Heartland at Noma. The title alone smells of conceptual crap and natural wine with a little too much attitude. But in the midst of the pretentious inferno -- well, perhaps precisely in spite of that -- I had the greatest musical experience of my life.
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Disclaimer: Apropos Magazine received access or a review copy. As always, we share our own impressions — unfiltered.
Six stars
We start in a greenhouse. Our tickets are scanned and we get a small piece of white rope tied around the wrist by a member of staff who looks like one who's been outside a little too long. The white rope -- a symbol of, what do I know -- feels like a slightly too honest metaphor for what we've plunged into: an experience that binds us together, but which also seems unnecessarily tight and cold at the edge.
The entrance is nice. Everything is nice. It's Noma, after all.
We go, like all the others, in pairs. It is Datenight in our late thirties, and we all wear the same coat from Arket -- one exception wears dark blue, but otherwise we stand as a bunch of identity crises in uniform.
I've never been to Noma before, so I go to great lengths not to take pictures -- but the others don't, so I take a picture on the sly and just try to look like I belong.
We walk through the premises, are greeted by an unstaffed wardrobe (bravely), a DJ set from T.O.M wired to two B&O speakers (branding), which reach no further than a metre and a half from the desk, and end up down in the canteen. Here she is from Torvehallerne — the kind of influencer chef who has turned tacos into a personal brand. Good prices — very small portions. Good wines — very small glasses.
The bar is hard to find, but the prices are surprisingly fair. The amount on the other hand - Half a sip for 85 kr.
It all feels like a conceptual show-off.
It's as if Heartland and Noma have sat down and created an event that's supposed to “feel like something,” without really knowing what. And this is exactly where my skepticism peaks.
Well yes — and then there was also a talk in a room that was too small, where no one wanted to go in, but still chose to stand and block the entrance. It doesn't matter. Further.
But then the concert starts.
I reach back to my bench -- three rows from the stage -- with another glass of natural wine (20 cl. would I estimate) in hand. And then it happens: From behind, Guldimund and the band step in. No drama. Just presence. Quiet, almost humble. They start with calmness and precision. An intensity that is neither assumed nor planned. The sound is exceptional. The acoustics of the room elevate the music as it was created for this very moment. And maybe it was.
It is as if we are afraid to put into words how phenomenal it really is. Like we're collectively trying to hold ourselves back a bit because it almost feels like too much to surrender. But we do. Because this is one of those concerts where you don't wait for the highlights. Where everything flows. Where you don't think “now comes that song,” but just sink in and become a part of something.
And then he comes. Trumpeter. A young man with the energy of Mick Jagger and the physicality of Dirch Passer, who pulls out his trumpet over and over and each time hits a point in me I didn't know I had.
Several times I shed a tear. Not out of sentimentality, but of something far more rare -- overwhelm. There are moments when the whole room lifts, where the music transcends the pretentious setup, and where it dawns on me that this is the reason why we are still searching for the unique. The authentic.
In reality...
“Heartland at Noma” was a conceptual mess, but the concert with Guldimund was the greatest musical experience of my life. It's strange the way the two things can coexist. A night when everything up to felt like just another cultural playground for grown-ups, but where the music nevertheless struck something that felt real, unfiltered and inescapable.
It shouldn't have worked -- but it did.
