Reykjavík Grapevine - 23.05.2008, Blaðsíða 19

Imagine, if you will, a ditch. Then imagine a body being dumped
into said ditch. Then imagine a fine, greenish-gray mold beginning to
grow on the body. But then, a strange phenomenon occurs: the mold
begins to emit a sound as its earthy scent wafts into the air. A sound
not unlike the tired, unimaginative songs of talentless wannabe folk
musicians across the globe, each one of them thinking they’ve struck
some deep, resounding chord within their fellow man when they sing
about the evils of drug abuse and the manhood-challenging feelings
they get when they stare at their wife. Then imagine someone record-
ing that sound and putting it on an album for the world to hear. That’s
pretty much what you have here.
Reviewed by Sindri Eldon
Let me just say one thing right off the bat – this is a great album. If any
part of this review reads like I’m being negative, that’s just because it’s
hard to point out exactly what’s so great about it. It’s like a pick-and-
mix bag of everything that has made guitar pop great throughout the
seventies, eighties and nineties without wallowing in the excesses of
any decade, leaving us with straightforward, unassuming and unpre-
tentious pop rock that doesn’t really go anywhere, but enjoys itself all
the same in a relaxed and cocky sort of way. The only truly adven-
turous thing about this album is the abstract and distinctly Icelandic
lyrics, but if you’re reading this, chances are you won’t understand
them anyway.
Reviewed by Sindri Eldon
This could have been better had more work been spent on the pro-
duction... maybe. I don’t know, maybe if you ram your tongue hard
enough into your cheek, there’s fun to be had on this ho-hum, forget-
table metal album. But for the most part, it’s like a textbook exami-
nation on how to keep metal boring and predictable, plus I’m pretty
sure that the guitar riff in Nemesis is actually from the Trogdor The
Burninator song. There seems to be a popular myth about anyone
who’s listened to an Iron Maiden album or two being able to play
metal and get away with it, but the myth, unfortunately, does not
specify if you’ll be any good at it. For die-hard metal enthusiasts
only.
Reviewed by Sindri Eldon
Lykill að skírlífsbelti
Númernúll
Skjaldborg Festival
Silent Rivers
Silent Rivers
Sýn
Gústi Hraundal
FILMCD CD
CD
The young Festival for Icelandic Documentaries is a unique
mixture of local experiences and cultural events – this year’s
second annual edition even went international.
Skjaldborgarbíó, the amazingly cosy, old cinema from 1932 in the
middle of Patreksfjörður hosted the second annual Skjaldborg Fes-
tival for Icelandic Documentaries during this year’s Whitsun. Last
year the festival showed 20 Icelandic documentaries, this year the
number grew to 31.
The festival spiced up its impressive, Icelandic film program
with an international touch. Skjaldborg 2008’s guest of honour
was the legendary documentary godfather Albert Maysles, who is
known as the pioneer of the “cinema verité” film genre. Four of his
best films were shown at Skjaldborg 2008; Salesman (1968), Grey
Gardens (1976) and his newest work The Gates (2007) together
with the Rolling Stones documentary, Gimme Shelter (1970), which
opened the festival. Gimme Shelter provided us with a visual injec-
tion of flower-power rock n’ roll on this first evening of the festival.
After the screening, Maysles answered questions and talked to a
delighted and interested audience. It was a perfect start for a great
film weekend to let one of the grand old men of cinema set the tone
for discussion. From the start, Skjaldborg managed to put focus on
great dialog and unique come-together possibilities, not only for na-
tional and international documentary film makers, but for anyone
interested in cultural gatherings in general – including the locals of
Patreksfjörður.
On Saturday morning the film program roared on with an
overwhelming amount of Icelandic documentaries. The Skjaldborg
cinema filled up as people got themselves back on track after the
previous night’s celebration at the local bar. The different documen-
taries showed a great diversity in form as well as content. From the
environmentary critical Lundi í Hættu and Magapína/Rumenatomija
to music documentaries about Icelandic rockers Mínus, the 78-year
old Sigríður Níelsdóttir and an early Sigur Rós tour, this and the fol-
lowing days’ 31 documentaries emphazised various current issues
and subjects.
One of the nicest viewing experiences turned out to be the
brand new Kjötborg documentary about two excentric brothers,
their convenience store at Ásvallagata in Reykjavík and the every-
day life around it. – The documentary was also chosen as this year’s
best entry. Shockingly hard was Guðmundur Tjörvi Guðmundsson’s
work in progress about street kids in Odessa and Kiev; Götubörn
– Katja, and surprisingly boring, Friðrik Þór Friðriksson’s Sólskins-
drengur.
The festival ended Sunday evening with a traditional Sveita-
ball dance. Before that, the 30 imported film makers and the festival
guests constantly stumbled into each other and the locals on the
small, narrow streets of Patreksfjörður, back and forth from the cin-
ema, the bar and the swimming pool. This created an atmosphere of
warm and gentle welcome to Patreksfjörður, and I can’t help think-
ing that Skjaldborg offers the highest degree of local, Icelandic ex-
perience mixed with a unique, cultural happening of International
dimensions.
The Skjaldborg Documentary Festival is still in the process
of finding its shape and has ambitions to grow in size and content
in the coming years. Hopefully it will be posssible to maintain the
magically, local atmosphere at the same time!
www.skjaldborgfilmfest.com
Reviewed by Janne Kristensen
This is a sad, misshapen sack of worthless, drugged-up hippie im-
prov bullshit beatnik poetry cleverly disguised as a country album by
some insolent guitar jamming on every other track, with tasteful cov-
ers of Melanie, Townes Van Zandt and Dwight Yoakam thrown in for
good measure – and the covers are the best bit, really. Upon further
inspection of the album booklet, the covers weren’t Whitehead’s idea
at all or even performed by him, but by an obviously quite talented
member of Southside, a woman called Sarah Elizabeth, who also de-
signed the booklet itself; they should have let her make the whole
album. Where’s militant feminism when you finally need it?
Reviewed by Sindri Eldon
Southside Lounge
Ron Whitehead & Southside
CD
Reviews | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 06 2008 | 19
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