Twelve Bodies, One Song

One Song: Histoire(s) du Théâtre IV

Miet Warlop February 6–7, 2026

Dansens Hus, Stockholm

Miet Warlop ensemble members in One Song. Photo: © Michiel Devijv

Belgian artist Miet Warlop’s One Song premiered at Festival d’Avignon back in 2022, yet it felt fresh and timely the same weekend the 2026 Winter Games kicked off in Milan and Cortina. For its cast of twelve, One Song is no less a test of human endurance than any sport played at the highest level; multiple performers’ costumes were soaked with sweat well before water started falling onto them from above. Behind them, five spectators cheered and heckled from bleachers upstage, next to a sort of referee or commentator whose words — whether whispered or shouted — were almost totally incomprehensible due to the broken, blown out bullhorn her handset was plugged into.

This character, onstage alone, begins One Song as the audience settles. She is garishly made up and her hair (or wig) covers her sun visor completely. She repeatedly cracks herself up, so much so that many in the house start to chuckle along, despite not really knowing what’s so funny or why. The house lights then dim and the rest of the cast appears. The bulbs onstage remain quite bright, more like construction worklights than theatrical implements. One wonders what purpose will be revealed for each apparatus: a balance beam, a springboard, two racks holding white signage, the spaced-out components of a drum kit, a few amps. All at once, the set is a gymnasium, a recording studio, and an obstacle course.

It soon becomes a quarantine with rules of its own. The five downstage performers, each wearing heathered grey athletic gear, play a catchy, looping rock song in time with an amplified metronome. The set cartoonishly complicates each player’s part. The violinist must also traverse the balance beam, stopping regularly to lunge forward or extend one leg in a développé. The percussionist must keep time despite how far apart the drums and cymbals are, running one way to hit a snare before barely making it back to thwack a tom. Because the synthesizer is strapped to the top of a climbing ladder, its player has to keep bouncing off the springboard to reach its keys. The bassist lies on his back, pinned down by his large-bodied instrument. The vocalist races through the song’s lyrics over and over and over again while running a treadmill. He has only split seconds to inhale between lines paced so quickly they nearly overlap: “Grief is like a block in your head, it’s hard, it’s rough / Shifting shape, turning sweet, grief becomes a grape…” Playing instruments is always a physical act, here made almost impossible through complication.

One Song includes four. “Day After Day” comes first, metronome forward, with the slow pace of a funeral march, its looping violin melody and bass chords sounding a bit like Max Richter meets Radiohead. Its lyrics are a dark meditation: “Run for your life, ’til you die, ’til I die, ’til we all die.” Its chord structure continues but the tempo doubles for “In Your Head,” a breakneck bop that repeats for about three-fourths of the show’s running time. It’s very loud; some in the audience wear earplugs offered by ushers upon their arrival. The composer is Maarten van Cauwenberghe. The soundtrack is available for sale and streaming.

One gender-ambivalent performer, dressed like a cheerleader in a white leotard and ruffled skirt, seems set apart in their own world, crossing the stage back and forth between the musicians and the bleachers, shaking pom-poms and ass and chanting a series of short words. (An interjection of Bach, for a balletic solo by this character, is saccharine and fortunately brief.)

Eventually, inevitably, the system breaks down. There’s a sort of fight over the speed of the metronome. The rain starts to fall. One spectator descends the bleachers and runs amok. Various performers tap out and limp toward the sidelines like boxers between rounds. Conflict takes center stage. It’s order versus chaos, music versus noise, success versus failure, cooperation versus sabotage, perseverance versus frustration and futility. The players wage an uphill battle against the onset of meaninglessness.

In its final moments, One Song seems to be about the absurdity of nationalism, that blinkered, suspicious, self-defeating instinct of fearful tribes to close their doors and minds. The coda that scores the show’s denouement is (or sounds like) a national anthem. The big flag atop the bleachers, animated all evening by an unseen fan, falls flaccid against its pole. (There are miniature, matching flags next to the bullhorn and the metronome.) The five players and five spectators, trapped on one stage, are summoned together in an erasure of whatever once differentiated them. Hands over their hearts, the performers look humiliated, in pain, unable to continue, at the ends of their wits, pledging allegiance given no other choice or task. The only ones still energized are the announcer, still incomprehensible, and the self-segregated cheerleader, spinning like a child who’s just discovered dizziness, holding a sign that says “IF” which, once released, flies to one side, hits the proscenium, and shatters.

Zachary Whittenburg 

Zachary Whittenburg has been a journalist, administrator, photographer, and grantmaker in arts and culture since 2008. A regular contributor to Dance Magazine and former dance editor at Time Out Chicago magazine, he has written for numerous additional publications including Critical Correspondence, Critical Read, Dance International, Flavorwire, Pointe, and Total Theatre UK.