Reykjavík Grapevine - 20.10.2007, Qupperneq 17

Generally, when a band’s guitarist takes to the stage donning a pair
of angel wings it’s a safe bet that what will follow will be a bit pre-
cious, a bit delicate and, well, angelic. So it was a shock when the
first song from Icelandic instrumental quartet Miri gradually opened
into churning oceans of sound. The group’s set at Organ Friday night
was majestic, full of creamy guitars and startling soft-loud dynamics.
Their songs arrive at their crescendos the way an inventor arrives at
an idea, in sudden bursts of joy and inspiration.
Miri were the strongest of two young bands on the bill. The sec-
ond was the Scottish group Theatre Fall, who blended racing riffs
with neon synth lines and pouting vocals to terrific effect. They were
like a punk band playing inside a Pac-Man machine.
Retron used keyboards, too, but for drastically different purposes.
They layered staccato synths beneath screaming symphonic metal, re-
sulting not so much in songs as a series of billion-decibel overtures.
And how best to follow such formidable fretwork? With a mild
acoustic duo, naturally. Sickbirds (filling in for ET Tumason, who
cancelled) offered a brief set of pastoral folk that was pleasant but
forgettable.
Singapore Sling would have been a more apt transition. They
were blaring and blistering too, but where Retron favours drastic dy-
namics, Singapore Sling were experts in thundering monotony. Oc-
casionally, their grinding guitar patterns proved hypnotic; more often,
they were merely punishing.
The night was rounded out by Búdrýgindi, who excelled when
they stuck to hardcore but floundered when they tried for funk, and
Thundercats, who dabbled in new wave. Thundercats’ chief asset
is their use of shivery vocals. Even when they were dabbling with
middling dancefloor electrogoth, the whispery singing kept them
sounding heavenly. Perhaps they should have asked to borrow Miri’s
wings. J. Edward Keyes
Organ
Miri by Skari
Mál og Menning: The young Retro Stefson brought sunshine to the
Mál og Menning book store, with their mix of bossa nova and surf,
sung in Spanish, Icelandic and French. Their teenage blush and ex-
citement was a pure joy.
Two guitars, two men – not your first description of the hip electro
act of Montreal. As it turns out, it worked on two acoustic guitars, late
afternoon, surrounded by books and a capacity crowd. of Montreal
frontman, Kevin Barnes, together with guitarist Bryan Poole, served
the happy crowd with Fleetwood Mac and Bowie covers alongside
with their hits “Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse”, “Du og meg”
and “Suffer for Fashion”. It’s easy when you know how. Sari Pel-
tonen
Rokk og Rósir: Your Airwaves guide categorises the music of U.S duo
Best Fwends as “retarded anti-pop,” though it would be more accu-
rate to just call it bratty karaoke from orange-headed degenerates.
If the enemy gang in A Clockwork Orange channelled their violence
into synth-punk, this is what you’d end up with. The two high energy
singers bounce and jump off the walls, flailing their arms in every
direction and sometimes running into the crowd. They shout in iden-
tical nasally pop-punk goo-goos and gaa-gaas to a background of
loud and razory keyboards and cheap blips and blips.
Slow Club played a rounded set of sweet, whistly folk. Guitarist/
vocalist Charles reeled out clucking and chordy acoustic bits, while
the adorable drummer/vocalist Rebecca added skipping shuffle beats
and piped in with intricate (and shouted) harmonies. Slow Club’s ver-
bosity was apparent but impressively unpretentious, and it seemed
to be in perfect accordance with their often shill harmonies. The raw-
ness of Rokk og Rósiŕ s soundsystem added to the barely-polite feel
of the set, fortunately working to the charming little duo’s advantage.
Chandler Fredrick
Off-venue
of Montreal by Leó Stefánsson
Picture this: a long-haired singer lets out an ear-shredding howl while
making a pained face that suggests he’s just taken a knife to the gut.
Nearby, a black-clad girl flails around, punches the air and knocks
into the handful of other people in the bar, dancing not so much with
herself as ‘at’ the rest of us. It was that kind of night, mostly. The
guitar-drunk Hoffman and the streamrolling Bootlegs were highlights
in an otherwise underwhelming heavy-metal showcase.
Trassar, a group of middle-agers that included a guitarist in a
kilt and sneakers, brandished an Iron Maiden-style assault, with the
singer showing off an impressive set of pipes. Trassar’s sound was
conventional, but the band was more enjoyable than Gordon Riots
and Shogun, two young-looking acts who trafficked in plodding, very
heavy death-metal. Gordon Riot’s assault was so brutal that, during
their set, a beer glass set atop an amplifier actually shattered.
Hoffman drew thirty or so spectators, easily the night’s largest
crowd. The band hails from the Westman Islands – the part of Iceland
where, apparently, they teach you how to play guitars like Archers of
Loaf. Their pained, almost emo tunes were so-so, but their action-
packed guitar assault was pretty sweet – dense, well-modulated,
invigorating. Bootlegs, Iceland’s longest-running thrash-metal band,
were fun to watch as they ploughed through speedy grooves and
meaty riffs with precision and expertise.
Five long-haired dudes wearing facial hair and torn jeans, Sev-
ered Crotch look they might be friends with Otto the Busdriver. Their
songs unfolded like free jazz – most tunes were mishmashes of spi-
der-y riffs, growling vocals, and shifting time-signatures. One native
pronounced the set “mindblowing,” but “hard to follow” seemed more
appropriate. By the time Envy of Nona played a set of decent, tightly-
wound emo-punk, Grand Rokk was again nearly empty. Sadly, at
no point in the evening did a double-guitar make an appearance.
Christian Hoard
Grand Rokk
Shogun by Gúndi
Friday Reviews