Reykjavík Grapevine - 23.05.2008, Blaðsíða 18

18 | Reykjavík Grapevine | Issue 06 2008 | Reviews
CONCERTCONCERTCONCERT
The foyer at Hafnarhús was buzzing with excitement when we ar-
rived early to see Amiina and Co. on the opening night of this year’s
Reykjavík Arts Festival. As part of the festival, the city’s art museum
was also hosting the Experiment Marathon, a variety of installations
and exhibitions, and it had clearly drawn quite a crowd. The atmo-
sphere in the backroom of the museum, the venue for the night’s
concert, was more suitably subdued, though.
The stage was set with an elaborate arrangement of objects –
burning candles, plants, and hanging light bulbs – as diverse as the
all-female quartet’s collection of instruments, and which created a
sense that we were about to witness a theatrical, rather than mu-
sical, performance. From our seats in the second row we had an
un-obscured view of the stage. The formality of being seated, the
silence, lack of stage staff scurrying to finish their work and snap-
happy photographers vying for a prime position, helped create an-
ticipation for the event which was to come.
While Amiina may not be everyone’s cup of tea, you have to
give them this: they know how to create a unique stage atmosphere
and an unforgettable ambience. The dozen or so musicians that
made up the collaboration paced through Amiina’s set of delicate
and haunting soundscapes – much of which was from their debut
album Kurr, released last year. The sounds of the cello, drums,
glockenspiels, harp, trombone, trumpet, viola, violin, water glasses,
and who- knows-what-else (the group is known for using an array of
household objects in their music) were accompanied by the elec-
tronics of Kippi and the sweet voices of the four women as they
moved around the stage from one instrument to another.
During the 60 minute set, I found myself drifting in and out of
a dream-like state – some may describe the experience of listening
to Amiina as boring. Others, as blissfully relaxing.
Reviewed by Zoë Robert
Along with eighty others, I’m inside the chapel of the St. Barnabus
Church, a seventeenth century house of worship the size of a utility
room. Rickety wooden chairs dot the overcrowded chapel, as can-
dles illuminate the entertainment, a stage shared by Sam Amidon
and Icelandic super producer Valgeir Sigurdsson.
Sam Amidon is first, matching generations’ old folk to Icelan-
dic classical accompaniment, seizure-like dancing and scorned,
crackling vocals. Amidon is flawed, very flawed, but utterly en-
dearing, childlike and playful. Oboe, accordion and violin pokes
scratch each sentence, producing blemished folk ditties wrought in
self-reflexivity, liturgical sensitivity and adventure. Amidon makes
mistakes, lots of them, but they never undermine his message, one
that begs to bring light into the most seriousness of circumstances.
It is forty-five beguiling minutes, frustratingly rewarding.
Valgeir Sigurðsson, who played bass in Amidon’s set-up,
emerges a half-hour later with the same instrumentation. But he
is a completely different beast, one more in touch with externali-
ties than antiquated atmosphere. Sigurðsson secularizes hymns,
as electronic drum pads, pre-mixed samplers and sensuous string
arrangements peer through classical, flowery arrangements. Each
song is a glacial war cry, patient but increasingly urgent as it flicks
and flutters through its composition, revealing more as the melodies
pass. His is an electronic approach compared to Amidon’s acoustic
approach, but the result is as successful because Sigurdsson picks
his sounds carefully, slowly enrapturing us textures filtered through
melodies, but never reliant on them.
It is all over way too soon. As Sigurdsson concludes, the lights
reveal the crucifix planted above the stage, a dominating figure re-
minding everyone why this structure still stands four centuries after
it was constructed. While no one came here to go to church tonight,
the brood permeating from years past surely reared its biblical head
through all of this. They should do this more often.
Reviewed by Shain Shapiro
At 21-years of age, the highly acclaimed indie-darling Ólafur Arnalds
has just released Variations of Static, his sophomore release of com-
positions for piano and strings, laced with electro-beats and sound
effects, following last year’s Eulogy for Evolution. To celebrate the
occasion, a release concert was promptly scheduled at the old
Iðnó theatre. The theatre carries great sound and is an ideal venue
for this kind of concert. Few things in this world create a subdued
atmosphere like a quiet all-seater in a dimly-lit ballroom. Opening
act Svavar Knútur delivered a sombre set of heartfelt and emotional
troubadour songs that teeter on the edge of being overly dramatic
and emotional, and at times are. The kind of songs that sound like
they could serve as a backdrop to all the emotional moments on
Grey’s Anatomy. That kind of heartfelt.
Ólafur Arnalds entered the stage, accompanied by a cello
player and three violinists. His compositions are sparse and repeti-
tious, almost naïvely so, but still carry something delicate, some-
thing ethereal. To take the TV/film analogy even further, it is the
type of music that would score a movie about an autistic kid that
overcomes great adversity. That kind of pretty. For his final song, he
brought out a bass player and a live drummer. The bass was a great
addition, giving his sound an added layer of density. The drums,
however, could have been a great addition, if not for the fact that
the drummer pounded them way beyond what the instrumentation
allowed for, overpowering everything else. For an encore, Ólafur
played Death Cab for Cutie’s Marching Bands Of Manhattan, which
was met with great appreciation from the audience.
Reviewed by Sveinn Birkir Björnsson
Amiina Ólafur ArnaldsValgeir Sigurðsson
Photo by GAS Photo by Peter Corkhill Photo by GAS
Where: Hafnarhúsið When: May 15, 2008 Where: St. Barnabas Church, London When: May 16, 2008 Where: Iðnó When: May 18, 2008