Musings of an Unravelling Mind; Or, That Time When I Attended an Olafur Arnalds Concert

by Swara Shukla · Published December 14, 2018 · Updated May 12, 2019

Exercising my inherently hyperbolic tendencies, I can claim to have been in love with Ólafur Arnalds (and his music) for nearly four years. His music is emotive and inspirational, to say the least, but it is special in that his pieces have helped me streamline my creative process. Which is why his concert in Edinburgh was one of my biggest takeaways this year.

To start from the beginning; I had the absolute-thrilling-engrossing-mesmerising-beautiful-breathtaking privilege of watching him live back in September. So, yes, this article is coming a tiny bit late but it is one of those ideal experiences that you need to celebrate amidst all the year-end nostalgia, so I would argue that the timing is spot-on and not a result of some trademark writing blocks and procrastination that come with being tongue-tied (or rather, finger-tied?) about a memory of a surreal night (I did warn of the hyperbolism earlier).

I have an arguably deep emotional investment in Arnalds’ music, and the ambience he created with his sounds (he has a self-designed piano that produces brilliant sound-effects to add to his music) was both immersive and overwhelming, perhaps also slightly unnerving in the effect it had on me. In hindsight, I really shouldn’t be surprised.

As most writers – aspiring or otherwise – would tell you, I too have explored my thoughts, my emotional and experiential nuances extensively through my writing. For most of my life growing up, having been inherently reticent and taciturn, pen-and-paper (and eventually, computer screens) became my metaphorical thinking-pads and mouthpieces. The past six years of my life have been crucial in developing myself as a writer, exploring literature and writing as means to understand the world, to look inwards and understand my own mind, understand people, relationships, bonds. Music has been a key muse through this journey of unravelling thoughts, and Arnalds’ music has pretty much dominated the terrain.

Arnalds was an accidental discovery through a fan-video, and captured me with the haunting, consuming earworm the piece gave me.

Quite characteristic of most Icelandic music, Arnalds also dabbles in this genre called Ambient Music. Not that I know my technicalities and instrumental jargon, but his pieces are melodic in a more layered sort of way; an interplay of different instrumental sets punctuated by a distinct refrain. For me, his music became an oxymoronic intangible framework to explore the unworded thoughts and responses and feelings that seem to overcrowd my mind every minute. It was freeing – this space, this mental frame that his music provided me. And the gentle prod it gave me to translate that into something more tangible, more creative. The power it gave me to create.

Letting yourself unravel through music can be incredibly cathartic and painful at the same time. With the kind of role Arnalds’ music ended up playing in my life, his pieces were not only enhanced for me when played in a live setting amidst a captivating play of lights onstage, but were ten times stronger a stimulus for my mind. The experience was paradoxical in many ways; the concert plunged me into a quiet reflection with it’s all-consuming sound and background litany of slow claps and cheers.

The past year has been volatile in many ways – from something as mundane as facing challenges of adulthood, an unfamiliar and new lifestyle, and a new job; to something as internalised as finding and losing companionship, heartbreak, and an absolute loss of emotional control. Arnalds gave these mottled thoughts and feelings a veritably transcendental voice, free from the constraints of tangible words and rooted exclusively in sensory experience. He gave me a quieter, more reflective creative process; different from when I listen to him through my earphones because that act is more weighed down by itchy fingers and the urge to express. I am writing this article to his music. The concert was more like being rooted on the spot, forced to let my vulnerabilities wash over me without the pressure of translating them into something more productive, more positive, more celebratory. The pressure of making them a means to an end.

Not being allowed to capture any of it was perhaps a blessing in disguise; they make more sense as moments ensconced from outside eyes and retrospective gazes. It’s these unvocal moments that I carry as epochs into the next year. I emerge out of this year much as I was when I came out of the music hall that night; fragile and raw and flayed open, but also calmer and more hopeful of being stronger tomorrow. And perhaps, a little less afraid, a little less ashamed, and a little more ready to face my own self.

Memories are strong companions. Thank you, Olafur Arnalds, for giving me some steadfast ones this year.