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In its 25th year, the Førdefestivalen global music weekender became slightly nostalgic. Usually, a specialized theme is declared for each edition, but for this significant anniversary, a set of return invites were issued to artists who were fondly remembered for their previous appearances. Normally, the festival has a policy of continually booking first-time visitors, but we could forgive them for being a touch misty-eyed on this occasion. The other main thrust was to contrast, and often combine, local Norwegian folk talent from the surrounding fjords with a more international roster of multi-territory acts. This created a particular focus and experience that can't be found elsewhere. The potent musical admixture presented a curious experience to the first-time visitor, alternating between bands that have been heard previously and entirely unfamiliar folk-rooted discoveries. This ensured a vibrant oscillation for our roots-attuned receptors!
For the Oslo, or even Bergen, city dweller, attendance required a committed journey northwards, so the majority of the healthy-sized audiences appeared to be local residents. Given that most of the concerts were pleasingly crowded, this seems to be an adequately self-sufficient setup. Even so, this is a festival that offers an excitingly unique experience for the out-of-towner.
The gigs ranged in size from headliners at the cavernous Førdehuset Sports Hall to intimate sessions in a Rica Sunnfjord Hotel restaurant, from outdoor gigs with virtually unlimited capacity to a tiny acoustic-only room in the School of Culture. The weather was surprisingly warm for much of the weekend, topping thermometers in many middle-European lands. There were a few outbreaks of rain or drizzle, but all conditions are fleeting in this region, just waiting for a turn in the coastal flow. Speaking of other fluids, the Norwegians have been getting into beery microbreweries in recent times, with the adventurous Aegir headquarters situated not too far away, on the journey up north. Another striking aspect of the general situation was that darkness didn't finally descend until well after midnight, with dawn in what seemed like only two or three hours later.
The opening concert in the Sports Hall was impressively slick, its television broadcast status necessitating a very tightly sequenced show, a state that's rarely experienced by global music aficionados. The disadvantage was that most acts were only allocated one or two tunes, but benefits were bestowed via a swiftly parading tour of contrasting roots styles, facilitating a living compilation set, as each band had their equipment speedily wheeled onstage during a series of pre-recorded interview features. The Norwegian comedian compère prompted hearty guffaws on a repeated basis! Artists included the poised Iranian singers Mahsa & Marjan Vahdat, the spunky Benin singer-percussionists Trio Teriba and local folksters MP3 (Mattias Pérez Trio), but the most impressive pranksters arrived at the end, with the Amsterdam Klezmer Band romping through a pair of extroverted numbers, their singer-saxophonist Job Chajes projecting the image of a wily farmer caught up in a late-night city drinking den.
Later that evening, there was a multi-band gig in the setting of the Jølster Museum, a short bus ride outside town. Each act played in one of three well preserved wooden houses, with a central open-air area acting as the food-serving, bar and general hanging-out zone. The Malian n'goni player Bassekou Kouyaté was leading a quieter quartet incarnation of his band, accompanied by family, Mamadou playing the bass variant of this West African lute, Moctar on calabash gourd percussion, and the leader's wife, singer Amy Sacka, sending her nape-hair-bristling voice high into the rafters. It was revelatory to catch Kouyaté in such an intimate situation, his audience sitting so close that they could almost be members of the band. His wah-wah footpedal was utilized to lend a Hendrixian texture, though cannily cut down to a very low volume, maximizing excitement in a teasingly sparse fashion. The only disappointment was that his two sets (each of the artists moved from house-to-house as the evening progressed) were virtually identical in repertoire and even their between-song banter. Each performer only played for a short 30 minute spell, but this continued the refreshing smörgåsbord nature of the night.
I grew up listening to mainstream '70s rock then ended up on the staff at the college paper at San Diego State, and volunteered to review heavy metal LPs. My second semester, the music editor dropped a Fenton Robinson LP on my desk, Night Flight. You like metal; they play guitar--he plays guitar, the editor told me
I grew up listening to mainstream '70s rock then ended up on the staff at the college paper at San Diego State, and volunteered to review heavy metal LPs. My second semester, the music editor dropped a Fenton Robinson LP on my desk, Night Flight. You like metal; they play guitar--he plays guitar, the editor told me. If we don't run a review, Alligator Records is going to stop servicing us.
Night Flight opened up a whole new world for me--the blues led me, inevitably, to Basie, who led to Duke, who led to Mingus, who led to Miles, who led to ...