Friday December 20 found a friend and I hoofing it to try and find a fast (not fast food) restaurant in the bustling Mississippi district before a show, only to land at Twozone Chicken PNW, a hole-in-the-wall Korean fried chicken spot that had bangin’ kimchi sliders, crisp dill pickle spears and perfect crinkle fries. Our ultimate destination, however, was not culinary, but ritual: an ancient ritual, one to banish the midwinter darkness and bring light back to our lives. 

In this case the ritual took place at the Alberta Abbey, an old church converted into an event space. The form of the ritual took the shape of a tale involving the old pagan gods of Northern Europe: The Midwinter Revels’ Norse Fire, A Celebration of the Solstice.

First there was something to learn about the Revels themselves. Started in Boston in 1957 by John Langstaff, the Revels are a celebration centered on a different theme each year, a celebration that includes traditional dancing and singing (in both of which the audience is encouraged to take part at various times); instrumental music; drama; poetry; and in this case a mummer’s play, an ancient tradition dating back to the Middle Ages. There are also “touchstones,” or certain features of the revels that reoccur in every performance from year to year, but not necessarily in the same guise. This year’s Revels told the story of Astrid, a young girl whose beloved grandfather was near death, and whose death Astrid did not want to accept. 

After music director Daniel Buchanan explained the importance to the revels tradition of singing in community, he taught the audience a simple round and gave some pointers on pronunciation. Towering over the stage was an image of Yggdrasil, the giant ash tree that represents the Nine Realms of the Norse world. Suddenly all was plunged into darkness, and an eerie group of three silhouetted figures, robed and hooded, danced and swayed with unearthly grace to the sounds of a brass choir playing beautifully arranged Scandinavian carols. 

As the light began slowly returning, the Norns retreated and a large chorus of adults and children, dressed in (presumably) ancient Fennoscandian clothing, began singing Morten Lauridsen’s Sure on this Shining Night. I often find Lauridsen overly sentimental and bordering on sappy, but this night it was very ably sung, and somehow fitting. The chorus sang with accuracy, purpose, and focused intuition all evening.

After a Finnish tune, the audience participated in singing The Brave Ship, consisting of new lyrics set to the tune of an ancient Swedish carol known as Good King Wenceslas.  “Out across the winter sea comes a brave ship sailing,” went the first verse to the well-known tune. The chorus sang another carol, one I’ve never heard but that belongs right up there with the most delightful popular carols: Sankt Staffans Visa (St. Stephen’s Journey). Spritely, joyous, and full of boundless effervescence, it featured bell-like sopranos and a rapidly interwoven series of “Ira!”s pinging off one another and moving between voice parts.

Another highlight of the first half was the telling of the “Three Billy Goats Gruff,” a folk tale of Norwegian origin that tells of a group of goats trying to cross a bridge, under which lives a voracious troll. A young girl playing the grandfather goat, and a chorus of boys doing the puppetry of the evil troll as it is tricked by the goats was too cute for words. Having multiple voices speak the part of the troll made it sound otherworldly and weird, even as the audience was in stitches throughout the whole bit.

Blå Tonar Fra Lom (Blue Notes from the Lom) was fascinating. Vocalist and multi-instrumentalist Merideth Kaye Clark sang a tune that was meant to mimic the ancient shepherd’s pipes of this part of the world, and included notes that are microtones (the titular “blue notes”), or notes that are in between the semitone pitches of Western music. So it comes off sounding “out of tune” to an ear accustomed primarily to the diatonic and chromatic scales of Western music, but its performance represents mastery of a very difficult challenge.

Previously, Astrid’s grandfather had tried to explain to her that there was no way for him to escape death, and now Astrid meets Jólnir (another name for Odin) who takes her on a journey to meet the Norns, and explains that once they have woven their tapestry, no one, not her grandfather nor Jólnir himself, can change their fate. “Grief is one of the faces of love,” the wise old god tells the grieving Astrid, though it seems not to help her much.

As the half ended with Morris dancing to Lord of the Dance–one of the touchstones of Midwinter Revels–the audience was invited to sing a dancing song to the tune of the Shaker song, and were also invited to dance, as many did. Personally, I declined.

The brass choir played a beautiful rendition of Palestrina’s Jesu Rex Admirabilis, which was followed by the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, based on an ancient ritual for good luck in hunting.  The dance was very stylized and went on for some time. Danced to a light-hearted tune, the number was somehow dark and strange nonetheless, as antlered figures wheeled and wove about one another in very dim light. It felt like a strange dream that goes on for ages, and when one awakes the feeling lingers long after.

Trøllabundin, a song by Faroese singer/songwriter Eivør Pálsdóttir, was one of the most mind-blowing things I have heard in a long time. Sung a cappella by Clarke, it was at once ancient, savage, ethereal and beautiful, but never gentle. Wailing, glissando sighing and chanting, interspersed with guttural inspirations and animalistic growls as she banged out a primordial rhythm on a tabor, this song easily could have been performed at a folk metal show, where it would have slayed the audience.

The audience sang twice more: once singing the round we were taught earlier, and later we sang the English lyrics for Sibelius’ hymn-like Finlandia, and then the Mummer’s Play took place. An ancient tale, it is, according to the Revels: “…with its archetypal cast of characters, an ancient form of drama found in many cultures, symbolizing fertility death and rebirth…combat by champions, violent death and magical restoration of life.” A wandering troop of travelers seeking food is bidden by a group of villagers to perform for their supper, so they settle on doing a play; there was a running joke about them not being able to do anything with goats which was a bit confusing, but in the end, all the elements of the mummer’s play were there.

The most captivating part of it was the energetic sword dance, which was exhausting just to watch, as a troop of dancers, each with a sword, swayed, reeled, and wove in and out of one another, performing one trompe l’oeil after another with the swords until finally all the swords were somehow woven into a self-sustaining seven-pointed star. A truly virtuosic display of folk dancing that originated in the Shetland and Orkney islands.

It’s difficult to convey how all this fit together, and just how much dancing, singing, acting and merrymaking of all kinds there was; one would have to be there to get it. This being a production on Scandinavian themes, even Abba found its way into the mix somehow. But this confusing welter of entertainment struck the right tone for the season. Joy, children, stories, sadness, music, death. There’s a reason we get sad in the winter, when the days are so short and the nights seem endless, a reason why we need lights in the darkness, and songs to gladden hearts whose own lights are dim. The Midwinter Revels certainly succeeded at that.