Hauschka: Live on the South Bank
Words by Daniel Shane
The weather outside is uncharacteristically warm and dry, but a cool breeze blows through the South Bank Centre. Inside a restless auditorium, a tall, awkward figure shuffles tentatively towards the piano. But Volker Bertelmann, as his mother probably calls him, is not alone. Tonight he’s joined by a four piece orchestra. With their addition, the intimate and elusive jangling we are accustomed to hearing on long players such as 2004’s Versions of the Prepared Piano is bathed with an overpowering, melancholic wall of beautiful noise.
Summertime in Bavaria, night swimming and a never-ending forest are three of the haunting images which come to mind as Hauschka nervously touches the keys on a rickety grand piano for the first time tonight, and the audience slides into an eerie, captivated quiet. Justifiably it seems, as a live performance in the capital is a rarity from Hauschka, who last year released the neo-classical double whammy of Ferndorf and Snowflakes and Carwrecks. There are no vocals to distract us tonight either. Leaving us all alone with our thoughts as gentle and reluctant melodies reverberate through the air and into our collective consciousness and back out again.
While a purist at heart (Hauschka was formally trained for a decade, I hear), each track resonates with an intelligent, almost electro quality. Comparing this to the classics would be bang wrong. From tonight (and his pretty extensive back catalogue) nods to Steve Reich, Aphex Twin and Mum are a million miles more appropriate. But where Aphex and Squarepusher blow up their sonics with scattered and frenzied percussion, Hauschka takes a more impulsive and childlike approach. In an attack on the mundanity of most modern piano artists, Hauschka litters his instrument with plastics, scraps and any other pieces of layabout waste he can get his hands on. Far from just aesthetic, this changes the entire scope of his music. Mechanisms clang and backfire and the end results are captivating junkshop melodies capable of melting the heart of even the frostiest sceptic.
In between numbers, he alludes to a curious playfulness; nervously cracking jokes and reminiscing of perhaps what were once forgotten childhood memories before scolding himself for talking too much and drifting into his next composition. Like former label mates Sigur Ros, whisperings of nature pervade every note and melody. But instead of the tundra and valleys of Iceland, Hauschka evokes images of the lonesome woodlands of his homeland, with each crackle and snap of a piano key a broken twig or crunchy leaf.
While Hauschka is quick to deflect praise onto his orchestra, it is perhaps when he performs alone that he shines brightest. Renditions of the prepared piano seem to strike a tender chord when unaccompanied, with nothing to distract us from the gentle twang of hammers twitching against strings. But as he admits himself, Hauschka often verges on writing himself out of his own music. For much of the 45 minutes he is a spectator, instead choosing to watch pieces played out by his all-female ensemble evolve, transform and unfold into their own wavering crescendos.
After one more number for the road, the doors open and the breeze flies in again. He stands up, takes a cautious bow, and disappears behind the curtain.
Posted Thu, April 23, 2009