This week, I’ve been indulging in a bit of painting – not the refined strokes of a portrait, mind you, but rather the far more prosaic task of doors and skirting boards! And let me tell you, when I dabble in a spot of DIY (which I am unashamedly dreadful at), I find it essential to have some calming music on hand.
It reminded me of a previous misadventure – assembling flat-pack furniture for a neighbour. Oh, how I could have done with a soothing melody then! Instead, I endured the ordeal in stark silence, save for the neighbour’s shrill, harpy-like laughter that pierced the air as I wrestled with bolts, screws, and an instruction manual written in what may as well have been ancient hieroglyphs. By the end, I was on the verge of hurling an Allen key at her, such was the ligament-stretching and spirit-crushing nature of the endeavour.
This time, however, I came prepared. With music to calm my nerves and still my inner chaos, I set to work. Among the pieces I chose was one so hauntingly beautiful it caught in my throat, leaving a lump in my chest that lingered long after the final notes faded. Truly, music can transform even the most mundane of tasks into something almost transcendent – or at the very least, bearable! I’ve been listening to this particular piece for years and it just gets better every time I hear it. Here we go.
Edvard Grieg’s Solveig’s Song is a tender, melancholic ode to devotion, steadfast love, and heartbreak, delicately embedded in Ibsen’s sprawling drama, Peer Gynt. But let’s not kid ourselves here – this isn’t just a beautiful song. It’s an emotional weapon disguised as music, ready to dissolve even the stoniest of souls into a puddle of tears, all while making us question what we ever did to deserve this aural ambush.
The Setup: “Oh, Solveig, Sweet Summer Child”. First, let’s address the context. Poor Solveig. This woman pledges her unwavering love to Peer, the quintessential anti-hero – a man who has all the charm of a rogue and the moral fibre of wet cardboard. Yet Solveig sticks by him, her loyalty shining brighter than the Norwegian fjords at sunrise. It’s almost absurdly tragic: she embodies the idea of love as patience, endurance, and (dare we say it) masochism.
Grieg’s genius lies in translating this heartache into a melody so achingly beautiful that you almost want to grab Solveig by the shoulders and scream, “Why are you doing this to yourself? He’s not worth it!” But alas, she sings, and we weep.
The Melody: A Hug That Squeezes Your Soul. The melody of Solveig’s Song is simplicity perfected. It’s like a folk tune that wandered into a master composer’s hands and became something much greater than itself. The opening is serene, almost lullaby-like, with a descending phrase that feels like the musical equivalent of a wistful sigh.
But then – oh, the betrayal – it sneaks into your chest and clenches your heart with its rising phrases, each one more yearning than the last. Grieg doesn’t just let you wallow in melancholy; he drags you into it, and by the time the song peaks, you’re left clutching your emotional support blanket. It’s like Grieg is saying, “You thought this was just a song? No, it’s therapy.”
The Lyrics: Poetry as Devotion (and a Cry for Help). Solveig’s lyrics are as pure and steadfast as her love. In singing that she will wait for Peer until he returns, no matter how long it takes, she channels the kind of loyalty most of us can only aspire to – if not pity. There’s a quiet dignity to her words, but let’s be honest: they’re also a bit troubling. It’s not often you see someone pledging to wait in emotional purgatory for a man who ghosted her years ago.
Imagine Solveig in the age of texting. Peer doesn’t reply to her messages, doesn’t like her Instagram posts, and has been ‘active 5 minutes ago’ on WhatsApp. Yet here she is, singing her eternal devotion as if the read receipt doesn’t scream “he’s moved on!”
The Harmony: Norwegian Melancholy with a Side of Drama. The harmonies in Solveig’s Song are a masterclass in understated drama. Grieg keeps it delicate, letting the vocal line shine, but there’s just enough tension in the accompaniment to remind you that this isn’t a happy tune. It’s not a song you’d play at a wedding (unless you’re marrying someone you suspect might disappear to the mountains for 20 years).
The subtle shifts in harmony mirror Solveig’s inner turmoil: the hope of reunion, the despair of waiting, and the tragic realisation that life may pass her by while she clings to her dream. It’s heartbreaking and stunningly Norwegian – a land that knows a thing or two about long winters and emotional endurance.
Humour Amid the Heartache: Grieg’s Subtle Irony? Now, let’s step back and consider the humour of it all. Peer, the man Solveig is singing about, is out gallivanting across the world, wrestling trolls, and generally making a mess of things. Meanwhile, Solveig is essentially stuck in the musical equivalent of a tragic Pinterest board about loyalty. The irony here is palpable: the noblest song in the entire suite is sung for one of the least noble characters in literature. If that’s not a cosmic joke, I don’t know what is.
Grieg, being no stranger to the complexities of human emotion, surely recognised this irony. Perhaps Solveig’s Song is meant to challenge us: Can we appreciate beauty and devotion even when they’re arguably misplaced? Or are we all just suckers for a sad tune?
Final Verdict: A Symphony of Sadness and Sublime. In the end, Solveig’s Song is a masterpiece that walks the tightrope between beauty and heartbreak. It’s a musical confession that sticks with you long after the last note fades, haunting you like the ghost of a missed opportunity – or a poorly timed text to an ex. Grieg’s music and Solveig’s lyrics combine to form something truly timeless, proving that even in our modern age of cynicism, pure love and aching melancholy still have a place.
But seriously, Solveig, maybe send Peer to voicemail next time.
Wording 
A wandering soul once told me the Scandinavians never got farther in their music than ABBA. What is it about the north of Europe that inspires such soulful white-person’s music? The music that defines a country can come from any direction but is typically not from the very largest city. So that, in Denmark, you get better music from the smaller cities than from Copenhagen. But at the same time, when the music is ready to come forth, the audience is there globally. That encourages the locals to keep trying, to become the next “U2.” Everybody wants to be Bono.
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Thank you, Greg, I’ll give your blog a look, certainly. Best wishes