the person whose works I was to hear tonight. For the most part I didn’t understand any of it, but for Johannes Brahms—a contemporary— what I took away was this:

“His music is so good I could just give him a hug.”

I’ll work on my Icelandic.

The evening's programme

It was a light mood at the Harpa concert hall, as befits this music. On the lower level was a brass quintet pumping out lively polkas and familiar tunes. Up near the concert entrance were young men in a string quartet entertaining the concert-goers with excerpts from Strauss’s works and others. All of these young people were exceptionally talented—and I thought at first I was hearing the orchestra warming up. 

I waited long as I could, then finally took my seat. “I’ll blend in with all the people around me,” I thought. The concert hall was pretty well-filled, this being a big night for the symphony. Except for my row. As I sat down in seat three, row eleven, I was conspicuously the only one there. About twenty seats were vacant to my right, and the remaining seats to my left were empty. So much for blending into the crowd. A few minutes after taking my seat, a woman came and sat two seats over from me. But then she got up and left—so I was by myself again. Actually I was keeper of my row until well into the concert’s first two selections. By the time the the third piece came around, the remaining seats filled during a pause. A group of geriatric and well-dressed concert-goers shuffled in, and I was closed-in by humanity. “About time,” I thought.

The conductor was a Swedish fellow by the name of Ola Rudner. He addressed the audience in English—a godsend for me. Dapper and with a good sense of humor, he kept the evening light. They even wove elaborate skits into the program to enhance even more the music’s feelings of joy and hope. The orchestra opened with “Die Fledermaus,” a work familiar even to those who don’t follow classical music. I am not a music critic, so I’ll do my best with this. What I can say is that the different movements flowed seamlessly one into the other, with a seemingly flawless performance by the strings. The orchestra knew the compositions, and played them with energy and confidence.  When the time came for the “Emperor’s Waltz,” a personal favorite—I could have asked for a bit more fortissimo from the brass section as they thundered a counterpoint to the melody carried by the strings. Just a small thing. But the drama and feeling of the piece were mostly as it should be. I was grateful to be there with this wonderful music.

Brass quintet playing at intermission

I am looking at the program now, and can’t for the life of me figure out what piece I am trying to find. It was a light-hearted arrangement with a musical pause to allow for a man with a strange-looking flute to play exactly TWO NOTES. Of course, in typical Icelandic fashion, the conductor made a huge production of welcoming the guest flute-player and allowing him to don white gloves in preparation for the music that called for this instrument. The sound it produced was akin to that of a cuckoo clock, and I believe that was the whole idea. Of course, to round out this absurd scenario, the flute-player feigned trouble with his instrument, had to go to the side of the stage and make a commotion as he tried to fix it, and then re-joined the orchestra to fumble through the end of the piece—barely managing to croak out his two notes. It was a welcome and comedic respite from the otherwise serious world of classical music. In fact, I think Strauss would have approved—he being something of the “pop-star” of the music scene in his day—maybe akin to the ABBA of the 1830s. I had one contribution to the evening—feeling that the voice of this one, lone and obnoxious american should be heard. It happened that a man appeared on stage to place a music stand. The music stand was—ridiculously enough—for the flutist to know where to play his two notes, even though there was an obvious musical pause that was very hard to miss. But he also placed the stand for the soprano and tenor who came to sing operatic pieces. There was complete silence as the man came, placed the music stand, and then walked off the stage. He was a stage hand, dressed in black, and had every eye in the house on him. I thought to myself—“What do americans do best? We make noise!”  So, as he walked off I clapped vigorously, and the concert hall erupted in applause for the efforts of the poor guy who mostly wanted to be invisible. It was a fun evening.

String quartet at intermission

The second half of the concert featured other well-known waltzes—including the beautiful Blue Danube. What really brought it home was the appearance of professional dancers—two couples dressed in period costumes—who performed beautiful waltzes to the orchestra’s music. The strings, percussion, brass—and then the dancers—produced an overwhelmingly beautiful combination. Just magnificent. It was an evening where the very air seemed charged with energy that washed over every person—audience and musicians alike.

It had to end sometime. But the orchestra and conductor were ready to prolong the fun. They did two additional pieces after taking numerous bows, and ended with a lively polka--a very recognizable work by Strauss but whose name I regrettably don't remember. Anything I write here will probably be wrong so I'll leave it alone. To commemorate the recent New Year's celebration, the orchestra produced the cheap and festive headwear of a typical New Year's party--tiaras, sparkly things, and even antlers adorned the heads of the serious and well-schooled musicians. This was all well-planned out, and had great comic effect. The final piece--as the conductor put it--was an homage to joy and hope--a great and appropriate ending to an extraordinary evening.

Final bows: Opening concert 2016