Reykjavík Grapevine - 20.10.2007, Side 16

Half of the problem with electronic night was that there were too
many electronics – that is, technical difficulties plagued nearly every
set and the big beats from Barinn downstairs didn’t exactly make for
the year’s best mash-ups with Barinn upstairs. Case in point with the
obviously talented \7oi, whose Album Leaf meets Squarepusher ex-
perimental glitch-pop didn’t cooperate with four-on-the-floor gobble-
dygook down below. It’s unfortunately dull watching a gorgeous act
like his, witnessing someone breathe in and out while their hands are
cocked over a sound board in the nipple tweaking position for a half
an hour. Another knob-twiddler, Plúseinn, roared through an ultra-
short set, half of which was an excellent play on Feist’s “My Moon
My Man.” Electro-pop crew Enkidu, fronted by Þórður Hermannsson,
also only managed a tragic 20 minutes of tunes after computer mal-
functions. Sadly, Hermannsson hardly utilised the arsenal of a string
section, keyboards, guitars and horns backing him.
Where these other men excelled in subtlety, Jezebel retorted in
a sloshy, puerile, ambisexual combo of butt-rock, gangsta rap and
glam. The predominantly male fans, bedazzled in glitter, were a fine
mirror to the handful of dudes on stage, all of who vied to be lead
singer. Van of Two, as evidenced by the crowd, makes exceptional
lounge music to talk over. American songsmith Receptors flaunted
the many splendours of Nintendo Gameboy video game music, ex-
tracting arching, crunchy grooves with the wave of his wand (a sty-
lus). The medium obviously has its limitations, but this nerd-fest also
included a mind-melting version of Kraftwerḱ s “Hall of Mirrors.” The
evening’s best came from Faroe Island weirdo duo The Ghost, who
performed their ninth show ever to a pleasantly surprised crowd. Fey
frontman Filip Mortensen is a skinny hurricane, a guy who can lick
his hand and slap his own ass, sing like a lady and botch a back spin
on the floor and come out all the more fabulous. Katie Hasty
Barinn
Receptors by Gúndi
The crowds came and went like clouds on Friday at NASA, which felt
like five or six different clubs in the course of one weathered night. The
bill got off to a stirring start with Mr. Silla & Mongoose, a small group
that sounded more monumental than their use of a ukulele might sug-
gest. Mr. Silla herself (she’s a woman, as well as a member of Múm)
commanded the stage with a voice that simmered with mystery and
soul, while Mongoose laid out little pointillist bits of melody by way
of laptop and guitar. Together they were hazy, laconic, strange—like
a lounge band in a Star Wars movie if only the Star Wars movies had
more style.
The tempo changed drastically with Bloodgroup, an antic group
that danced in place to songs that mixed thick clubby beats and
new-wave darkness. Skakkamanage quieted down with shambling
indie-pop that was more homey and human (na-na-na vocals, sham-
bolic harmonica, finger-snap breakdowns), before Prinzhorn Dance
School swerved into something more like a serious formalist exer-
cise. Possessed of the same bleak English mind that fired at the start
of old post-punk, Prinzhorn played brutal rock songs about radiators
and shopping while stripping away everything but the essentials:
a bounding bass-line, a few isolated notes of guitar, and measured
rhythms built from little more than series of thudding kicks and spa-
cious hits of snare.
The studious mood turned more showy and ecstatic when Mo-
tion Boys bounded out to a crowd that amassed in full just before
they went on. And not by coincidence: the locals craning for an angle
couldn’t have been more enraptured by Birgir Ísleifur, a frontman who
writhed through old Morrissey stage moves with a new-wave lean.
He was in-the-moment but also slightly out of time—not unlike Gus-
Gus, who kept the crowd moving with dance music that dated back
to the rave-era ’90s more than the present day. Their set worked, but
it didn’t do much to account for changes in the weather. Andy Batta-
glia
NASA
Motion Boys by Gúndi
Tonight, I wanted magic. Tonight, I got magic. I also got myself a
whole new crush. His name is Kevin Barnes. But, let’s start at the be-
ginning, with the wilfully fluctuating balladry of Kalli. He sings of hav-
ing no stars left in his sky, and stuff that rhymes with that (use your
imaginations, kids.) Quite a gathering swells for Sweden’s Loney,
Dear, whose frontman doesn’t sing so much as catapult his vocals
into the atmosphere; one second they’re panicked, the next, serene.
Now, here’s where things grow blurry; not with intoxicants, but
with the euphoria of Denmark’s Trentemøller. Suspended screens are
splattered with broken images; shifting collages of hands, diamonds,
horror movie heroines and Marilyn Monroe stutter across our view.
Hearts, minds and eyes all synchronise as Anders’ singular breed of
hard-wired, split-circuited hypnotism slings itself around the room;
and whilst this stuff is metallic, mechanical and monochrome, there’s
an incredibly human physicality to it that feels as strong, as barbaric
and as uplifting as the throb of your own blood. Let’s get basic: if it
doesn’t make you want to do bad things to badder people, then you
don’t have a pulmonary system.
Although múm – an Icelandic seven-piece fronted by two fear-
some girl-sprites – charm with their fairy dances, night-time thuds
and Romany inflections, they lack the seductive guile we’ve been
craving post-Trentemøller; sultriness, meanwhile, is something the
aforementioned of Montreal have in spades. Every one of this eclectic
jamboree’s songs is a dynamo wound to the point of extinction, com-
bining dark, chocolaty pop with bejewelled guitars and the enflamed
performance of a frontman who looks like he’s trying to crawl out of
his own skin – at the same time as having never felt quite so right in
it. His vocals hiccup with release whilst he cavorts on the edge of pan-
ic; then, mid-set, he reappears in a golden, expressionless mask for
their last remaining riots of flamboyant, buoyant noise. The crowd’s
response to ‘Heimdalsgate like a Promethean Curse’ is joyous. It’s
ridiculous. It’s epiphanic. Lauren Strain
RVK Art Museum
múm by Rúnar
Friday Reviews