Terje Rypdal
Odyssey

Terje Rypdal guitar, string ensemble, soprano saxophone
Torbjørn Sunde trombone
Brynjulf Blix organ
Sveinung Hovensjø 6 & 4 string Fender bass
Svein Christiansen drums
Recorded August 1975 at Arne Bendiksen Studio, Oslo
Engineer: Jan Erik Kongshaug
Produced by Manfred Eicher

I first heard Terje Rypdal’s Odyssey, one of the Norwegian guitarist’s more successful albums, in the mid-nineties. Still young in my ECM explorations and barely creeping over into Garbarek, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The CD fell out of rotation quickly, I’m afraid to say, buried under a pile of New Series albums that were then dominating my attention. Years later, and well into my own listening odyssey, I returned to it, only to find that it had never left me.

Once you hear the plangent cry that swoons us into “Darkness Falls,” you know you’re in Rypdal territory. It is a place of intense clarity and emotive immediacy. The solid bass vamp of “Midnite” (courtesy of Sveinung Hovensjø), which presses on for the next 17 minutes, epitomizes the Rypdal of old with its progressive solitude. A carefully pedaled guitar and alluring soprano sax (played by Rypdal himself) careen through its nocturnal billows with a humble melodic ferocity as Torbjørn Sunde lights the sky with his muted trombone. The following “Adagio” is a classic in and of itself. Its Solina strings paint a dark but clearly discernible picture, into which Rypdal’s guitar spills its ether: a statement of autonomy in its coolest disguise. “Better Off Without You” walks in circles, only occasionally poking its head above the watery depths of its indecision. “Over Birkerot” transplants us into a punchier setting. The guitar is still firmly grounded here but rife with narrative fertility. Grumbling horn blasts (think Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack to Inception on a smaller scale) add deeper visceral impact. Midway through, Rypdal rocks out in a cathartic change of pace from the elegiac free-flows of his surroundings before moving on to “Fare Well.” In this languid suspension, we find Rypdal in a particularly elegiac mode, crossing paths with vibraphonic sustains. At last, we reach the end with “Ballade,” a guitar-heavy track that becomes more electronically enhanced as it moves along. Its blinding glare comes from the force of a distant hope.

Rypdal has an incisive way of building anticipation, of dropping his solos at the most carefully thought-out points. His guitar is like a string of codas with no need for beginnings. Like the photo that graces its cover, Odyssey captures the life of a nomadic musician in candid monochrome. Although the album has been reissued on CD, the 24-minute “Rolling Stone” sadly did not survive the digital makeover. A gorgeous, organ-infused underwater symphony, it flows like a Robin Guthrie excursion with its tinny echoes and whammy bar ornaments before bringing on the album’s most rock-oriented developments. It also charts Rypdal in a pivotal moment of self-discovery where his tone began to coalesce into the sound for which he has come to be known. Worth the price of any vinyl copy you can find.