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Abstract

d="316d">The historic road surface in front of the concert hall is a remnant from another time and decidedly high-heel unfriendly. Thankfully, broad heels manage these cobblestoned streets rather well. In keeping with its nautical exterior, the entrance amplifies the futuristic ship with white-washed walls and inlaid circular mirrors. Bizarre design features prompt me to hold onto the escalator handrail.</p><h1 id="e30e">Inside the ship</h1><p id="aeeb">Our tunnel-like ascent is claustrophobic. I hesitate to walk on the conveyor belt, even though the upward motion is neither exciting nor dangerously fast. Yet I feel stripped of the ability to walk, puzzled by the experience. I wonder if there are stairs. I want to take the stairs next time. Arriving at the end of the belt, I am ready for cultural consumption. But the ascent continues. Prompted to walk out of my own volition, I follow a turn and glimpse through oversized windows at the Hamburg skyline.</p><p id="a18e">And there, finally, a staircase opens up in front of us. My feet feel their way up the red-brick curvatures while I struggle to take it all in. There is no perpendicularity. <i>None</i> whatsoever. Every visual axis is partially interrupted by a corner or a bend, always directing one’s gaze into the distance. I circumvent the entrance to the main concert hall and spot the entrance to the other, smaller concert hall. Floor-to-ceiling glass leads out onto the circumferential plaza.</p><p id="f4be">I am fascinated, slightly irritated, and slowly regaining my sense of direction. My companion and I walk out onto the plaza. The slipstream of the ship offers wonderful views. Lights sparkle near and far. Hamburg is beautiful tonight. I feel the river beneath us. We stroll around one of the few orthogonal corners and are nearly pushed over the bulwark. This is where the knowledgeable wind is queen, amused by unsteady humans taking selfies and wobbling around on the exterior planks.</p><p id="4137">It is time to find our seats. We climb the imposing wooden staircase to the great concert hall. Broad steps and scarce handrails curve their way up onto a new level. There are no sharp edges here. Yet for our final leg of the journey to the cheap seats, we get on an actual escalator. Its commonplaceness is an insult in this otherwise extravagantly designed surrounding. We are the only two taking an escalator ride at this point, and when we get to our destination, silence absorbs us.</p><h1 id="b978">Sensory guidance system</h1><p id="d683">Soft tones and glass panes of extraordinary proportions dominate this level. Concave bends and twists convey that nothing here is what it seems. Perhaps we have arrived inside a human ear. The unique wall panels and window panes are like membranes, and neither of us dares to touch their surfaces. We sit on a soft bench and gaze into the distance. The glass in its inertia and the quietness of the space lull us into a pre-meditative state. The building suggests we empty our minds to focus solely on the concert.</p><p id="6036">A man in a stripey shirt quips not to take one of the wall panels as a souvenir. They are yet another aspect of what makes the Elbphilharmonie so extraordinary: Approximately 10,000 gypsum plasterboards make up the interior paneling of the <a href="https://www.inyourpocket.com/hamburg/elbphilharmonie-a-work-of-a

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rt_75196f">main concert hall</a>. Each unique plasterboard weighs 70 kg, with a milled 3D structure resembling waves and valleys. The interior is modelled on the calculation of renowned acoustician Yasuhisa Toyota. He developed the unusual “white skin” in collaboration with the computer scientist and musician Benjamin Samuel Koren.</p><p id="0ea7">The auditorium stretches out before me, and I am acutely aware of the sound barrier as we cross it. This womb is enormous. People down below look tiny as they, too, take their seats. Seats that are surprisingly unconformable and made for short people. We shift in ours, as the musicians arrive and take their places on stage: Strings and brass, a flutist, a harpist, and the conductor, who is also the composer of this piece. The room claps and then, on cue, goes quiet. Very, <i>very</i> quiet. People are holding their breaths. And it begins.</p><h1 id="8be1">A musical adventure</h1><p id="5dc5">Contemporary music, it seems, has a distinct way of disengaging traditional structures in music, to assemble them in a new manner. I came to this unprepared, for a variety of reasons. And in the first couple of minutes, I hear random notes strung together. Wedged between my equally puzzled companion and a seasoned concertgoer, I learn to just listen and watch. Musicians and their instruments craft an orchestrated feast of dissonant sounds, and after a while, I sense its meaning. It is not as dissonant as it seems.</p><p id="d12a">Soundscapes evolve out of madness and stir up emotions. It is like a walk in unknown territory, exploratory and inspirational. I am amazed at what this type of music can conjure: To me, there is sadness, and madness, happy little moments of light and heavy all-consuming pain. Rage and love. How extraordinary. The first piece is thirty minutes long, and it flies by. It is followed by an interview with the composers, and the second piece, which is fifty minutes long.</p><p id="e979">Unfortunately, the latter conjures a smaller emotional response. Its range plays on the dark side of emotion, and it is more difficult to endure. I yearn for a light moment, if only for an instant. But the lightness does not come. Instead, members of the audience leave prematurely. I understand them, but my companion and I remain in our seats. It is an experience, after all.</p><p id="d574">This womb nurtures orchestral music, and I am dazzled by these contemporary compositions. I dust off my comprehension of classical and contemporary music, and I could not have asked for a better teacher. I am not taking a recording home and appreciate that it belongs in a place like this. My filmmaker’s heart bounces with newly painted mental pictures. As it turns out, I do not need to “like” contemporary music to enjoy the experience tremendously.</p><p id="3285">After the concert, we descend from our cheap-seat thrones and walk down the winding staircase. Its wooden curves seem even more unsettling to me now, and I long for sharp edges. We are amused by the amount of time it takes to disembark the ship. But when we find ourselves out on the cobblestones, the night is dark and uninviting. The experience resonates with me in puzzling waves. We rush to the bar across the street, a halfway house, to acclimatize ourselves to the real world and the uneven ground beneath our feet.</p></article></body>

Hamburg in Concert

An evening of contemporary music at the Elbphilharmonie

The Elbphilharmonie protrudes into the current like a ship cut out of glass. She bathes in pride and the muddy waters of the Elbe river, with an architecture expressing mastery and madness. The structure holds little interest in the world as it moves beyond the need for representation. Since construction began in 2007, life has changed. Democracies and economies in Western societies barely make it through a day without news of destabilization.

The Elbphilharmonie construction was completed in November 2016, after many delays and at staggering costs. It may have been a different time then. According to numbers released by the Hamburg senate, the calculated budget of 77 million Euros increased to 866 million Euros in total. 90% of this came out of the city budget, and in all likelihood, the actual costs may have been even higher. Consequently, the nearly decade-long building period and aftermath allow for heated arguments on all fronts.

Additional private equity sources remain unknown. And in terms of the city budget, one is left wondering what clever accounting freed an extra 789 million Euros for building purposes. Hamburg residents and visitors are weary of the overpriced glass ship, repeatedly ranked among the top most expensive buildings in Europe. It conjures criticism and applause in equal measure. The subdued charm of the Hanseatic lifestyle defines this contrary landmark, an architectural shape-shifter. Its skin is made of concave windows that alter hues in correspondence with the weather. So as a concertgoer, what kind of place am I entering tonight?

Concert shoes and cobblestones

After the opening, tickets were rarely available, and prices were high. A little over six years in, tickets are more affordable, and the Elbphilharmonie experience remains breathtaking on many levels. The building appears like an alien ship, unique in execution and position. Its pointed form adheres to the river’s flow direction. At the same time, the roof remolds the tidal range of the Elbe.

Some day, the building might tip over into the river and leave this city, making its way to the open sea. But until then, the Elbphilharmonie welcomes tourists, hotel and spa guests, the owners of overpriced apartments on top of the building, and, of course, the concertgoers. The evening and going to a contemporary music concert deserve special attention. I am wearing high heels which make me feel simultaneously fabulous and insecure. I love these shoes, but I am naturally a more flat-shoed person.

The historic road surface in front of the concert hall is a remnant from another time and decidedly high-heel unfriendly. Thankfully, broad heels manage these cobblestoned streets rather well. In keeping with its nautical exterior, the entrance amplifies the futuristic ship with white-washed walls and inlaid circular mirrors. Bizarre design features prompt me to hold onto the escalator handrail.

Inside the ship

Our tunnel-like ascent is claustrophobic. I hesitate to walk on the conveyor belt, even though the upward motion is neither exciting nor dangerously fast. Yet I feel stripped of the ability to walk, puzzled by the experience. I wonder if there are stairs. I want to take the stairs next time. Arriving at the end of the belt, I am ready for cultural consumption. But the ascent continues. Prompted to walk out of my own volition, I follow a turn and glimpse through oversized windows at the Hamburg skyline.

And there, finally, a staircase opens up in front of us. My feet feel their way up the red-brick curvatures while I struggle to take it all in. There is no perpendicularity. None whatsoever. Every visual axis is partially interrupted by a corner or a bend, always directing one’s gaze into the distance. I circumvent the entrance to the main concert hall and spot the entrance to the other, smaller concert hall. Floor-to-ceiling glass leads out onto the circumferential plaza.

I am fascinated, slightly irritated, and slowly regaining my sense of direction. My companion and I walk out onto the plaza. The slipstream of the ship offers wonderful views. Lights sparkle near and far. Hamburg is beautiful tonight. I feel the river beneath us. We stroll around one of the few orthogonal corners and are nearly pushed over the bulwark. This is where the knowledgeable wind is queen, amused by unsteady humans taking selfies and wobbling around on the exterior planks.

It is time to find our seats. We climb the imposing wooden staircase to the great concert hall. Broad steps and scarce handrails curve their way up onto a new level. There are no sharp edges here. Yet for our final leg of the journey to the cheap seats, we get on an actual escalator. Its commonplaceness is an insult in this otherwise extravagantly designed surrounding. We are the only two taking an escalator ride at this point, and when we get to our destination, silence absorbs us.

Sensory guidance system

Soft tones and glass panes of extraordinary proportions dominate this level. Concave bends and twists convey that nothing here is what it seems. Perhaps we have arrived inside a human ear. The unique wall panels and window panes are like membranes, and neither of us dares to touch their surfaces. We sit on a soft bench and gaze into the distance. The glass in its inertia and the quietness of the space lull us into a pre-meditative state. The building suggests we empty our minds to focus solely on the concert.

A man in a stripey shirt quips not to take one of the wall panels as a souvenir. They are yet another aspect of what makes the Elbphilharmonie so extraordinary: Approximately 10,000 gypsum plasterboards make up the interior paneling of the main concert hall. Each unique plasterboard weighs 70 kg, with a milled 3D structure resembling waves and valleys. The interior is modelled on the calculation of renowned acoustician Yasuhisa Toyota. He developed the unusual “white skin” in collaboration with the computer scientist and musician Benjamin Samuel Koren.

The auditorium stretches out before me, and I am acutely aware of the sound barrier as we cross it. This womb is enormous. People down below look tiny as they, too, take their seats. Seats that are surprisingly unconformable and made for short people. We shift in ours, as the musicians arrive and take their places on stage: Strings and brass, a flutist, a harpist, and the conductor, who is also the composer of this piece. The room claps and then, on cue, goes quiet. Very, very quiet. People are holding their breaths. And it begins.

A musical adventure

Contemporary music, it seems, has a distinct way of disengaging traditional structures in music, to assemble them in a new manner. I came to this unprepared, for a variety of reasons. And in the first couple of minutes, I hear random notes strung together. Wedged between my equally puzzled companion and a seasoned concertgoer, I learn to just listen and watch. Musicians and their instruments craft an orchestrated feast of dissonant sounds, and after a while, I sense its meaning. It is not as dissonant as it seems.

Soundscapes evolve out of madness and stir up emotions. It is like a walk in unknown territory, exploratory and inspirational. I am amazed at what this type of music can conjure: To me, there is sadness, and madness, happy little moments of light and heavy all-consuming pain. Rage and love. How extraordinary. The first piece is thirty minutes long, and it flies by. It is followed by an interview with the composers, and the second piece, which is fifty minutes long.

Unfortunately, the latter conjures a smaller emotional response. Its range plays on the dark side of emotion, and it is more difficult to endure. I yearn for a light moment, if only for an instant. But the lightness does not come. Instead, members of the audience leave prematurely. I understand them, but my companion and I remain in our seats. It is an experience, after all.

This womb nurtures orchestral music, and I am dazzled by these contemporary compositions. I dust off my comprehension of classical and contemporary music, and I could not have asked for a better teacher. I am not taking a recording home and appreciate that it belongs in a place like this. My filmmaker’s heart bounces with newly painted mental pictures. As it turns out, I do not need to “like” contemporary music to enjoy the experience tremendously.

After the concert, we descend from our cheap-seat thrones and walk down the winding staircase. Its wooden curves seem even more unsettling to me now, and I long for sharp edges. We are amused by the amount of time it takes to disembark the ship. But when we find ourselves out on the cobblestones, the night is dark and uninviting. The experience resonates with me in puzzling waves. We rush to the bar across the street, a halfway house, to acclimatize ourselves to the real world and the uneven ground beneath our feet.