Reykjavík Grapevine - 01.12.2006, Blaðsíða 6

10_REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE18_006_REVIEW/MUSIC
The first thing that greeted my companions
and myself when we entered the sometime
concert venue Broadway on that fateful
Tuesday night (after being dutifully frisked by
the security staff, of course) was the sight
of a dead-drunk 17-year-old boy vomiting
furiously on the table he lay on. A colourful
mixture of vodka and Red Bull, half-digested
pizza slices and god knows what else flowed
relentlessly from his young gullet while his
vacant eyes betrayed signs of confusion and
embarrassment. After a short while the not-
much-older-than-him security officers (of
which there were plenty) noticed the trou-
bled youngster and proceeded to manhandle
him out of our sight. Hopefully, they took
good care of him, although the behaviour
those self-important boys were to display
later that night (and the rough, rough way
they grabbed him) doesn’t give much merit
to the theory.
Several metres to the vomiting boy’s right
was a drunk, crying teenage girl, mascara
stained and sobbing over something that
probably seemed important at the time,
panties and cleavage prominently displayed.
Close by, a fight was breaking out between
two bleach-blond boys wearing extremely
tight white t-shirts. These sights would re-
peat themselves in exceedingly short inter-
vals as the night went on.
There was also a stall selling pizza slices
and energy drinks, 300 ISK for the slice, 200
for the drink (I sampled both, and while the
drink was warm and the pizza was not, they
made for a strangely satisfying meal, com-
pletely befitting of the surroundings). And
then there was some sort of coin-operated
dance-off machine that seemed really fun
in a perversely wholesome kind of way. And
there was, of course, a plethora of advertise-
ments. And then there was the concert that
drew them all there. And that seemed fun
too, if not wholesome. But wholesome is not
the catchphrase of the young. After all, teen-
agers live forever.
The spectacle in question was a concert
by Sweden’s latest techno-pop export, the
dumbfoundingly named Basshunter. Sup-
porting were lapsed Icelandic hip-hop pio-
neers XXX Rottweiler and some “Very spe-
cial guests!” This was the second concert
of the night, lasting from 22:00 ‘til 01:00,
and was meant to accommodate 16 to 20
year olds (the night’s earlier show served the
younger breed of teen). Aside from what
state law implies, the socially accepted drink-
ing age in Iceland has been, and always will
be, 16, and this is regularly mirrored in this
age group’s social functions: people in the
process of finding their drinking legs are usu-
ally prone to fall down a lot, just like those
who have utilised them for too long.
Making our way through a crowded stair-
way that led to the dance floor below we
could hear the intro tape to XXX Rottweiler’s
impending blast-off. I quite looked forward
to the show, as XXXR used to be one of the
most exciting live acts operating in Iceland:
however, this was not the case that night.
The reasons were all too apparent, even
through the murk of lasers, smoke machines
and the kind of bass that rumbles your in-
sides they simply weren’t into what they
were doing. And that is always a sad sight.
The only time the band members seemed to
truly enjoy themselves was when presenting
songs off their respective solo endeavours.
And then there was Basshunter. The glo-
rious reason we were all there, Basshunter
makes music for people who really don’t
care about music all that much – but do
care about impossibly contagious hooks and
incessant dancing. And that is fine by me,
those folks need entertaining too, and en-
tertain he did. Taking the stage after two of
the most annoying presenters ever to grace
a stage had finished their shtick, Basshunter
appeared to the roaring applause of a crowd
revelling in the sultry decadence of teenage
drinklust and disposable pop.
Basshunter is a scrawny 22-year-old
Swede, a self-proclaimed computer nerd,
although not of the pimply, Jolt Cola drink-
ing variety, but rather the looks of a model
and a sculpted ass to boot variety. He re-
portedly started making music on his home
computer back in 1999 and released his
début album through his webpage in 2004
– a DIY move if there ever was one. Warner
music quickly snapped him up, however, and
it was through that respective label that he
released his sophomore effort, LOL <(^^,)>,
this summer, scoring a huge hit throughout
Scandinavia with the first single – Boten
Anna – a catchy ditty whose lyrics suppos-
edly pay tribute to an IRC-bot. Basshunter
was to dispel this myth that night: before he
played it for the first time he explained that
it was actually about some girl named Anna
and her butt, as far as I could tell. The crowd
loved it. They would have.
Two so-called Bassgirls accompanied
Basshunter; low-cleavaged teenage girls
who shook their titties in appropriate fash-
ion to the music. As far as I could tell, their
dancing wasn’t really synchronised, a fact
that would reinforce my belief that they were
simply a couple of attendees who had been
hand-picked to strut their stuff on stage.
And it must be said, Basshunter is an ex-
traordinarily polite and pleasant young man.
He repeatedly asked the crowd to cheer the
Bassgirls on, stating that they were the most
beautiful women he had ever seen and that
attendants should be grateful for their pres-
ence. Really, he treated those girls with the
utmost respect. Then, when the first fistfight
of the night broke out in the crowd, resulting
in flood-lights being turned on and security
rushing the mass of people, the computer
nerd seemed genuinely upset at the fact,
pleading: “Please. It’s much better to love
than to fight! Why this rage? Why not enjoy
yourself and hug your partner?”
The main attraction was only to perform
five songs that night, although he did play
two of them twice (his big hit Boten Anna
was actually played twice in a row – the
crowd went wild both times). I had some
very conflicted feelings about the show in
general. On one hand, I was appalled that
these kids were being tricked out of their
money just to take part in a spectacle that
was more reminiscent of the donkey-carnival
in Pinocchio (with ads!) than any wholesome
youth gathering I’ve witnessed, and I’ve been
to more than a few. They were all strapped
with their cell phones, designer jeans and al-
cohol, all those things the powers that be try
and convince us we need to have in order
to properly enjoy ourselves. I was appalled
at the low amount of respect the promot-
ers showed the kids, appalled that this was
what our extravagant consumer-culture has
tricked us into believing substitutes for a
good, meaningful time, appalled that many
of the kids didn’t really seem like they were
even enjoying themselves all that much,
rather giving off the impression of screaming
temper-tantrum kids that finally receive the
desired lollipops they only think they want. I
was appalled at a lot of things.
On the other hand, the sight of a group
of teenagers dancing to their favourite song,
boasting exuberant smiles and just being
happy to participate in such a social event
made me think otherwise. Witnessing such
clear and unbridled joy in action reminded
me that I should never be the one to judge
if anyone is having a good time or not – and
kids need their good times. Being one is
hard enough as is, and if this is what they
want, then by all means, let’s give it to them.
The providers of such entertainment should,
however, try and treat their target-market
with a modicum of respect and dignity, like
actual persons maybe. Appealing to ones
baser needs may often be necessary, but ex-
ploiting them to this extent is just plain taste-
less.
Which brings us to the last act, of the
night, the “Very special guests!” Those
were, predictably, the current kings of ex-
ploiting base needs, animal urges and no re-
straint whatsoever: Dr. Mister and Mr. Hand-
some. Introduced to great applause by the
inane presenter duo, Dr. Mister stumbled to
the stage to his very own Dr. Mister theme
song. He introduced the rest of the band.
“Where’s Mr. Handsome? Oh, I guess he’s
backstage, fucking. Well, it’s me! The most
famous junkie in Iceland. It’s true!” Hand-
some showed up minutes later, hitching up
his pants. And Mister continued introducing
his band.
Dr. Mister and Mr. Handsome are mean
looking dudes and all their songs are about
various combinations of cocaine and fuck-
ing. I’ve seen them put on some great, scary
shows, oozing attitude and self-destructive
cool, dancing relentlessly around on broken
glass to broken beats, proudly proclaiming
their violent love for all things shiny coke.
That night, they just sucked. It soon be-
came apparent that Dr. Mister had lost his
voice. And the band members were, for
the most part, wasted out of their minds
– in no state to perform in front of a pay-
ing audience. While stumbling drunks are
often entertaining to watch, it is not very fun
to dance to – which was the general idea.
Naturally, the dance floor cleared up pretty
quickly after they started playing, only briefly
regaining its former glory when they played
super-hit Is It Love?
Then a fight broke out and the bouncers
rushed in and some girls started crying and
another teenage boy threw up and some
dude climbed up on the stage to dance with
his heroes but was promptly kicked off by
the very security that was supposed to pro-
tect him but instead opted to brutalise him
to a shocking degree before dragging him
backstage, perhaps for some more brutalis-
ing. It just sucked.
One of the lessons this dreary night pro-
vided is that the problem with coolness is
that once its thin veil drops, and it will, it’s
just laughable. Attitude and ‘cool’ are always
laughable in the end. They are what we re-
sort to when we get uncomfortable with
who we are, or concerned with our status or
standing in a social hierarchy. And, as any-
one of any markable wit or wisdom has at-
tested to – and this whole night certainly did
– those are empty, unsatisfying and in the
end futile pursuits. Here’s hoping that there’s
more to life than the animal urge to conquer
or prevail.
Youth is Wasted on the Young
Text by Haukur Magnússon Photo by Pallih
“Which brings us to the last act of the night, the
“Very special guests!” Those were, predictably,
the current kings of exploiting base needs, animal
urges and no restraint whatsoever: Dr. Mister and
Mr. Handsome.”
Christmas parcels to
countries outside Europe
is Monday
Christmas parcels
within Europe
is Tuesday
Christmas parcels
within Iceland
is Wednesday
4.12.
12.12.
20.12.
Send your
Christmas parcels
in good time
Christmas cards to
countries outside Europe
is Thursday
Christmas cards
within Europe
is Thursday
Christmas cards
within Iceland
is Wednesday
7.12.
14.12.
20.12.
Send your
Christmas cards
in good time
Find the post office nearest to you on www.postur.is
The last date to safely send
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Glow-in-the-dark
self-adhesive
Christmas
stamps
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