ANNA HÖGBERG ATTACK - Ensamseglaren

The first of the two long tracks on “Ensamseglaren” takes more than two minutes before any sound emerges that could be traced to a recognizable instrument. In that span of time, a primordial broth of creaks, strange radio signals and teeming murmurs emitted by invisible organisms almost tricks us into thinking we're in front of one of early Vladislav Delay's arctic expanses of ambient dub. But brass glissandi suddenly tear through the veil: we're in Sweden, not Finland, and behind the scenes of this theatre of musical absurdity lies a jazz ensemble, however atypical. Indeed, saxophonist Anna Högberg, on her third album as leader of the Attack outfit, has this time gathered around her a surreal big band, bringing together, alongside her own alto sax, tenor sax, trumpet, trombone, tuba, a turntable, piano, guitar, two double basses and two drum kits (with the guitarist and one of the double bassists not above wielding a bow saw as well).

Six more minutes go by before the bellowing of the wind instruments, along with the lava flows of drone-metal distortion piled on top, coagulate into a colossal doom riff, with the rhythm section finally free to thunder, titanic. Everything then collapses into a new section of nonsense noise-making, closing on a melancholic marching band theme. In short, wandering through the boundless ocean of total improvisation, an exploration that began more than sixty years ago with AMM, we have, through storms and unpredictable winds, stumbled upon a new island, surfacing from cold Scandinavian seas. We were guided here by a lone sailor (which is what ensamseglaren means), pictured as a young man on the cover: none other than Högberg's father, who recently passed away, and for whom this album serves as a kind of funeral farewell. In what sense, though, is for us to decipher.

To this end, the second suite, “Gnistran/Hematopoesi/Emlodi”, can offer us new keys. If the initial timbral puzzle seems even more bewildering (theremin and electronics creep in to muddy the waters further), the schizophrenic dialogue between the big band's members ends up anchoring itself to a solid groove, whose balance between soul warmth and free erraticism brings to mind a 1960s Herbie Hancock reimagined by the Fire! Orchestra (of which Högberg is a longtime collaborator). It all then runs wild into a catastrophe of blaring horns and drumming turmoil, leaving behind nothing but debris floating at the mercy of the currents. And just as the double bass seems to be steering the gang toward settling on a riff that could herald a deranged assault à-la Mr. Bungle, the curtain suddenly falls.

Don't be fooled by the seemingly delirious juxtaposition of the various sonic tableaux: what justifies this parade of contradictions is not (only) Dadaist taste or cerebral postmodernism, but, above all, an unleashed emotionality, in no way shy about displaying its shape-shifting volatility. In grief there is bewilderment, there is anger, there is spinning one's wheels; in grief one must grant oneself the freedom of silence and the freedom of the scream, allow for self-pitying retreats, but also shake them off through collective catharsis. The flow of “Ensamseglaren” celebrates the joy of being alive, right now, together, moving through pain, trying to penetrate the inert mystery of the afterlife: is that where those strange whispers, those unintelligible moans come from? Or is it perhaps the lapping of our own faltering memories, vainly trying to reconstruct what is no longer there? It doesn't matter: death is at once a terribly serious and a terribly banal thing, and all one can do is honor it and mock it, together.

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29/12/2025