Ulver | Live, Maihaugsalen Lillehammer

“On strictly musical grounds, I’d say that about half of it is absolutely wonderful, whereas the other half of it isn’t much at all.” (2005)

White Light / White Heat-esque production values? Check.

Forest-flattening, tunnel-vision’d tub-thumping? Check.

Channeling a genuinely insular, hermetic mood thicker than old custard? Check.

Wryly obscure electronics inspired by Albion’s headiest wordsmith? Check. (Cool!)

A “fuck you” desire for constant evolution and independence at the cost of fanbases, celebrity and basically anything outside their own four walls? Check.

A roguish, yet sensitively asexual cologne? Um…

And still something niggles me about Ulver. I can’t put my finger on it and I reckon that’s half the problem - there’s something dazzlingly absent about the post-Perdition albums and EPs. I think.

I haven’t worked out if it’s simply bad song writing hiding under experimental chin putty and an arthouse moustache, or an almost impenetrable otherness unique to whatever it is they are these days. But fuck it - I’m getting more out of trying to pick their lock than rupturing my wallet over the latest die-hard edition of another audio Xerox exercise.

In short, a trip to Lillehammer was fucking mandatory.

“An incentive to further frolic only.” (1999)

The sun was swaying, the trees were shining - all (vain) hopes of some black metal tourism were brilliantly razed to the ground by a seemingly out of the blue Norwegian heat wave, rising zephyrs, scantily clad Scandinavians and a closed-down town. Cool and the fucking gang. And so it went with the audio-intake. Predictably, there wasn’t a hint of metal in earshot for the whole night. Who would have thunk it?

Hands grabbed and eyes gawked at cool-as black and gold t shirts, black wax housed in Norwegian wood and a book of early demos with the old logo walked. Perfect wares - old, new and hording fans all catered for. Not many folks rushing for the smellys, though.

“Minions on the Jester boards think that, by actually paying a slant for our pieces, they are the sole supporters of our excessive lifestyle with its glorious mansions, fancy cars and filthy habits. They really have no idea.” (2005)

I’d heard Ulver wanted to ‘shock’ the audience, and that they did in their usually unpredictable way. A suitably leftfield guestlist of Lars Pedersen (When: drums), Daniel O’Sullivan (Guapo: guitars / bass / some piano), Ole Aleksander Halstensgard (Paperboys: turntables) and Pamelia Kurstin (cigarettes / angelic filth / heart strings / theremin) accompanied the wolves’ gather.

As a lingering note of apology left the screens, stunningly well chosen / synchronized Nazi imagery, apparently impossible film reels of concentration camps cut with Third Reich top trumps, flickered behind the set-opener of an elongated “Little Blue Bird”. From then on it was Ulver’s game.

“In a sense what we do is actually kinda slapstick.” (2005)

Though the set leaned heavily on newer tunes, there were a few bizarre inclusions in the form of “A Memorable Fancy: Plates 16-17″ and an ethereal reckoning of “Porn Piece, or the Scars of Cold Kisses”; but the itinerary wasn’t really the point. 

Heaving, organic instrumental backdrops threw the fingers up at their rather plastic studio counterparts (does Ulver’s more modern production not rank amongst the worst in recorded history?) and there was a jubilant nimbleness previously obscured by armchair listening.  This band owes it to their fans to play live.

“This band is not a social project.” (2005)

An extremely nervous looking Garm was on jaw-dropping form once he found the balls to push himself to the fore.  Honestly, the guy has one of the best throats around (stop it…) and, sans studio, he still holds it (the odd stench-ridden, well-matured croon aside).

Brendan Perry is probably the closest thing I’ve come across in terms of channeling that exacting emotional weight through pitch-perfect delivery, and the Dead Can Dance reformation gig in Dublin a few years back is a good reference point for this one.  Watching wavering genius bloom over the course of a too-short set is a frustratingly spell-binding experience.  If you were there, you know.  If not, I can‘t really do more to describe it.  Sorry.

“We are as unknown to you as we always were.” (1999)

But apart from the man himself, it was Pamelia Kurstin who stole it for me.  Her weeping vibrato on ‘Shadows Of The Sun’ is nothing short of stunning and she was given a bit more room to shake her money-maker on stage.  Pure skin-twitching sorrow. 

Her solo set in Glasgow a few years back had me on my fucking knees (for purely musical reasons you understand…) and this was no different.  Without wanting to get dickish, the girl beside me was in tears almost every time she flicked her fingers.  (Oestrogen-crazed lunatic.)

“Sometimes, but not often mind you, we’re bigger geeks than our audience.” (2005)

It was a motley crew outside of those two.  O’Sullivan kept himself in check (thank God) but didn’t really tear anything up. Pedersen looked like a Spinal Tap extra and the soundman clearly had a career in cover-based book judging - the mix was all hard rock drum-thunder and stadium fist-pumping.

But the fact that this was never rectified makes me wonder if it was deliberate - a quick fix of energy for the attentively seated, with myriad errors skulking behind a distractingly pounding percussive veil. One thing, though - if you’re going to push a musician to the fore, make sure he deserves it. Sloppy drumming and elastic time-keeping are all-too obvious oceans apart.

The remainder of the cast cut strange figures, by turns jumping around like a Ricardo Villalobos / Louis Antoine Jullien hybrid or becoming stage presence antimatter, boiler suits and grave digging apathy a-go-go.  But they can’t be blamed.  15 years locked inside will do that to you.

The desire to keep the audience at a distance was a recurring theme, not limited to the percussion, seated venue or zero stage-craic. The inclusion of a cover (The Byrds’ “Everybody’s Been Burned”) was a bizarre decision for a band with such a sprawling back catalogue and diminutive stage time. A quick scan of the lyrics, however, seems to reveal a lot more about the reasons for its inclusion - the logical desire for isolation crumbling into a forced exposure doomed to failure. Nice.

The admirable, sweeping crescendo of “Let the Children Go”- replete with rolling timpani bombasts and safari backgrounds - was almost too open in its mockery; while a later attempt to replicate the grotesque (with joker in the pack “In the Red”) fell flat due to a dreadful quality issue surrounding the jazz samples and their overlays. Intentional ineptitude or just the jitters? A hard one to call.

But persecution is a bit pointless given the nature of the event, especially if you believe such a lack of subtlety is deliberate (see: Inside, Blood).  That the set flowed well wasn’t in doubt, despite the inclusion of one or two tracks that are borderline album filler (”Rock Massif”, “Not Saved”).  The audience was always expecting something of the other, and certainly wouldn’t have picked most of it.

This though is painting a misleadingly bleak picture.  Kurstin’s extended theremin solos on “Funebre” and “Like Music”, alongside Rygg’s aforementioned celestial vocals, took every subsequent note a little past the actual, a little further ‘out’; the opportunity to really shock and awe was tangibly close, though sadly never quite taken. Almost exactly 60 minutes? Low key, dark and tragic indeed.

“These endeavours were written as stepping stones rather than conclusions.” (1999)

After much hair scratching and wine swallowing, I’ve decided that most of this is irrelevant. Ulver have played live.  Everyone was equally elated and disappointed afterwards.  There ends the chapter.  Ulver are playing live again this summer (festivals, no less!).  Here begins the next, retrospectively disappointing, chapter. 

But it would be cool to see them again, despite the hugely flawed magic of their seemingly one-off Lillehammer gig.  Here’s hoping for some more Blake material and a blast beat or two next time, but I reckon the show’s stuck on repeat for a while given the energy-sucking undertow that was only physically evident when they came out for their cheesily thespian final bow.

It was the best of times (Garm’s amplified clicking lighter and fizzy ring-pulling hilariously pissing over any solemnity), it was the blurst of times (no “Proverbs Of Hell”?! Tsk tsk, Christophorus…) and I’m glad to have caught it.  Do the same if you can and expect less than zero.  You’ll be handsomely and harrowingly rewarded.

“It is hard. We know. Very advanced. Very narcissistic. A bona fide blow in the head. Lights out.” (2005)

- Review by Chris Storey ::: 16/06/09