Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.04.2008, Qupperneq 12

12 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 04 2008 | Feature
The Hugest Small Rock Fest in the World
In its fifth year, the annual Aldrei fór ég suður festival has never been bigger than last Easter weekend. Two days, 34 bands and all for free!
It was almost 3am and the festival was coming to an
end. The youngest in the audience had gone home
to rest but excited party people had taken their
places. The oldest in the crowd, a couple in their
eighties, wiggled hand in hand to SSSÓL’s 90s’ hit
‘Mér finnst rigningin góð’ (I Like the Rain). Watch-
ing them captured the spirit of Aldrei fór ég suður
(translates I Never Went South). A wonderfully ro-
mantic mix of joy and celebration of life. Frontman
Helgi Bjöss was cooler than ever and I even found
myself singing along to a song I’ve spurned since
my teenage years. It’s hard to say what was in the air
inside that old warehouse in the desolated fishing
town of Ísafjörður, but the song suddenly seemed
the best one ever written.
The now frantic crowd cheered Rockmaster
Mugison, his dad, wife and all the other organisers
as they joined SSSÓL in a sing-along to ‘Farðu alla
leið’ (Go All the Way). They are the town’s heroes.
Recognition well deserved. With their own unique
festival, Mugison and co. have put their remote
hometown on the music map as one of the most
rockin’ towns in the world.
Three Generations of Rockers
In its fifth year, the annual Aldrei fór ég suður festi-
val has never been bigger than last Easter weekend.
Two days, 34 bands and all for free! Unlike so many
music festivals around, there is nothing complicat-
ed about this one. Staged in a warehouse down by
the harbour, each band gets 20 minutes to fascinate
the audience no matter whether they are legendary
Megas or newcomers to the music scene. There is
no actual headliner. Everyone is equal, sleeps in the
same dorm or crashes on a friend’s couch. Sound
checks are for wusses and bands swap drummers
and guitarists, which leaves room for whole lot of
mistakes and an equal amount of fun. Here, every-
one is a friend, a relative or soon-to-be friend or
relative. Over the weekend, music is celebrated in
front of a homemade stage decorated with fishnets
and Christmas lights.
Among rock stars throwing empty beer cans
around, kids munch on pizza slices and young
couples make out in the corners. Babies with head-
phones cuddle up to their moms, their grandparents
nod, a little shocked, to XXX Rottweiler’s aggressive
hip-hop beats while their teenage sisters wait in awe
with drumsticks and baseball caps for their idols to
sign. Three generations gather to rock with people
from around the country and beyond. “This is the
best festival in the world!” I heard repeatedly, from
guests who had travelled from as close as next door
to as far as many hours on a plane to get to this iso-
lated Westfjord location.
Ísafjörður’s population doubles during the
Easter weekend and the festival has become so
popular that it was impossible for us to get accom-
modation. The Grapevine team therefore had to
settle for the next neighbouring town, Bolungavík.
That got us to know this friendly community even
better and learn that hospitality is more of a rule
than an exception. “I love to drive. I just hate to
charge for it,” the taxi-driver who shuttled us from
Bolungavík told us before welcoming us inside his
home to use his computer. “Feel free to come any
time if you need anything. Our name is on the door-
bell,” his wife added. Thanks!
“Throw Something At Me!”
The two-day feast started with fish stew, which we
missed unfortunately. When the five of us arrived
after a seven-hour drive from Reykjavík, the festival
goers had swallowed the last bite before heading to
the concert venue. We tagged along.
As a first timer to AFS, the charm of the festi-
val and its stunning surroundings left me tongue-
tied. “Ísafjörður is a metropolis in the Westfjords”
one local festival goer told me over a beer. “It’s a
creative community where everything is possible.
Everything happens so fast. I think it’s because
death is always so nearby”. He has a point. Locked
in by a long fjord and ruthless mountains, the harsh
environment is frightfully apparent even while you
sense something magical about this town of rough-
ly 3,000 inhabitants.
Bob Justman opened the festival with incred-
ible charisma and the crowd rapidly grew. Kids
climbed on top of whatever made them see the
stage better, police-dogs sniffed for drugs and the
line outside the outdoor toilets steadily grew.
The line-up for the weekend was immensely
diverse, musically and experientially. Hot-shots
in Hjaltalín, with all their complex instruments,
cramped the same stage as Faroese diva Eivör.
Johnny Sexual dressed to impress while Steintryg-
gur impressed with no fancy clothing required. The
middle-aged in the room showed equal interest in
Ísafjörður’s own Mysterious Marta and in Ben Frost’s
experimental guitar noise (although two ladies in
the front row commented that this act was “perhaps
a bit too loud”)
Punk-rockers in Morðingjarnir owned Friday
night. That is indisputable. “Throw something at
me!” screamed Atli, the intoxicated bassist, before
he fell on the floor. The crowd didn’t think twice.
Beer bottles flew onto stage before the sound guy
stepped in and put a stop to it. Although the three-
some didn’t know all their songs, their attitude set
the mood for the evening, which included Hjálmar
playing with Megas and Megas supporting Hjálmar.
Mugison himself closed the night with a perfor-
mance and applause that almost made the roof ex-
plode. No explanation needed.
Yellow Gloves and Priceless Spandex
Swarms of hung-over festival goers roamed around
town in search of food and wake-up coffee to pre-
pare for the extensive programme on Saturday af-
ternoon. Those brave enough to think of alcohol at
that time loaded up on beer from the liquor store.
Nearly 12 hours of music, dancing, hugging and
kissing lay ahead.
We saw a couple of great performances,
some curious bands and missed a lot of super acts
(Biogen, Múgsefjun and Ultra Mega Technobandið
Stefán in particular, which we heard were all cra-
zy). The young Sudden Weather Change grow with
every performance, Sprengjuhöllin and Sign both
showed why they are such huge crowd-pleasers
and the sexy Skátar sporting golden spandex tights
brought the crowd to a level of general insanity. “I
bought them for 3,000 ISK. Now I’ve played in them
so they’re priceless!” guitarist Kolli told a young fe-
male fan who clearly wanted nothing more than to
get his pants off after the gig.
But it was a local act that drew the biggest
crowd and the warehouse was way more than
packed when the working-men’s choir Karlakórinn
Ernir squeezed onto the stage. The whole town had
arrived to see their local heroes so it was a brutal
fight to get a glimpse of what was going on. Dressed
in their Sunday best, with yellow rubber gloves,
fronted by Dr. Spock’s singer Óttarr Proppé, the
choir reached unknown heights when performing
Spock’s Eurovision contribution ‘Hvar ertu nú?’
Clearly one of the festival’s highlights.
In all, this was a unique event. The coolest
festival I’ve ever attended. My only worry is that it
might be growing too fast for its own good. I hope
it will stay small and homey, as being part of some-
thing so spectacular makes you feel privileged. To
all those who rocked, we salute you!
By Steinunn Jakobsdóttir
Photos by GAS