Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.04.2006, Blaðsíða 34

where
whAT
whEN
Loftkastalinn
Músiktilraunir
March 31st
2006
The results are in, the facts are solid and the bands
have been consigned to their fates. The Foreign
Monkeys, a straightforward, zero-bullshit rock band
from the wayward shores of Vestmannaeyjar have been
declared the winners of this year’s Battle of the Bands,
and are now poised to face the demons that come
attached to such an honour: jealousy, hype, artistic
stagnation and exposure to the steadily dropping aver-
age IQ of the Icelandic media and their fickle disciples.
But their fate has hardly been set in stone, nor
has their history been written in it. On the contrary,
for there is very little to suggest that the result of
this contest is definitive. The Battle of the Bands,
or Músíktilraunir in its native tongue, is an ardu-
ous process, a dissection of musical values that seems
deliberately designed to test the patience and altru-
ism of all involved. This year, 51 bands competed (or
participated, depending on how you look at it), and the
‘best’ one out of all these is picked out in two weeks, a
ridiculously short period of time. There is a good deal
of luck involved, obviously, and timing is, as always, of
the essence.
This could not be demonstrated more perfectly
than by the process of elimination by which the final-
ists are chosen: There are five nights of 10-11 bands
each, and on each night two to three bands are selected
for qualification, one by the crowd and one or two by
the judges. The qualifiers then face one to two weeks
of the grueling pressure of knowing that in order to
impress the panel of judges on the final night, they
must deliver a performance that must at least equal, if
not outdo the one they were selected for.
Now That the Pressure’s On, Here’s a Reminder of
What You Can’t Live Up To
With such impossible pressure to bear in mind, it
confuses me greatly to consider why the winners of last
year’s BotB are made to play before the finals begin.
Self-assured, relaxed and with absolutely nothing
to lose, Jakobínarína were intimidatingly explosive,
blasting through 15 minutes of utter chaos before
leaving the stage just whole enough for Who Knew?
to nervously attempt to outdo a performance that had
already won the title they were there to claim; the irony
is mind-blowing.
The sextet conducted themselves well, however,
but had discarded the affability that won them the
crowd’s vote in the qualifiers in favour of concentrated
professionalism. Although their irresistibly catchy alt-
pop was flawlessly performed, their stage presence had
all but evaporated, which also made it painfully obvious
that without their unique charisma, their music aged
about as well as Julian Glover in the final scene of
Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
They trotted offstage glistening with nervous
perspiration to be replaced by Furstaskyttan, a band
remarkable in more ways than one. First off, they
looked and sounded very respectable, and came across
as highly intellectual and intelligent. As bad as this
may sound, their music, a cheesy, conservative style
of pop music that would not sound out of place as the
theme song to a British children’s morning show, was
so irreverent and blatantly disregarding of modern
tastes, so incredibly uncool, that it somehow became
more punk than the most sneeringly antagonistic Sex
Pistols anthem.
Compared to the music they made, We Made
God’s name was modest and unassuming. Stunningly
clichéd emo riffs, no-holds-barred sound destruction
at the hands of the drummer and the guitarist and a
singer who broke every rule in the book as far as mod-
eration and constraint were concerned. Insanely pre-
tentious as they were, however, every tortured scream,
every pompous drum fill and every squealing noise solo
in We Made God’s quarter-hour onstage was done
with the solemn self-indulgence of true professionals,
and in retrospect they seemed to have all the makings
of a successful Icelandic band. My deepest sympathies
to them.
To say that We Made God and Antík played the
same genre of music would be stretching the very defi-
nition of rock. Antík plainly and honestly played the
simplest, most unabashedly cheesy and hook-driven
pop-punk imaginable, and although the two bands
musically have much more in common than either of
them would be willing to admit, the tongue-in-cheek
daring of Antík’s first song was a very refreshing
change from We Made God’s tour through the icy
wastes of emo metal.
In fact, to fully grasp the sheer cheesiness of
Antík’s music, you would have to imagine a ten-pound
wad of limburger being consumed by rosy-cheeked
lovers while they hold hands and watch the Hallmark
channel together. It brings me great joy that some-
where in Iceland there are still musicians who exist
solely for one to derive guilty pleasure from listening
to.
Tranzlokal were next up, delivering goose bump-
inducing rawness with their impossibly simple school-
boy punk. The songs averaged about two minutes and
two chords each, with the screamed word “Já!” reap-
pearing frequently. They were flawless, energetic and
superior, but their novelty was sadly lost on the crowd,
who were by now itching to stretch and freshen up in
the 15-minute pause that followed Tranzlokal’s set.
The crowd returned to the sight of four young men
- two keyboardists, a drummer and a bassist – standing
patiently on the stage waiting for something. Eventu-
ally, a fifth young man with a seriously deranged gleam
in his eye rode in straddling a child’s tricycle; together
they performed furiously straightforward dancehall
electro under the name Ultra Mega Technobandið
Stefán, with the deranged man pausing regularly to
either yelp something completely inaudible into a
microphone or do the night’s second movie impres-
sion, the scene in American Psycho where Christian
Bale poses in front of a mirror whilst having sex with
two women he has paid or cajoled into bed with him.
They were impressive, and although the music was
fairly standard, it was at least energetic, and the sheer
creepifying insanity of the lead man was enough to give
me the hibbly-jibblies. Scary fun.
The Foreign Monkeys clocked in next, however,
and made all the energy of UMTb Stefán seem about
as electrifying as a nylon blanket with their jaw-drop-
ping power and stage presence. At first glance, it would
seem as if the drummer was by far the best showman
onboard, but upon closer inspection I discovered that
every member of the band glowed with a livid, fiery
passion that surpassed anything else I saw that night.
And while it is debatable whether or not they were
talented enough to win, there can be little doubt as to
whether or not they were cool enough to win.
It should surprise exactly no one that the most
pretentious band of them all was the one whose
members posed as Frenchmen. Le Poulet De Romance
were little more than a very well-executed gimmick in
triplicate human form, but damn, did they play well.
Capable players as well as overbearingly theatrical per-
formers, they were led by a decidedly deviant-looking
young man by the name of Ingi Vífill as they pranced
into three incredibly ridiculous tango-folk-rock songs
and left the audience hopelessly confused, but so enter-
tained that it hardly mattered.
The rest of the night was unambiguous, really.
Modern Day Majesty were a disappointment. The
capable modern rock songwriting and fair talent they
displayed the night they qualified for the final was
gone, replaced by an uncertain, awkward performance
and a new song so bad it cannot be put into words,
while Sweet Sins blew mouth-watering bubble gum
melodies in our faces. Girl power-pop at its delicious
best, they were sadly overlooked by a restless crowd
that had by now been seated far too long.
Also done in by the luck of the draw were the
unassuming trio of boys that constituted the brilliantly
named Ministry Of Foreign Affairs, an intelligent,
dreamy act with pointed lyrics and an honest, affable
goodness to them. They presented the best song of
the entire evening: The Death Of A Salesman, an
atmospheric and beautiful song played with the kind of
earnest care that comes with truly loving what you do,
and I am convinced that the Ministry Of Foreign Af-
fairs is a band that has no need to win Músíktilraunir
to make a name for themselves.
In order to sign up to play at the Battle of the Bands, it
would seem that you would have to have a very specific
attitude towards your own work. You can’t be so con-
fident that you would consider the contest beneath you
and unworthy of your skills, and you can’t be so meek
that you think it impossible to impress people with
your music, and this, I believe, is the key, the reason
why Músíktilraunir seems to produce only bands that
are almost universally liked, or at least respected in
some form. No one is voted the best of 51 bands with-
out being at least slightly humbled by the acts that they
‘beat’, and the winning bands that eventually become
successful are the ones wise enough to realise that in
the long run, winning doesn’t count for shit. Winning
Músíktilraunir is an opportunity, and nothing more; an
opportunity to show that the judges and the audience
weren’t wrong, that they believed in you for a reason,
and it is this sense of justice that will continue to make
Músíktilraunir the best musical event in Iceland.

The Foreign Monkeys Will Definitely
Be the Next Arctic Monkeys
By Sindri Eldon | Photos by Billi
34