Every month OJKOS premiere a new piece of music written by one of their members. In march I got to see them at Victoria Nasjonal Jazzscene in Oslo to perform Martin Lee Thomson’s new composition Fraileach, a beautiful exploration of humanity and seaweed, as well as their intertwinings.

Seaweed swaying in the undercurrents of the ocean, much like leaves of grass in the wind. Photo: Silas Baisch / Unsplash

What is OJKOS?

Recently, I swung by Victoria Nasjonal Jazzscene and found my newest obsession, OJKOS. Their name is an abbreviation for Orchestra for Jazz Composers in Oslo, and they are a contemporary jazz collective of musicians and composers, who once a month gather to showcase new music written by one of their members. Their website lists fourteen musicians as current members, who, along with a few featured guests, made up the orchestra that night.

Andrea Giordano on vocals and electronics, Dave Malkin and Isa Holmgren on vocals, Danielle Price on tuba and vocals, Sol Léna-Schroll and Maria Dybbroe on alto saxophone, Sigrid Aftret on tenor saxophone, Ville Lähteenmäki on bassclarinet, Øyvind Mathisen and Peter Wallem Anundsen on trumpet, Jørgen Bjelkerud on trombone, Martin Lee Thomson on euphonium, Tuva Halse on violin, Andrine Dyblie Erdal on cello, Åsmund Perssønn Ødegaard on guitar, Håkon Hult-Nystrøm on bass, and Trym Saugstad Karlsen on drums. There was even an organetta in the mix, played by Giordano.

Thomson photographed after the performance, with the event poster. Photo: Andreas Solheim

Martin Lee Thomson, The Composer

For their March performance, they were lead by Martin Lee Thomson, his newest piece is called Fraileach, and is an exploration of Scottish history and culture, and in particular, seaweed.

When speaking with Thomson after their performance, he explained that in a creative rut, he found a surprising inspiration in seaweed. The compositions’ title “fraileach” is the Gaelic word for seaweed and algae, something which Thomson explains his native country of Scotland has a rich history with.

The Seaweed

The Scottish Seaweed Industry Association explains that seaweed has played a “crucial role” in Scottish traditions and industries, particularly in their coastal and island communities. The Scottish association mentions how seaweed has a long-standing relationship with the country, having has used the plants in farming, as a fertiliser, as a food source, in medicine, and even textile production. At its peak, in the early 19th century, the industry employed an estimated 50 thousand people, and became a vital economic aspect for the communities.

The Music

The music of the evening was written as a collection of shorter pieces. The musical aspects merged some clear inspirations from Scottish folk music, with the improvisational nature of jazz. Conceptually, the inspirations behinds the pieces ranged from the sea-plants themselves, to the cold sea fog, commonly occurring along the Scottish coast, to folkloric tales or work of literature and art, from workers in the industry.

A favourite moment from the evening came from the track Feamainn. The track had been inspired by a story of a woman collecting seaweed, who had gone missing, likely been taken by the sea. Only to later return, as a giant sea-monster, to also take her own family. In another, Thomson had gotten the lyrics from a poem he had once come upon, plastered on the wall of a bothy (a small hut or house often found in the Scottish highlands, to shelter hikers or house farm workers). Thomson had found the poem while on a hike with his family, left there namelessly.

As someone with a fondness for local legends, and the human desire to make art without wanting to be remembered for it, I have been haunted by this track since I heard it - much to due to the vocalist Dave Malkin’s performance - which is a particularly challenging kind of hauting, as the track is not released or avaliable to me outside of that Tuesday night performance. Alas, I am left to wait for an official release, which I will be doing eagerly.

A beach on the southwestern coast of Norway, were you to go in a straight line from where the photo was taken, you would reach northeastern Scotland. Photo: Emma Francke Husebø.

The Haar

Despite however “haunted” I was left by the story of the ghost poet, my favourite part from the show was the performance of the song The Haar. The song managed to appeal both to my sceptical impulses, and my flair for the dramatics. While I would argue that every Norwegian is inherently a sceptic, a natural result of the wonderful Janteloven that plagues our country so, this part of me might be a bit too ready to jump out.

So when the brass players (e.g. the tuba and trombone players) began blowing (as in air, not how you would normally play) into their instruments, and being someone cursed with skepticism, my first instinct was to ask myself if the players were blowing to clear their instruments of spit. Yes, cleaning spit is something that sometimes must be done during a performance, but usually without attracting notice. At first I raised a questioning brow, however, it quickly dropped back down as I realized where the song was taking me.

Thomson had explained that the song was called The Haar, and that “haar” is a word for the cold fog that comes in with the sea. This kind of fog is very common in coastal areas, especially on the eastern coast of Scotland. Now, while I have personally never been to Scotland. I do, however, know the coastal climate of the north sea very well.

As someone who grew up on the west coast of Norway, I am no stranger to weather coming in from the sea. Which was, perhaps, where the dramatics in me came to play. While the blowing might have made me raise an eyebrow at first, it leant itself to the performance so well. The song used the guitar, cello, and an organetta — an Italian instrument that can be described as a kind of accordion — all of which I felt perfectly emulated the loneliness of empty coastlines under grey skies. My skeptical brow was quickly overtaken by emotion, an emotion I can only compare to the one I get from the opening of Jeff Buckley’s Lover, you should’ve come over, a comparison which in my book is a compliment of the absolute highest degree.

It is a feeling I haven’t been able to replicate without the empty beaches, heavy clouds, and biting winds coming in from the Atlantic ocean. I know the feeling of trying to walk on slippery seaweed- and algae-covered rock, while being pelted by the rain that is somehow coming down sideways, because of the strong winds. So when the melodies from the stage began to sound like the ones I hold so close to home, I not only knew what they meant, the story they were telling, I felt it in my bones. Thereby, winning over both the most skeptical and dramatic parts of me.

The Composer (and the conductor?)

Thomson counting in the other players. Photo: Emma Francke Husebø

Martin Lee Thomson not only composed the music of the evening, he also took on some “light” conducting. As mentioned earlier, OJKOS is a musical collective of composers, who describe themselves as cultivating an environment for free experimentation and collective development of musical vocabulary. This feeling of community and collaboration really shone through in their performance.

While traditionally most orchestras, brass bands, and also choirs, have a designated conductor, a person to stand in front of the musicians, keeping them in time, and leading them through the piece, OJKOS adapted this role.

As seen in the photo to the right, Thomson would occasionally raise his hand to remind the other players of their places in the music, and counting them in at certain moments. This role was also taken on by other members of the orchestra at various points throughout the performance.

I cannot understate how little this actually went on, which was incredibly impressive. It really highlighted just how much practise these musicians have with playing together, how much they have probably put into their performances, and how in tune they are with each other. It was definitely one of the most enjoyable parts of the performance. It being a smaller venue, and having situated my self in the balcony seats along the sides, I felt I got to peak on the performers during the show, and could see their smiles and looks to each other as the show went on. Seeing that the joy and awe I felt was also being felt on stage also made for a very fun and cute vibe in the room.

The Aftermath

After the show, I asked Thomson how he went about trying to translate all these inspirations into music. The sound of the wind or the words form a poem are pretty straightforward enough impressions, the seaweed itself however, felt too abstract for my non-composer brain. Sadly, he didn’t have have a very clear explanation, other than just letting it flow out of him. Which was such a lovely answer I forgave it for lacking instruction.

Alas, I am left to wonder at how artistically brilliant some people can be, as I hopefully await news of an album or EP of the tracks. In the meanwhile OJKOS have plenty of material in their discography, and several upcoming shows in Oslo, two in April, according to their website. I look forward to being further confused and completely enchanted.

Jazz, Seaweed and Scottish Culture: OJKOS Does Martin Lee Thomson