Aki – Aki – Aki! Not *Aku-Aku*, which Thor Heyerdahl wrote about 70 years ago: “I had no *aku-aku*.
Nor did I know what an *aku-aku* was, so I would hardly have been able to use one had I possessed one. … all sensible people [have] an *aku-aku*, and I [got] one, too.” That is how his story about the trip to Easter Island begins, in the book of the same name.
An *aku-aku* is a personal protector, a source of energy, and an inner spirit—akin to a *daemon* or *daimon* for those well-versed in the worlds of gaming and fantasy. It is crucial to understand that a *daimon* is far from being demonic, even though the two words share the same origin: the Ancient Greek *daimōn*—a personal protector, a guardian spirit for you and your family. The word stems from the verb *daíō*, meaning “to divide” or “to distribute.”
In a galaxy far, far away, it is simply called the Force. It is the power that grants a bountiful harvest and vitality, and ensures that balance is maintained—in the world, in the universe within us, and in the universe outside us. On Norwegian farms, we had the *nissen* (house spirit). And just like the *nissen*, your *daimon* expected respect; the interaction was a two-way street—symbiotic. And therein—in the *daimon’s* strength and the cooperative bond—lies a likely explanation for how “demon” emerged as a term for one of the minions of the Devil—Old Nick, the man with the horse’s hoof, the fallen angel Satan himself. The Pope’s representatives were, if nothing else, systematic in this regard. Heyerdahl believed that the lack of an *aku-aku* when he was planning what became the *Kon-Tiki* voyage might have been the reason why arranging the expedition’s departure proved so difficult. For after the stay on Easter Island, it was “… much easier to get home.” During the expedition, he had, after all, acquired his own personal *aku-aku*.
My personal *daemon* this evening is named Aki Takase. We have heard her before, and every time is just as captivating, just as jaw-dropping, just as worthy of cheers. At 78, she plays like a goddess—like our shared *daemon*—for those of us present. There ought to have been far more people here, but that is a topic for another time: the fact that, time and again, the Norwegian music audience fails to show up when it matters. We will leave it at that for now.
Accompanying her are two Berlin-based transplants: Australian Mike Majkowski on double bass and Norwegian Dag Magnus Narvesen on drums. We know Narvesen well—from the Stavanger-based Kitchen Orchestra, from years of collaboration with Alexander Schlippenbach, and, as he tells us, from this autumn’s revival of the Globe Unity Orchestra in conjunction with the Berliner Festspiele. This year marks the 60th anniversary of the Globe Unity Orchestra’s formation, initiated by the then-artistic director of the Berlin Jazz Days—a radio man, notably with Südwestfunk in Baden-Baden. None other than *der Jazzpapst*—the “Pope of Jazz”—Joachim-Ernst Berendt. In 1966, the Globe Unity project was a commissioned work for the Berlin radio station RIAS (Radio in the American Sector). The commission went to a young pianist within the musically unbridled German free-jazz scene: Alexander Schlippenbach. The rest is Central European jazz history. We are treated to two sets in which the master pianist shines, supported by her younger collaborators. To my ears, the first set was unfortunately marred by what I perceived as a lack of communication across the stage. At times, Majkowski appeared somewhat static and immobile within the music, contributing little to the festivities. Things improved somewhat in the second set.
They open with “Down Dance” by the Japanese composer and pianist Ichiko Hashimoto. In doing so, Takase also links back to two albums she released in the early 1980s—not least her first German-produced album, *Perdido*. Yet Takase possesses a sparkling playing style—you know, like the way the carbonation, combined with the acidity, of a mature champagne tingles on your tongue. Where the bubbles dance the samba, the kathak, or the *reinlender*. A Swedish *polska* with a swinging, organically bubbling drive. As far removed from a waltz as one could possibly get. And, of course, one can actually dance to it! Thus: any resemblance to Thelonious Monk is no coincidence. And we dance—just like Monk—in step and counter-step with Takase’s fingers moving across the keys.
*The Glass Bead Game* won Herman Hesse the Nobel Prize in 1946; Takase launched her own “Glass Beads” over 25 years ago. It was released 15 or 16 years ago on the album *Rolled Up*, performed by one of her trios, Tama. Yet the “glass bead game” served up this evening is a classic one. References, hints, and pointers fly past faster than you can prick up your ears to catch them.
But sometimes she lingers on them, cradling them tenderly like a small child in need of care. Before drawing the sound out into an energetic, surging, stormy sea, where the lines eventually fracture into staccato fragments that fling themselves into a fractal image—a realm where nothing looks, or sounds, quite as you are used to. Incidentally, Dag Magnus Narvesen also played with the glass beads during the collaborative project between the Kitchen Orchestra and Schlippenbach.
The last time we heard Takase here in Oslo was during her Ellington project with saxophonist Daniel Erdmann. Next up is Erdmann’s “Reveal Your Identity”—a fierce unveiling of identity where Narvesen is on fire, and the music swings like hell. “Thema Prima,” from Takase’s Japanic Quintet (featuring Narvesen on drums), concludes the first set. A first-rate theme.
The second set proves to be the evening’s highlight—or rather, its mountain ridge or massif. One simply has to marvel at Takase’s virtuosity, starting with Narvesen’s “Monkisms”—the name says it all. Triplet-dancing on all fours, silky-smooth like a cat, yet possessing the attitude and presence of a self-assured feline. As the saying goes, you don’t own a cat; the cat owns you. Takase has us in the palm of her hand. And when she playfully pulls out a polishing cloth to buff the black surface of the Steinway grand, you have no choice but to surrender. A piece of fabric—there to serve as a sound-shaping element in a realm of extended techniques—takes on an alter ego as a polishing cloth. She holds us all in the palm of her hand, playing with us. Do you play along? And then—and then—and then come Carla and her *Ida*. A grand tribute to Carla Bley, where “Ida Lupino” dances with “Walking Battery Woman.” The threads weave far back, all the way to the October Revolution. … Yes? No, not *that* one! New York, not St. Petersburg. 1964, not 1917. Exactly… *that* October Revolution, yes. It is strange to think that the time span between those two Octobers is fifteen years shorter than the time elapsed from today back to the more recent of the two.
Carla Bley’s “Ida Lupino” was quickly adopted by many—not least Paul Bley. But Monica Zetterlund, Karin Krogh, Johs Bergh, and the Svein Finnerud Trio were also early to the party; Finnerud was already on a first-name basis with Ms. Lupino back in 1968. The “Walking Battery Woman” was likely first introduced on the collective album *Jazz Realities*, released with Marte Röling’s iconic cover photo of Carla Bley, Mike Mantler, and Steve Lacy.
The second set concludes with Eric Dolphy’s “Hat and Beard”—a piece particularly appreciated in the hands of Takase, notably from the Schlippenbach/Takase duo’s tribute to Dolphy, *So Long, Eric!*. Dolphy took his hat and left—though not voluntarily. “… don’t stay over there too long,” Charles Mingus had said during what was, in many ways, a major European tour the spring before the October Revolution—in April 1964. Dolphy never returned to the USA.
For an encore, we get Thelonious Monk’s “Raise Four.” Monk first introduced this insistent theme on the 1968 album *Underground*. The October Revolution was over, and Monk had become a guerrilla fighter. That is, at any rate, how he was portrayed on this album. Monk and Che Guevara—now there’s a pair! The title is meant to be understood as a manifesto, the quartet asserts. And Takase and her two cohorts and companions certainly live up to it. We become better people just by listening to the three of them.
