Translated Text (English):

Joni Mitchell with Vinnie Colaiuta, Mike Landau, Russ Ferrante and Larry Klein, Falkoner Teatret, Saturday.

WHEN SHE moved, her feet didn't touch the earth. And when she sang, angels glided through the room as if it were a quiet given that they would find their places in every corner of the hall, from where they sent balsamic breezes on a conquest to the most well-guarded places in consciousness.

Joni Mitchell had come to town. For the first time, but she stood there as if she had never been away for more than an hour.

Fluid and fleeting as a faun, and as inevitable as fate. She spent two hours reminding us that music, at its longest reach, comes to be about more than itself.

There was no Wine & Beer-god atmosphere here like on Thursday in Brøndbyhallen with Dire Straits. No genuflecting for cheap effects or angling for rhythmic applause. Only a human being, who, together with her musicians, wanted to let us participate in a shared, redemptive breath.

Certainly, she would sometimes do more than she could with her phrasing, which, unfortunately in love with jazz, can become more shrilly agile, but more important was her desire to do her work so easily that it alone became an experience for us down there in the semi-darkness.

She didn't sing anything new for the Mitchell congregation, but gave almost all the songs, acoustic or electric, solistically performed or accompanied, a twist, an extra, almost imperceptible attack. She sang them not to assert recognition's applause, but to move forward with them.

There were songs about dreams we cling to for fear they might come true. Songs about what happens when feelings sound a false alarm. Songs about seeking refuge in flight into oneself or out on the highway's white stripes. And songs about the hunger in the mind, the hunger that is hardest to satisfy, because one feels equally tempted by freedom and security.

All performed as if it were the natural, uncomplicated thing with accompaniment, which with a gross understatement constantly stayed on the same wavelength as the soloist.

Perhaps the guitarist Mike Landau stood out, but mostly because he was placed in a niche where there was only room to move halfway between Pat Metheny and Larry Carlton. And there's not much space.

Excellent, on the other hand, was drummer Vinnie Colaiuta with an empathetic, figurative playing well challenged by Larry Klein's aggressive, Jaco Pastorius-sounding, but never imitative bass playing, which contained both poetry and dynamics.

And Joni Mitchell didn't just have the guitar hanging for show. I don't know what playing teachers would say about her finger-picking technique, but in her nonchalant work there are the same possibilities for both the forceful and the subtle.

'If I didn't have love, I'd be nothing' she sang near the end. If Joni Mitchell didn't exist, we'd have to invent her. She enriches music. Without her we would be poorer.

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Original Danish text:

Joni Mitchell m. Vinnie Colaiuta, Mike Landau, Russ Ferrante og Larry Klein, Falkoner Teatret, lørdag.

NÅR HUN bevægede sig, rørte hendes fødder ikke jorden. Og når hun sang gled engle gennem rummet for siden som en tyst selvfølge at finde deres pladser i hvert hjørne af salen, hvorfra de sendte balsamiske briser på erobringstogt til de bedst bevogtede steder i bevidstheden.

Joni Mitchell var kommet til byen. For første gang, men hun stod der som havde hun aldrig været længere væk end én times tid.

Forflyttende, og flygtig som en faun, og så uundgåelig som skæbnen. To timer brugte hun på at minde os om, at musik altid, når den når længst, kommer til at handle om mere end sig selv.

Her var ingen Vin & Ølgodstemning som i torsdags i Brøndbyhallen med Dire Straits. Intet knæfald for billige effekter eller anglen efter taktfaste klapsalver. Kun et menneske, der sammen med sine musikere ville lade os deltage i et fælles forløsende ånde-træt.

Vist ville hun af og til mere end hun kunne med sine fraseringer, den ulykkeligt forelsket i jazz'en godt kan blive mere skingrende smidige, men vigtigere var hendes ønske om at gøre sit arbejde så let det alene blev en oplevelse for os dernede i halvmørket.

Hun sang ikke noget nyt for Mitchell-menigheden, men gav næsten alle sangene, akustiske eller elektriske, solistisk fremførte eller akkompagnerede, en drejning, et ekstra, næsten umærkeligt attack. Hun sang dem ikke for at hævde genkendelsens bifald, men for at komme videre med dem.

Der var sange om drømmene, vi hænger om af frygt for at de skal gå i opfyldelse. Sange om det, der sker, når følelser ne slår falsk alarm. Sange om at søge tilflugt i flugten ind i sig selv eller ud ad landevejens hvide striber. Og sange om sulten i sindet, den sult, der er sværest at stille, fordi man føler sig lige fristet af frihed og tryghed.

Alt udført som var det den naturlige, ukomplicerede sag med akkompagnement, der med en grov underdrivelse bestandigt så på samme bølgelængde som solisten.

Svængt stod måske guitaristen Mike Landau, men mest fordi han var placeret i en niche, hvor der kun blev plads

til at bevæge sig midtvejs mellem Pat Metheny og Larry Carlton. Og der er ikke megen plads.

Fremragende var derimod trommeslageren Vinnie Colaiuta med et indfølt, figurativt spil godt udfordret af Larry Kleins aggressive, Jaco Pastorius-lydende, men aldrig efterlignende basspil, der indeholdt både poesi og dynamik.

Og Joni Mitchell havde ikke bare guitaren hængende til pynt. Jeg ved ikke, hvad spillelærere ville sige til hendes finger-picking teknik, men der er i hendes nonchalante arbejde samme muligheder for såvel det slagkraftige som det subtile.

'If I didn't have love, I'd be nothing' sang hun mod slutningen. Hvis Joni Mitchell ikke fandtes, ville vi være nødt til at opfinde hende. Hun beriger musikken. Uden hende ville vi være fattigere.