Exactly what kind of ascent/descent this is remains open, not because of the uninterpretability of music as such, but because Hogstrand – a classically trained violist – understands the nuances of how it is that we can, and maybe should, move through musical time. The openness is really a product of accumulation, as Hogstrand’s minimalist instrumentation gradually swells and gathers, like a storm. On the first of the two compositions, “Herein”, listening slowly imitates the mechanisms of the drone that takes over the “music” by the time we reach the composition’s conclusion. This first work is more hurried and anxious than its successor, “Magnitude,” which settles into its cozy niche above the clouds and occasionally warms with a light that illuminates the expanse below.   

 

Change within both pieces happens so subtly that it becomes nearly impossible to look back and see how we got to such a point. My guess is Hogstrand is pretty familiar (somatically, anyway) with the hike, such that it became crucial to preserve this feeling of climbing and not knowing exactly how one step led to the next. The translation of this phenomenal experience to the overall movement of Áhkká is an act of surgical perfection on Hogstrand’s part. The restraint and journey reminded me of some kind of mixture between Pauline Oliveros’ deep listening and Charles Ives’ creepy Central Park in the Dark (1906), where the very act of concentrating on one particular musical figure becomes dispersed, attenuated, the body in motion as a perfect double for the method of musical synthesis.

 

File this under minimalist classical, but I would never look for it there – Áhkká is too weird for that bunch, but Hogstrand is also too restrained for the all-out blitz of the drone elite. Either way, it is a record that continually throws us back onto ourselves, our habits of listening, and what constitutes the endless interplay between signal and noise. Highly recommended!