Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.05.2004, Síða 28

28 the reykjavík grapevine
With a dying fishing industry,
rapidly shrinking population, and
the locals’ rumored penchant for
the occult, characterizations of this
place tend to breed a certain air of
melancholy and mystery, which is
enough to provoke at least a sense
of curiosity in anyone who has the
time, the patience, and the will to
make the considerable and rather
treacherous drive. I was especially
enticed by the weekends free
rock festival, Aldrei fór ég suður
(literally, “I never went south”, a
song by Bubbi Morthens), a newly
established tradition which offers a
veritable smorgasbord of Iceland’s
up-and-comers.
Three sore rumps later...
On the way up we take the trip in
two stretches; first to Hólmavík, and
the next day to Ísafjörður. In all of
my excitement to make a quick exo-
dus from Reykjavík I neglect to no-
tice any of the numerous signs saying
malbik endar (pavement ends). The
drive along Steingrímsfjördur on
the approach to Hólmavík would be
rather tranquil were it not for the
extremely rough roads. Instead it
provides a rousing homestretch to
what began as a rather tedious drive
along Strandir from the ring road.
One set of shocks, two cranky pas-
sengers, and three sore rumps later
we pull into the tiny seaside village
of Hólmavík. At first glance the
quintessentially Icelandic, brightly
colored houses leading down to
the waterfront make for a pleasant
seascape, but certainly not worth
five hours of hard driving. However,
pushing into the heart of the village
begins to reveal what is actually quite
an oddity as far as Icelandic villages
go.
Pants from the skin of a dead
man...
The biggest draw is the recently
opened Exhibition of Witchcraft and
Sorcery, and the exhibition’s grue-
some show-stopper, the Necropants;
a pair of magical skin pants made
from the lower half of a dead man
(anatomically correct, of course).
But all told, the most thrilling part
of the witchcraft museum is its turf
roof, which, once mounted, provides
a stunning view of Hólmavík’s bay.
The real treasure of Hólmavík, how-
ever, is Sæberg, a house down the
street from the museum. Sæberg is
Iceland’s answer to Día de los Meur-
tos, replete with kitsch dioramas of
trolls and smurfs in midday activity;
a miniature, four-gabled, elfin house;
and keeping watch in the farthest
corner sits a triple-faced mermonster
crudely assembled from snarled tree
limbs and a spray-painted buoy.
An obvious labour of love, no detail
was spared when it came to the
mold-injected hoot owls, no penny
was pinched for the disembodied
wagon wheels and paginated propel-
ler; this is sheer driftwood delight.
As we meander through the empty
streets looking for a bite to eat, we
encounter only one Hólmvíkingur,
a young man on the smallest bicycle
I have ever seen. After a few moves
on the micro-cycle and a photo op
he gives the snack bar at the Esso
station a glowing review where I
am later treated to one of the best
hamburgers this side of the conti-
nental divide. All in all, Hólmavík is
a humble town with a robust pride
for all its superlatives, be it the gori-
est trousers, tackiest yard art, tastiest
burger, or tiniest bike.
And a doorway from the jaw-
bone of a whale
The next day’s drive begins like
a car commercial, zooming along
curvy roads at (relatively) breakneck
speeds, but we soon reach the fjords
and the white knuckles come out.
This is an unpaved, one-lane, icy
deathtrap of a road that lines a suc-
cession of towering, hairpin fjords.
Upon meeting a large truck or better
yet, tour bus, coming in the opposite
direction, I jerk the steering wheel to
the right and find myself driving on
little more than my imagination and
the hope that only two wheels need
to be in contact with the ground to
propel the car forward.
The town of Ísafjörður itself is rather
small; on the approach it’s possible
to glimpse it all in one glance, but
the way it’s situated in the moun-
tains is quite striking as it sits on
a spit of land that juts out into the
calm waters of Skutulsfjörður. The
mountains on all sides are so tall and
so steep that it appears as though the
town is boxed in by looming walls
of ice. At night it’s impossible to
see the tops of the mountains which
creates an odd sensation of sinking as
one gazes upwards.
Ísafjörður is a bit more centralized
than your garden-variety Icelandic
town. On the main streets, Haf-
narstræti and Aðalstræti, you’ll find
a great bakery, Gamla Bakaríið; a
decent bar, Sjallinn; and a handful
of restaurants. Further ahead there’s
another weird, modernist, Icelandic
church but still more bizarre is the
giant whale’s jawbone turned on end
which serves as the archway entrance
to Jónsgarður, the town’s pretty
municipal garden. The garden is
filled with people, as is the rest of the
town. We have come to Ísafjörður
during one of its busiest weekends,
Skíðavikan, an annual ski holiday
coinciding with the new rock festival.
The Mugiman and Mugilady
The festival is the brainchild of Örn
Elías Guðmundsson, the local musi-
cal phenom better known as Mu-
gison. Mugison’s industrious spirit
has yielded thus far two albums (one
now picked up by Rough Trade Re-
cords), a whopping persona, a slew of
videos, and a sort of verbal branding
system wherein his father is Pa-
pamug, his girlfriend, Mugilady, his
website, mugiweb, then there are his
mugimentaries, mugiTV, mugicrew,
and the mugimonkey--but more on
Mugison and his mugimovement
later. The concert is slated to be held
in one of Ísafjörður’s many old fish
processing plants. Nothing spells
c-h-a-r-m like the foul odor of had-
dock guts from ages gone by, so I am
prepared for the worst, but the space
is actually quite ordinary, a big room
with a stage constructed at one end.
This entire homespun operation is
embodied by a woman in an over-
sized, wooly sweater. She’s down on
her hands and knees, finger-paint-
ing the concert line-up on big strips
of newsprint. As we step further
into the room she greets us like old
friends. I sit with her briefly and
discover she is Mugison’s girlfriend,
the Mugilady, in the flesh. I let her
know how much I like the latest
album, Lonely Mountain, and how
very impressive it is that one little
Mugison can be so prolific. She as-
sures me that he enjoys a lot of sup-
port, and evidences this by showing
her paint covered fingers. She also
tells me about the packaging of the
latest album, which features a piece
of thread sewn through each copy.
Apparently the whole Mugifamily
was gathered into a sweatshop of
love to complete the strenuous job
of sewing together some 10,000
copies. Late in the show, Mugison
finally steps up. The crowd here in
Ísafjörður knows him and the antici-
pation in the room is palpable. Mugi
live was a mugispectacle.
Bass and a G-string
The final band was certainly the
coup de grace of the night, at least
in terms of outright entertainment.
Trabant is a techno-cum-perfor-
mance-art calamity that leaves no
room for encores. When they finish,
the show is over. Good night nurse!
No looking back. Ragnar Kjartans-
son fronts the group and progresses
through various stages of undress as
the show pushes on until he stands
in all his glory sporting silver under-
wear, a Dracula cape, and tasseled
pasties. Not that anyone notices,
but all the while the rest of the band
is churning out an ominous groove
for Ragnar’s debauchery: before
long bassist Viðar has lost his pants,
wearing only a red, frilly g-string.
Naturally, Ragnar pretends to mount
him from behind and matters simply
degenerate from there. Scantily clad
girls get excited and begin to take
the stage in some kind of lemming-
effect, not knowing exactly what to
do once they make it up there. Mic
stands fall and equipment is thrown
across the stage; the drummer
storms off and Kjartan from Lone-
some Traveller flings himself into
the chaos. Throughout the entire
ordeal Ragnar consistently chanting
his mantra, “I’m a little nasty, I’m a
nasty little boy.” A cataclysmic end-
ing to a smashing show.
THE MOUNTAINS AND THE MOLEHILLS
OF THE WEST FJORDSby Jónas Moody
After a snowbound winter in Iceland’s capital, in all its
reinforced concrete splendor, my two friends and I are anxious
to make our pilgrimage to the country’s most remote and desolate
wonderland, the West Fjords.
OUTSIDE REYKJAVÍK