Reykjavík Grapevine - 24.06.2005, Blaðsíða 22

22
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But from the opening bars of
Murders in the Rue Morgue it was
as if the entire world was up on that
fiery stage, my eyes blew up and my
ears grew wings as I felt year after
year stripping off my soul, finally
stopping at thirteen. Partly due to
my morning flight from Edinburgh,
I had hardly slept for almost 36
hours at this point, and in this mix
of drowsiness, determination and
fantastic metal I was completely
mesmerized. Adding emotional
overtones to the mix were the
colourful theatrics onstage, the
acrobatics of super-overachiever
Bruce Dickinson (he’s a pilot, a
renowned fencer, a historian, an ex-
infantryman in her majesty’s army, a
published author, a radio host, and
has made several solo albums), bass-
player Steve Harris prodding the
head of his instrument towards the
crowd with one foot on a monitor
in a manner so unequivocally his
own that he could practically patent
it, guitarist Janick Gers swinging
his guitar around his neck as if it
was a hula-ring and throwing it
high up in the air, while the other
two guitarists, Dave Murray and
Adrian Smith, turned their backs
together smiling so joyously during
voiced licks, solos and riffs that one
couldn’t help but smile along. Yes,
Iron Maiden has THREE guitarists
– this is serious metal, mind you, the
testicular scent doesn’t just appear
out of nowhere. It’s intentionally
manufactured.
In the next hour and a half they
played songs from their first four
albums, Iron Maiden (1980), Killers
(1981), Number of the Beast (1982)
– Dickinson’s first album with
Maiden – and Piece of Mind (1983),
changing the background for each
song, replacing one huge picture
of the ghastly Eddie with another,
leaving the actual appearance of
the monster himself for the 20
minute encore. Although these are
probably Maiden’s most successful
studio albums, many songs from
later albums were sorely missed,
most notably Be Quick or Be Dead,
Fear of the Dark, Seventh Son of
the Seventh Son, Can I Play with
Madness, and Aces High.
As I stood there stunned during
the opening riff of Run to the Hills,
a song about the colonization of
America, somebody put his hand on
my shoulder. I turned around and
didn’t quite recognize the face. “It’s
me, Palli, don’t you remember? I had
leukaemia, I’m writing poetry now.
We should talk. I’m going to be in
Djúpa Laugin [a dating show on tv]
next week. I didn’t know you were a
Maiden fan, doesn’t this feel just like
being 13 again?”
That’s literally what he said,
13 again. I nodded and shouted
something through the noise.
I was dumbfounded. Poetry,
leukemia, Djúpa Laugin, Iron
Maiden, 13 again – anyone who can
reintroduce himself in 20 seconds
with such a series of distant concepts
is bound to become a great poet.
Up on the stage Bruce Dickinson
was jumping around the stage,
regularly climbing up on a bridge
that reached from one end of the
stage to the other (at one point it all
caught fire) with a huge British flag,
fire bombs going off... It all seemed
just so fucking surreal.
Bruce worked the crowd like the
seasoned veteran he is, organizing
regular sing-alongs for the ten
thousand people in the audience,
getting everyone moving, shaking,
jumping, waving their hands. Every
two minutes he would shout at
the top of his life-encompassing
lungs, the Dickinson signature line:
“Scream for me Iceland!!!” – and
during one of these screamathons
drummer Nicko McBrain played the
part of a decibel meter, rising slowly
up from behind his humongous
31-piece drum kit as the shouts got
louder.
After the regular set was
finished, some attempts were made
to put forth a proper encore-cheer,
but the consensus in the room
seemed to say that a cheer was not
really needed – which is probably
due to the facts that a) there was no
Bruce Dickinson on stage telling
them how exactly to scream and
b) that the Icelandic audience is
becoming more and more worldly in
the ways of concerts, they know how
the golden rule of world tours: Given
that one or more of the band-members
is not hit with a case of acute cerebral
palsy, or other gig-threatening illnesses,
during the short interval, they will
come back for an encore. It’s all a part
of the plan. So the audience seemed
perfectly satisfied with simply not
leaving, and spewing a half-decent
“More!” or “Iron Maiden!” every
thirty seconds, until the confused
band came back onstage - At which
point the audience finally came
back to life and, yet again, Iceland
screamed for Bruce.
During the encore I moved
back to the B-section of the room,
admiring my childhood idols from
afar, feeling the madness flow out
of me; growing up again, feeling too
silly to be sincerely into the concert
any longer, while the no-bullshit
metal continued unabated onstage.
When the final notes were played I
stood in the doorway, heading out to
beat the predicted traffic jam.
Driving back into the city I
witnessed a car crashing full-speed
into a lamppost. As I slowed down
and drove past, listening to Maiden’s
Can I Play with Madness on my
walkman, I saw the bewildered
driver step out of the car, the blood
on his forehead and the demented
madness in his eyes reminding me of
an Eddie poster. He stumbled into
the arms of the six or seven better-
than-me citizens who had stopped
to assist, and I noticed that it was as
if a yoghurt-bomb had gone off in
the car – the windows were smudged
with white excrement of some sort.
Can I Play with Madness ran out,
and when the opening riff of Aces
High sounded in my ears, I darted
off again, passing the maximum
legal speed to the words: “Jump in
the cockpit and start up the engines,
remove all the wheelblocks there’s no
time to waste.”
Eiríkur Örn Norðdahl is a poet and
novelist from Ísafjörður.
Continued from page 20
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