The baton
dances on the finger tip of Ragnar Rasmussen.
“It has
perfect balance. It’s actually quite heavy, but feels light.
The baton
is slim, the fingertip short and stubby. Not a long and pale one you
would usually associate with the piano that dominates the maestro’s
office at the music conservatory.
“I don’t
go for this maestro nonsense they talk about on the Continent. The baton
doesn’t give you any power. If you point it at people, they just get
irritable. It has to be animated.
A long,
collarless suit jacket hangs behind the double, soundproofed doors.
“It’s a compromise that fits in, whatever the milieu. I’ve tried a
couple of times with a tuxedo, but I am from Vardø – and it’s a long way
from Vardø to Venice.”
Usually
he just conducts with his hands. But when he has to manage both a
Norwegian choir and a German music ensemble two hands are not enough.
That’s when he takes out one of two identical batons from his teacher’s
case.
They are
not bound for Vardø or Venice.
Vokal Nord is
visiting Målselv, Nordreisa and Tromsø.
“And this
summer we are invited to Germany.” Rasmussen already has more bonus
points than most of us. Before April is over, he has assignments in
Denmark, Latvia, Austria and Slovenia – where he was recently engaged
part-time as a professor.
“But the
idea of travelling to Germany to perform Bach is quite extraordinary.”
“My
self-confidence isn’t always
as
buoyant as it might appear. Especially when I’m in arenas with long and
grand traditions. I guess I’m accompanied by a complex. Combined with a
little devil. An underdog notion. It’s best to not think too much. The
bumble bee is my favourite animal, that clumpy little creature that is
too dumb to understand it can’t fly. With just a touch of stupidity and
a dash of cheekiness it’s amazing what you can achieve.”
Rasmussen
has managed to elevate a choir in a little town far north of the Arctic
Circle to world class ranking. Trophies are gathering dust on a shelf,
hidden away in a corner just below the ceiling.
“First
prize, first prize and the one and only Grand Premium.
Rasmussen
retrieves the application papers on his e-mail. «If you don’t consider
yourselves to be among Scandinavia’s 25 best choirs, please don’t bother
buying the stamps».
“For
Vokal Nord’s part the trophies symbolise that we don’t need to compete
anymore. It’s a thing of the past. The prizes have opened new doors for
us.
“And then
we have this,” says Rasmussen, while recklessly tilting the monumental
«Prima edizone del concorso internazionale per direttori di coro Mariele
Ventre».“It’s made of silver. A genuine Donald Duck trophy.
·
But how
did you achieve that?
·
”I try to listen more than I speak. That’s important for a
conductor.”
In that
respect, at first glance he does not appear to be all that
well-equipped.
”I have
in fact never met another person with ears smaller than mine.”
After
52 hours in a tight squeeze,
a ruddy
head suddenly pops into sight at the maternity clinic in Vardø. The
right ear was folded over.
“Will you
take a look at this! The baby has music ears!” declared the midwife.
His
father conducted both the male and female choirs for a generation. His
mother and sister sang for all they were worth. He played in the brass
band from he was six years old. In his youth he hammered the ivories in
the rock group «Frostrøyk», which had its allotted fifteen minutes of
fame on television. When he was 13 years old he was engaged as the
organist in Vardø, after Mrs Martinsen in the parish committee
acquiesced to the demand to be paid wage level 14. He played in his own
confirmation.
But he
couldn’t read music. The year after he was given the key to the 15-pipe
organ from Vestre’s organ & piano factory, he played just as deftly
Toccata and Fuge in D Minor – studied beat for beat. Funeral marches
were improvised on the spot. As when a member of the local business
community was due to take his last journey. The man was legendary for
being a right miser. Organist Rasmussen composed an improvised version
of «Pengegaloppen» (“the Money Gallop”) at the funeral.
“In the
minor key, mind you!”
Rasmussen
runs over to the piano, bends over the keys and demonstrates how he
managed to get this lively, frivolous melody to sound like a Russian
funeral march.
“My
sister caught on to what I played though.”
There
was never any doubt
about
what he would be. He wanted to conduct. 16 years old he moved to Hamar
and Toneheim folk high school, two years ahead of the official age for
admittance of 18. He studied church music at the music conservatory in
Trondheim.
“But I
bailed out. I was never a great organist, only someone who did the job.
I just wanted an education to back me up.”
Three
days later he was brought back as a teacher. At the same time he created
his own education, and sat the examination to qualify as a choir
conductor with self-chosen syllabus. The world lay at his feet. He ended
up in Tromsø.
He
should have shovelled snow.
Rasmussen
lay awake and tossed and turned. His back was sore. On the roof what was
to be called the snowy winter of the year 2000 had deposited itself
meter-high. The house creaked and groaned under the weight. He had not
cleared snow since his military service days at Vardøhus fortress, and
there the wind had done the job for him. In Hamar he swept the stairs
twice each winter.
“That was
a shock.”
People
were convinced that was the last they would see of you, I imagine?
“Now
Rasmussen has packed his bags and tossed in the towel, was what I
heard when I moved up north. Very many thought I couldn’t hack it
anymore, because I also worked a lot before I moved back up north.” But
he was invited up by Vokal Nord in 1998.
“There
was cured leg of lamb and aquavit, candlelight and Polar darkness. I
longed for the North. If they fixed up a job in Tromsø, I promised to
come. They hopped to it and organised the country’s first scholarship
for choir conductors. Since then I’ve never regretted a single day.”
Scholarship recipient Rasmussen proved
to be a
personified choral movement. He has travelled to every nook and cranny
of the region, held seminars for conductors and conducted local choirs
so the roof lifted from the rafters of community halls. Not to mention
he has ensured that an underbrush of qualified conductors has grown
forth. Amateur music is a passion he holds dear.
“Passionate driving forces like my father were pushed aside by people
who had barely begun at the conservatory, but came up to Vardø to write
off a study loan for a couple of years - and they wanted to get paid as
well. We professionals are dependent on a thriving amateur movement.”
Why
sing in a choir in Kjøllefjord?
“Singing
is the most fundamental expression people have. The first you heard was
hopefully that you were sung to. It’s an expression for love, joy and
sorrow. The essence of a person. I am touched to tears by Vardø female
choir. And it isn’t necessarily pure-toned, perfect pitched, balanced
and homogenous. These are ‘ordinary’ people doing something together,
and that amounts to more than just the sum of the people.”
On
clear days from Vardø he could
see Kola
Peninsula on the horizon.
“To me
the Iron Curtain was terrible. I wanted to use the music to break down
boundaries. Very romantic thoughts. But I’ve always had this idea of
enabling young people to meet across boundaries and sing together.”
He has
succeeded with this through, among others, Barents Choral Festival. But
there was a time when Rasmussen was supposed to defend the same border.
“It’s
beyond my understanding. I was a really hopeless soldier.” After having
fired a few rounds, the voice of the lieutenant resounded across the
rifle range at the recruit school.
“Rasmussen, that’s not funny anymore. Now, shoot at the bulls-eye!” He
was quickly moved over to Vardøhus fortress. Partly for the safety of
the Realm, partly because he had to practise before the admission
examination for the conservatory in Trondheim, and Vardø still lacked an
organist. Rasmussen’s CV is full of towns that on closer scrutiny have
something in common. They have been subject to the ravages of war.
“I’ve now
been invited to Guatemala. And I’m going. Not so as I can add it to my
list of merits, but because I believe it will make a difference in the
everyday life for people in a country on the brink of civil war if they
train ten conductors. Then I will have done something that means
something. I am provoked when I am asked whether it isn’t about time to
become an orchestra conductor. We’re not just playing with a hobby when
we sing in a choir. This is serious – and thereby rewarding.”
Rasmussen leafs respectfully through
the bound
score of Bach’s Mass in H Minor.
“This is
perfect. That is, until we humans start to mess it up. The mass is
church music’s Mount Everest.
He is
something special. There’s Bach, and then there’s all the rest. After
completing my education I didn’t dare do Bach for six years. There’s
what you might call a Bach Mafia that keeps an eye on what you do.
Either you have to be very brave, or have a lot of knowledge.”
Rasmussen
settled for the latter. Recently he sat in Leipzig and leafed through a
copy of the original score.
“It was
only then I comprehended he was a person. I saw how he became an old
man, hands shaky and blind through the 20 years it took for him to write
it.”
Rasmussen
holds an enthusiastic address on the symbolism of numbers in the work.
“Sanctus,
The Holy Spirit. Suddenly the number three crops up everywhere. The
choir is divided into three and three instruments. There are trios all
over the place.”
He runs
over to the piano again and plays some bass patterns.
“Everything has significance; everything fits into the total picture. I
represent something that is bigger than me, even when I conduct this
music. Something or other spiritual. But I wouldn’t define myself as a
believer. Unfortunately. I have great respect for faiths, but I feel
that I am moving further and further away from the point of departure.”
Over
the writing desk hangs
a framed
photograph of an organ.
What
did you call it? A Yamaha organ?
Rasmussen
is clearly considering whether to kick us out or not, but the pedagogue
in him takes over.
“Have you
heard of Hammond B3? This is the big brother, RT3. Deep Purple, Procul
Harum? A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Made in 1960, weighs 260 kilo and is
not for sale for love or money. We had to knock down a wall in the house
and hire a crane just to get it inside. I can quite honestly say it’s
the most precious possession I have.”
What
do you sing in the shower?
Rasmussen
pulls up a cell phone with diverse megabyte music, a metallic «Oompah
till you die » resounds from the loudspeaker.
“Kaizers
is the favourite.”
Rasmussen
has stood among sweaty young people watching Kaizers Orchestra play,
with a notebook in his hand. Outright industrial espionage.
“I have
tried to find out how they manage to get the audience to feel like they
are the best audience in the world – every evening.”
