It has been a rough 15 years for Australian Björk fans. Like a cult whose leader swiftly abandoned us with no explanation, we’ve oscillated between naive hope and complete despair, waiting for her return. Why hadn’t the Icelandic singer-songwriter – the most singular musician in a generation – played here for so long? Was she refusing (or, worse, had she forgotten?) to perform nearly half of her discography here? Would she ever come back? Did … did we do something wrong?
If you’re a geriatric millennial Björk fan like me, her absence has felt almost personal. We were too young for 1994’s Big Day Out. We missed her sold-out-in-minutes show on the Opera House steps after 2007’s Volta. Those who caught her DJ set at Sydney’s Carriageworks for 2016’s Vivid left us confused and bereft. None of the music was Björk’s; no one could see her behind a strategically placed pot plant. (“Do we even know that was her?” punters asked.) She hasn’t played live in Australia since 2008.
Now, all is forgiven. Or, rather, full of love. What we witnessed on the opening night of Cornucopia – the first of four shows Björk will play in Australia, and a Perth festival exclusive – was the ultimate expression of her artistry, an electrifying culmination of everything she has worked on since 1993’s Debut. Björk had already perfected minimalism with 1997’s Homogenic (beats, strings, voice) and 2004’s Medúlla (almost entirely a capella). Cornucopia sees Björk at her maximalist best.
At first glance, you might assume Perth is lucky to have scored Björk at all. When she insisted Cornucopia would be staged in only one Australian city, the most geographically isolated city in the world didn’t scream “likely winner”. But Perth festival did its homework. They won the bid by pitching to the renowned nature-enthusiast – who collaborated with Sir David Attenborough during 2011’s Biophilia – that Noongar Boodjar is “one of the most biodiverse places on the planet”. It’s also home to some of the oldest geographic formations on Earth, in a neat contrast to Iceland’s adolescent volcanic wonders. It’s a great sell. And audiences have flown across the continent – and world – just for it.
In Langley Park, Perth festival has specially constructed a 100 x 55m pavilion with 5000 seats, custom made for a sonic and visual spectacular. Co-directed by acclaimed Argentinian film-maker Lucrecia Martel, Cornucopia is designed as a lush art installation and opening ceremony as much as pop concert. Björk might primarily be a composer and musician, but she is also a collaborative multimedia artist. Her songs – like puzzles – often only become unlocked and make more sense with a visual accompaniment. Think of how synonymous her early hits were with her videos: her deranged cartoon self tearing apart a chicken in I Miss You; the emotional eruptions of her home country in Jóga; the sexual intensity of Pagan Poetry, in which a nude and post-coital Björk literally sews her body into a wedding dress.
“When I get asked about the differences of the music on my records, I find it quickest to use visual shortcuts,” Björk recently said on her podcast Sonic Symbolism. “It’s kind of why my album covers are almost like homemade tarot cards. The image on the front might seem just like a visual moment. But for me, it is simply describing the sound of it.”
She takes that visualisation to the next level with Cornucopia. Early in the set, during The Gate, the entire pavilion shudders and throbs with light, as if we were all inside an electronic womb of Björk’s making. During the ecstatic rushes of Arisen My Senses, feathers, tendons and strings repeatedly explode around her. Two songs – Ovule and Atopos – represent the first time Björk has performed them live anywhere in the world.
Mostly, Cornucopia mines 2017’s Utopia (an album that’s all Disney flutes and birdsong, scoring a paradise after the post-breakup hell of 2015’s Vulnicura) and 2022’s Fossora (preoccupations: clarinets; the death of Björk’s mother; fungus). Björk has pointed out that the two albums are in conversation: both delve into concepts of nature, healing and regeneration.
Both albums also feature a lot of woodwind. Icelandic flute septet Viibra dance while they perform. (It’s entirely possible they’ve pioneered the concept of a choreographed flute section.) An 18-strong choir – who everyone is thrilled to discover are locals from Perth – anchors everything with humane beauty.
However, for longtime Björk fans, added joy comes from how her hits are arranged with approaches from utterly different albums. Hidden Place (from 2001’s Vespertine) is rendered even more sacred with the a capella treatment from 2004’s Medúlla. Mouth’s Cradle – originally comprising of human vocals alone – is paired with live frenetic drumming straight from 2007’s Volta. Mega-hit Isobel – from 1995’s Post – swaps strings with the exhilarating cartoon flutes from 2017’s Utopia. The result is a pure headrush.
As with everything Björk does, there is a thesis and provocation here, too. After she finishes her main set, Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg appears as a projection, directly addressing – and challenging – the crowd on the climate emergency, in a region of the world that has gotten fat, comfortable and rich from fossil fuels. If you are enjoying this celebration of natural wonder and art so much, Björk and Thunberg ask, what exactly are you going to do outside these walls to protect it?
And Cornucopia is ultimately a celebration of nature. The visuals surrounding us are almost live organisms themselves, programmed to respond seamlessly to the sound produced on stage. Björk cries out in song and flowers bloom. Flutes tweet happily and fungal spores shudder. It reminds me of how, in the world of Tolkien – another artist who celebrated the sanctity of nature – it is believed nature was sung into existence. We might be doing our best to destroy it, especially in this part of the world. But tonight Björk reminds us that art has its own responsibilities too. And the first step is to show up.
Björk performs at the Perth festival on 3, 6, 9 and 12 March
