Up north in Scandinavia you sometimes experience these crisp, still, cold winter days, when the glare of the sun suddenly hits you horizontally, almost blinding you the short time the sun barely rises above the horizon, when the crystals on the snow fields glitter, and it’s so cold that shots ring out like gun fire from the trunks of the trees in the forests, and the snow under your boots crunches loudly when you move, before the sun sinks back down again and leaves you to the stars and the moon and an occasional comet.

Then you think that you hear a tone, barely audible, floating in the air over the snow in front of you, and then all around you, and you can’t make out it’s origin, and it’s like the music of the angels, but it gets louder and completely surrounds you, and it gets sharp and relentless, but it has it’s very own beauty, and you can’t decide if it comes from within yourself or originates in the electro-magnetic force-fields of the northern lights or in the glittering photon dance of the snow crystals, or if it’s just the spirit of the Winter Wilderness of the North that haunts you; the Call of the Wild!

Iancu Dumitrescu’s music is like this; haunting, penetrating, but with an inherent beauty that overwhelmes you, and out of his sonic world reach the fingers of a loved one touching your face very lightly where you lie resting in a state between wakeness and dreams, where anything is possible; where you can cast off your material body and be all spirit, suspended in space and time, just watching, just listening, just receiving and experiencing, in a totally focused perception.

I’m sure you can find these nature analogies pertaining to Iancu Dumitrescu’s sound explorations anywhere on Earth, and I believe that the deserts in the writings of J. M. G. Le Clèzio give just as good an analogy as does the tundra of northern lands. Imagine yourself deep in the deserts, amongst the sand dunes, in the middle of the day, with the noonday sun beating down without mercy out of the bottomless voids of Space, and you begin to hallucinate, and cool mirages appear all around you, and in the mix of these hallucinations from within your mind and the mirages over the sand dunes, you hear this tone, and it’s barely audible, but it increases in strength, and it’s a beautiful but dangerous sound, which cuts right through you, and you are on the verge of heat stroke, and this is Iancu Dumitrescu’s music too.

Dumitrescu’s music is new, but be sure that it’s old and ancient; I can see the blacksmith hammering the blade of his sword in a village in the Europe of Rabelais and Petrarca, and I can see Mediterranean ships of the golden age of Homer, navigating the waters of classical metres. I can see Moses wandering through the Wilderness of Moab. I can feel the abyss of the archetypical experiences of mankind, way beyond any historical account, way beyond any conscious awareness, deep down in the pre-conscious and the unconscious, where the forces of the Universe rule. This places Dumitrescu amongst the likes of C. G. Jung and R. D. Laing, amongst the foremost explorers of the mind, and all you need to come along for the journey is a CD-player and an open mind.

His soundscape is not a pretty one, but it’s beautiful. It’s forceful to the limits of being unbearable, yet light as a feather on the breath of God. It’s like molten steal streaming out of the ovens, and it’s like a spider’s web in the backlighting of the forest. This is no game; this is serious. You cannot take his music lightly. It forces you to experience the world in a way that changes you. In certain aspects it’s like medicin for your senses. It cleans out what ever is there, and opens new rooms in your mind. Eventually these new rooms expand, and you find yourself in a fresh landscape with wide views all the way to the horizon, and your body rests heavily in your arm-chair at home, in front of the loud-speakers, and your soul is a clear mirror under the stars.

Then you think that you hear a tone, barely audible, that sort of floats in the air, and then all around you, and you can’t make out it’s origin, and it’s like the music of angels...