Reykjavík Grapevine - 15.06.2007, Qupperneq 3

REYKJAVÍK_GRAPEVINE_ISSUE 08_007_OPINION_0504_RVK_GV_ISSUE 08_007_LETTERS
Recently I read a review in the latest Grapevine cover-
ing the new album “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Happiness”
by Hraun. I have been a fan of music all of my life and
usually when I read a review I disagree with it does not
bother me, but this time is different. Your writer spent
more than half of the review discussing the album
cover, and judging from the comments that followed I
don’t think he did much more than look at the cover.
He finishes this artistic critique by telling us he can’t
relate because the guys are at a nice restaurant, having
a candlelit dinner, and inside there is a picture of one
of them reading. I would have thought reading to be a
pre-requisite to be a writer.
The first comment about the music is that it is ‘safe’. To
classify a band as safe in music terms would mean they
write songs in 4/4 time, verse chorus verse, and would
wrap it up with a timely 3 minute 30 second length,
perfect for the radio. Add a happy beat and some fun
lyrics and you have the safe music we are all plagued
by on the pop music scene. Hraun’s album is anything
but this. The music is a combination of acoustic and
electric guitar, the drums and percussion carry the beat
and the vocal melodies carry a nice tune. It is hard not
to tap your foot or nod your head while listening, as
the songs have a very ‘catchy’ quality.
“The lyrics testify against the unfulfilling life of drink-
ing and bathroom blowjobs.” If your writers are paid
to write reviews, I hope you only paid 10% for this
one, because that is all the work you got. There are 10
songs on this album, and yes one covers this subject,
one. The rest of the album covers topics of life and love,
happiness found and lost, and saying goodbye. I find
the lyrics to be very heartfelt and true. Two of the songs
are in Icelandic, and based on the writers comment
regarding the lyrics on this album, it is quite obvious he
does not understand the language and did not bother
to ask what the lyrics meant. Either that or he just did
not listen to the songs.
Finally, the writer tries to wrap up his review with a
witty statement about passing this one on to your parents
because it is what frat boys listen to back in the states.
WOW, this has to be the most ludicrous statement in the
article. To try and make a comparison between parents
and frat boys. Where is this writer from, he could not
be from the states, because there is no way he would
want to compare frat boys to your parents. That is like
comparing teenagers to grandparents. And to pass the
album off like it is what frat boys listen to, is to say it
is fit only for the Icelandic ‘Hnakki’. This is an album
anyone can enjoy.
Do yourself a favor and make your own decision about
this album. There are all kinds of music out there for all
different tastes, and to not like some of it is OK. But if
you are going to say you don’t like something the least
you can do is actually listen to it and give an intelligent
explanation why.
Rob Zartarian
Dear Rob,
Obviously, you are entitled to your opinion on Hraun’s
music, much like our reviewer. Like you say, I encourage
everyone to make their own decision on this album,
much like I would any other album. But, I can assure
you that the review was done in a professional manner.
Other than that, I don’t really know what else to say
here. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Editor
Hi, can you help me in finding friends here in Iceland?
I am 33 years old woman. My sister is here in Iceland, I
am thinking of coming. Can u just give my email.
Thank you grapevine, more power!
Pinky Santos
ps_fdj4321@yahoo.com.ph
Dear Pinky,
Consider it done. I am absolutely certain that from now
on, your e-mail inbox will be filled with spam mail, but
I hear those Nigerian banking agents are extremely
friendly. Perhaps you can persuade one of them to move
to Iceland with you.
Editor

Dear Editor:
Ref: Iceland Review 29 maí 2007 May 29 | Assaults in
Reykjavík on the increase
Because of the increase of assaults and mayhem on the
streets of Reykjavik,and the shortage of police protec-
tion, does it seem wise to warn incoming tourists to
Iceland to avoid the streets of Reykjavik on weekend
nights. A well placed sign at the customs entry point
might read “Enter downtown Reykjavik at you own
risk”. Maybe all the foreign embassies should be noti-
fied to advise future tourist of this hazard. Six assaults
were reported in the capital region last weekend. Police
Chief Stefán Eiríksson said the frequency of minor as-
saults had increased, but there had been no increase
in major assaults. (Is this supposed to be good news?)
From the U.S. Department of State: Travel advice and
warnings “Tourists should be aware that downtown
Reykjavik can become especially disorderly in the early
morning hours on weekends. Violent crime is rare, but
it does occasionally occur”.
kv
Jónas
Dear Jónas,
I am still not sure if this letter was written in attempt to
sound sarcastic or out of genuine worries for the safety
of foreign tourists in Reykjavík. What I can say is that
while the rate of violent crimes in Reykjavík may have
risen (honestly, I don’t even know if that is true or not,
but what the heck), Reykjavík could hardly be considered
to be the war zone you seem to be describing. At least
not in comparison to other major cities around the world.
And yes, I do think it is good news that the rate of major
assaults is not increasing. It might just be me though. I
am a little strange when it comes to these things.
Editor

Cappuccino + bagle + yoghurt = 650 kr.
Sour Grapes
Say your piece, voice your opinion, send your letters to letters@grapevine.is.
Thesis:
Icarus tried to fly to the sun to prevent the sky
from falling on his head. Conceptual abstrac-
tion is non-rational. The imagination is not
tyrannized by rationality.

The truly intelligent say ignorance is bliss…
Well, from the depths of my ignorance I ask: If
ignorance is bliss… how would anyone know?
I have not the answer… which is why I pur-
sue life with such disparity. I suffer from the
hunger of the whore (this thirst in hell) which
prohibits me from securing a Meaning of Life
in this asylum we call civilisation. But, tomor-
row, my god will be kind to me and, surely,
he will provide me with an answer which will
quench my thirst; and my god’s holy answer
will, unquestionably, be stolen from the author
of the alphabet… But, his face only crumbles
and cracks wide open… and emits… a grin.
I resent this mockery. I point at the sky; a line
runs from my eye through to my finger and
on and on to an infinity… my infinity, lest we
forget it – as is all too easily done… I will allow
myself the sublime particular:
In 1945 Jorge Luis Borges told the tale of
Cartographers in an Empire where the art of
Cartography ‘attained such perfection that
the map of a single Province occupied the
entirety of a City, and the map of the Empire,
the entirety of a Province. But in time, those
Unconscionable Maps no longer satisfied, and
the Cartographers Guild drew up a Map of
the Empire whose size was that of the Empire,
coinciding point to point with it. The follow-
ing generations, who were not so fond of the
Study of Cartography saw the vast map to
be useless and permitted it to decay and fray
under the Sun and winters.’
This Argentinean tale must remind us of
Tao Teh King’s analysis: Nature can never be
completely described, for such a description
of nature would have to duplicate nature and
no name can fully express what it represents.
It is nature itself, and not any part (name or
description) abstracted from nature, which
is the ultimate source of all that happens, all
that comes and goes, begins and ends, is and
is not.
‘The map is not the territory’ is a remark
made by Alfred Korzybski, encapsulating his
view that an abstraction derived from some-
thing, or a reaction to it, is not the thing itself,
e.g., the pain from a stone falling on your foot
is not the stone; one’s opinion of a politician is
not that person; a metaphorical representation
of a concept is not the concept itself.
Nature, or reality, is never perfectly de-
scribed because such a description demands a
perfect replica of reality – an ideal reflection of
the universe which is in perfect synchronicity
with everything alive and dead. It is obvious
that such a model is unimaginable; just as no
name, word or concept can fully describe the
object it stands for; all words are mere approxi-
mations – metaphors and allegories – for what
is happening before our senses: A person who
has never tasted salt will never fully understand
through language what the taste of salt is; it is
only through direct experience (eating salt) that
its taste is fully comprehended. Thus, looking
for the ‘Meaning of Life’ is like looking for a
river on a map. On a map I will only find a blue
line representing a river, but in order to swim
in the river depicted I must throw away the
map and dive into the stream before my very
feet. Life is infinitely greater than any word I
chose to name it and its meaning will never
be encaged within the realm of linguistical
cartography.
But to describe nature as “the ultimate
source of all” is still only a description, and
such a description is not Nature itself. Yet,
since I must use words in order to speak of
it, I shall have to describe it as “the ultimate
source of all”. The reason why it is impossible
to create a perfect map of reality is the human
being itself – the limitation is within me; hu-
man beings are not dead spectators of reality
but interpreters who give ‘meaning’ to reality
– I am the magician who makes the sky blue’
– but as a physical being I am always bound
by a perspective – or as Nietzsche pointed out:
‘All credibility, all good conscience, all evidence
of truth come only from the senses.’ That is
the law and all this means: ‘basically and from
time immemorial we are accustomed to lying.
Or to put it more virtuously and hypocritically,
in short, more pleasantly: one is much more
an artist than one knows.’
I see you in my Stars…
On the Meaning of Life
Text by Magnús Björn Ólafsson
Nature, or reality, is never perfectly described be-
cause such a description demands a perfect replica
of reality – an ideal reflection of the universe which
is in perfect synchronicity with everything alive
and dead.
There are few things more exhilarating than
visiting a foreign country for the first time,
that liberating spark of childlike wonder you
search out all around the world. Hopefully,
my dear reader, you can experience that same
feeling. Alas, in my case, disenchantment with
the supposed greatness of Iceland has truly
set in. Like Bilbo Baggins once famously said,
I feel “like too little butter spread over too
much toast”. Iceland has spread out too far,
too fast. Somewhat like a ditzy bimbo with
silicon lips, breasts and a carrot tan to top.
Yes, just like our Miss Iceland. Look for her in
the local nightclub like Icelandair promised (if
the sarcasm is lost on you, Miss Iceland is also
meant to be Iceland itself).
Iceland has sort of lost itself in its relentless
and overwhelming “happy meal” propaganda,
and in the process lost its elflike, wide-eyed
innocence – instead, it has gained wide screen
televisions for every home and two cars to
boot. To understand Icelanders, you must first
take this into account: it really does not matter
what you talk about, Iceland is the best in every
instance. Take for example the football team.
It is not a bad team because they lose nine
times out of ten; they are just a great team not
winning because they have a bad coach – or
insert another excuse of your choice. The same
goes for our food, our brennivín (Black Death)
and women. You just don’t understand, accent
withstanding, the importance of Iceland.
In the process of pimping ourselves out in
order to be the next famous tourist minefield,
we have somehow lost contact with everything
that makes us truly Icelandic and distinct; in-
stead we contracted an American disease,
which some of you might know as affluenza:
“The bloated, sluggish and unfulfilled feeling
that results from efforts to keep up with the
Joneses”. Instead of preserving the cultural
heritage of the centre of Reykjavík, we throw
down Lego-like buildings. Meanwhile, housing
prices are skyrocketing and we erect shopping
malls like Smáralind, which is shaped like an
eternal erection. Inside Smáralind there is a
sperm-like line to follow in the shopping Para-
dise of Oz. Next to Smáralind there is a smaller
building shaped like a vagina, with a sign with
the word: EGG. Go figure, “We are the hollow
men. We are the stuffed men.” Ask yourselves:
is this Icelandic culture or Consumer Culture
tearing Icelandic civilization in its jaws?
At the same time the centre of Reykjavík
is filled with you, my dear readers; however,
at the same time Laugavegur is filled with
Icelanders driving along the street, no doubt
returning from a trip to the local Americanised
mall. Where has the Icelandic culture gone?
From what I can see, we seem to flaunt our
cultural heritage in the faces of tourists and
people in other countries; however, plebe-
ian customs seem to have high-jacked most
aspects of Icelandic culture, which is seldom
found in the home of an Icelander. There is
entire generation of Icelanders who know more
about American Idol, Friends and American
brand names than Icelandic poets.
Of course, if I were to simplify matters I
could just blame it all on the AFRTS (Armed
Forces Broadcasting), which infiltrated the
minds of young Icelanders in the late sixties
and early seventies with shows such as Bonanza
and cultural icons such as John Wayne. That
would be wishful thinking. Rather, I think our
rapid loss of distinct Icelandic culture stems
from an all consuming wave of chronic apathy
that affects Icelanders in general. To under-
stand what I mean, you must grasp how our
cultural division amidst Icelanders is; a division
easily spotted in our nightlife, shopping habits,
lifestyle and clothes.
Most Icelanders of my generation can be
categorised into certain types: either indie
(treflar), beatniks/’60s revival types, chavs
(hnakkar), wannabe yuppies and yuppies.
Nevertheless, the all-encompassing trait that
can be found in most of us is a heartbreaking
state of apathy. We have become stretched
in all directions, a side dish on the plate of
consumerism. Icelandic nature, literature and
even the language itself seem to be flat-lining.
Maybe this is to be expected. Child prostitu-
tion seems to have become a problem here
in Reykjavík – meanwhile the mayor of Kópa-
vogur is fawning over “exotic dancers” in some
sleazy joint. The homeless of Reykjavík are a
hidden problem, however that probably does
not matter to us. At least the government are
riding, i.e. being driven, on sweet wheels while
Alþingi is being spruced up. Perhaps apathy is
the new Icelandic way.
So I have a request, dear reader. Please tell
me, along with other Icelanders you meet, how
to be Icelandic. You probably either have the
Lonely Planet guide to Iceland or some other
guidebook (hopefully an old one) – and dare
I say, maybe even some Icelandic sagas?
How Not to be Icelandic
Text by Marvin Lee Dupree
Iceland has sort of lost itself in its relentless and
overwhelming “happy meal” propaganda, and in
the process lost its elflike, wide-eyed innocence...
“If your writers are paid to
write reviews, I hope you only
paid 10% for this one, because
that is all the work you got.”