The air outside the SEC Armadillo carried the last breath of winter, crisp and electric with anticipation. Fans gathered in the cold, wrapped in cloaks, furs, and heavy fabrics as if preparing for a pilgrimage. This was more than a concert; it was a summoning. Inside, the low hum of voices dissolved as the lights dimmed, and the journey began.
The first notes came softly, almost a whisper in the darkness. Jo Quail, alone with her electric cello, Halo, handmade in Fort William, emerged in a pool of pale blue light, bow poised like a blade before the first strike. As she began “Rex”, her instrument looped upon itself, each phrase building a hypnotic web of sound. The audience stood transfixed, drawn into a trance of cascading echoes and layered resonance.
Her setlist unfolded like an incantation. “Embrace” was mournful yet tender, shifting effortlessly between fragility and intensity. Before playing it, she spoke to the audience, explaining that the song was inspired by the connections we make throughout our lives. She described an intangible, invisible thread that binds us to everyone we have ever crossed paths with, a connection that remains whether we are aware of it or not. It was a moment of quiet reflection, an invitation to consider the unseen bonds that shape our journeys.
By the time she reached “Adder Stone”, the hall vibrated with a low, primal energy, each note rolling like waves over the gathered faithful. There was power in her restraint, in the way she could hold silence just long enough before unleashing a storm of sound.
At times, her music felt weightless, floating through the rafters like a spectre of something ancient. Other moments carried a deep, earth-shaking gravity, pulling the crowd into something almost tactile. As she finished her set, there was a hush of reverence in the room before applause followed, she had left a mark, a ripple in the air, a resonance that would linger.
When the stage darkened again, time seemed to stretch and contract. A video of a white crow appeared on the screen, its piercing gaze locking onto us. The cawing of the crow echoed through the speakers, eerie and reverent, a harbinger of the journey ahead. Then, a single deep drumbeat reverberated through the hall, sending a shiver down the spine. Wardruna had arrived.
Einar Selvik stood at the centre, clad in dark layers, his presence calm but commanding, like a skald of old stepping through the mists of time. The opening notes of “Kvitravn” rang out, haunting and raw, as voices layered upon voices, weaving harmonies that felt less like music and more like an invocation. The journey had begun.
The deep pulse of “Hertan” followed, the thunderous percussion striking like ritualistic heartbeats. The tension in the room built steadily all the way until “Rotlaust Tre Fell” crashed upon us, a storm of drums and chants that sent bodies swaying. The hall became a breathing entity, moving with the rhythm of the past.
Yet, there were moments of stillness, too. “Solringen” arrived like sunlight piercing through storm clouds, its delicate chimes and melodic whispers a moment of respite. The crowd was silent, utterly enraptured. “Grá” felt like a call across the ages, voices echoing into eternity. Then, “Himinndotter” soared, lifting the energy once more, like flames licking at the night sky.
Before launching into “Fehu”, Einar paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to pull us back into the present. His voice, when he spoke, was steady, filled with both gravity and warmth. “Singing is the oldest instrument we have,” he said, scanning the room. “It carries stories, emotions, and meaning beyond words. It is the voice of our ancestors speaking through us.”
He let those words settle before continuing.
“Your homework is to sing more. Not just at concerts, not just in joy, but as a way to carry something forward. To .”
Then came “Fehu”, a song of movement, trade, and power. The thunderous drums returned, the rhythm undeniable. The entire hall shook with a primal energy, and it made me want to headbang, the sheer force of the music pulling at something instinctual, something wild.
As the night wound to a close, the final song came, “Helvegen”, Wardruna’s lament to death and transition. The first, fragile notes hung in the air like mist over a river, delicate yet unyielding. Einar’s voice carried through the hush, and the audience listened in stillness, no voices daring to in.
It was not just a song. It was a shared ritual, an unspoken understanding that this music transcended the moment. When the last note faded into silence, there was a pause, heavy with reverence. Then, the first standing ovation.
Wardruna stood, absorbing the energy, returning it in kind. But the night was not yet over.
After the applause subsided, Einar returned to the stage alone. The audience stilled once more as he spoke. “Some of the oldest songs are lullabies,” he said, his voice quiet but certain. “They are songs of comfort, songs that bridge the world of wakefulness and sleep. This one is a lullaby from the perspective of a mother bear, sung to her cub. I can think of no better way to end this night than with a lullaby.”
Then he played “Hibjørnen”, the hall wrapped in its gentle, lilting melody. It was a farewell, but also a blessing, an invitation to carry the warmth of the night into the dreams that would follow. As the final note faded, another standing ovation erupted, a wave of gratitude washing over the stage.
And then, the night faded. The spell was cast, the rite performed. We emerged back into the Glasgow air, changed. The echoes of Jo Quail’s cello and Wardruna’s chants lingered in the spaces between breaths.
The concert was over, but the ritual would never end.
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Photos by Skull Lens Photography
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