Out of the blue

As I look around the courtyard of the Progr, where the Bern Music Festival has its headquarters, between two events on the Friday of the festival, the gusts of wind from a nearby thunderstorm whip past. A white festival balloon is flapping back and forth on its string, unpredictably, unpredictably - abruptly. It perfectly attunes me to acoustic events between abrupt emergence, unexpected presence and uncontrollable disappearance. A Cage room is also set up here. The master of chance in new music is an essential part of this motto; on a long Cage night, his sounds sprout like mushrooms ...

Beforehand, I attended the performance in the cathedral. After the busy alleyways beforehand, I suddenly found myself standing in the quiet of the nave before joining the waiting audience at the front of the crypt. Messiaen's Quatuor pour la fin du temps began. A presenter explained how the piece was created: winter 1941, the composer, a prisoner of war, writes for the cast, which is formed from his fellow prisoners. And he writes "for the end of time". One expects visions of horror. But where the end, death could follow, Messiaen lets songs of praise resound, ecstatic colors swirl, instrumental lines drift away from time. How must this music have affected his fellow prisoners in their hunger, coldness and despair? Unmediated consolation.

I was prepared for the music here in the cathedral. I am undecided. Yes, it helps to understand the piece, or rather: to better appreciate the incomprehensible and unbelievable. And perhaps it also helps to arouse curiosity and attract listeners. And at the same time, it prevents encounters out of the blue. According to the festival flyer, mediation is particularly in demand in new music. The Bern Music Festival does a lot in this respect with introductions, listening walks, workshops for schools and young people, and it is also aware of the dilemma - especially when it comes to the topic of "unmediated".

After my balloon encounter, I find myself at a living room opera. On the third floor of a house on Herrengasse, I sit down with a handful of curious people in the armchairs and chairs provided. I'm curious to see how the expected sounds will work among such familiar things as walls of books, sofas and houseplants. Lukas Hasler explains that the duo opera has been reduced to a solo singspiel due to illness. Then he lets a diabolo whir, begins to speak, sing, read aloud, play a dulcimer, sometimes doubled by a cassette player. He always remains quiet, persistent, he insists. The aim, I read in the program, is for the things that surround us to finally speak to us. I like the crazy idea, but apart from the gentle patience of the performer, the project doesn't come across to me. The things don't speak to me. So the unmediated is circled around. Sometimes it presents itself.