Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.07.2008, Síða 18

18 | REYKJAVÍK GRAPEVINE | ISSUE 09—2008
ARTICLE By valgerÐur ÞÓroddSdÓttir — pHotoS By gaS
Sigur Rós, despite their success, is a band that is still on it’s
way out of Iceland. In a way, they are still local. It wasn’t
so long ago that they were a small-time Reykjavík band,
and you can still spot them walking down Laugavegur ev-
ery once in a while. Björk, meanwhile, is a performer that
Icelanders have somewhat begun to resent because of her
success. She is like the daughter that grew up, moved out
of the house and doesn’t call us anymore. While the free
concert in the name of Náttúra was undoubtedly feeding
into a certain marketable image beneficial to all parties
involved, it was done in the name of an idea that, in its
purest and most uncomplicated form, every Icelander
could stand behind.
It was only almost 17:00, but the event had received
enough local and international hype to warrant the ex-
pectation of a sizable audience right from the concert’s
offset. In an unfittingly dramatic beginning, my comrades
and I climbed a 2-meter long wrought-iron fence in an ef-
fort to reach Þvottabrekka and avoiding the congestion of
crowds flooding Grasagarðurinn’s main entrance.
Upon arrival, the crowd of early birds turned out to
be much more moderately sized than I had expected;
fringed by rustling trees and enormous hanging speak-
ers, about a hundred people sat camped on blankets and
chairs in front of the empty stage. Images of natural trea-
sures in danger of ruination for the sake of heavy industry
flashed across a screen to our left, along with photographs
sprawled with the words “already destroyed.” Politicians
smiled triumphantly on the screen as we luxuriously
spread a blanket on the grass about 20 meters from the
stage.
At around 17:30, concertgoers started streaming into
the park en masse. There was nothing to do but wait and
watch, while Finnbogi Pétursson and Curver’s soft am-
bience, which I mistook at first for an extended sound-
check, ushered in the unrelenting swarm of concertgo-
ers. The sun shone, everyone ate Stjörnumix, and I could
see almost no one who had yet started drinking.
“I’m going to say this in English for the English-speaking
audience” Ólöf Arnalds declared to a big cheer when she
had taken the stage in a black, sparkly marching band-
esque jacket. “I’ve never done a concert standing up in
my life, but tonight I’m standing and I’m also standing in
these big shoes because I’m standing up for nature!”
The crowd around me, despite being comparatively close
to the stage, was watching the live footage on the screen
rather than the stage itself. Ólöf was cheerful and talk-
ative, despite a generally timid response from the audi-
ence, and a pair of Americans sitting in front of us turned
around to ask bemusedly who she was. Delivering a short
set of mostly new material with her usual earnestness,
Ólöf affirmed her deft ability to write simple songs that
are sweet without being corny.
As soon as she had left the stage, the crowd, finished
with their lazing and their snack foods, stood up in anx-
ious anticipation of the co-headliners, Sigur Rós. After a
short wait the band walked on stage and began playing
without a word to the audience. A few songs in I began
to wonder if they were going to address the crowd at all,
if not the issue at hand, when Jónsi finally spoke: “So, is
everyone in a good gear?” Then, conclusively, “We’re go-
ing to play a song off our new record.” As the opening
notes rang out, a group of pre-teens started to scream and
jump up and down with joy. “It’s a little bit cold,” Jónsi
interjected before the next song, “there’s no sun on the
stage.”
The on-stage action during Sigur Rós’s gig played out
like some perfectly adorable fairy-tale. The band beat
drum sticks and bows to shreds on their instruments
and romped on wooden flutes to raw and animalistic cli-
maxes. Giant white balloon-like lanterns on stage lit up
in various arrangements and white smoke drifted from
somewhere back on the stage, while Amiina puttered
about like brightly dressed decoration, adorned with
flower-like hair ornaments. The wind was blowing eager-
ly and tugged playfully at the band, moving the glistening
plastic draping the stage into a symphony of movement
while the audience, bathed in harsh sunlight and swaying
along with the wind, looked on as though in a trance.
The highlight of Sigur Rós’s set, and arguably of the whole
concert, came when Björk and Ólöf Arnalds joined on
stage during Goobledigook in jumping up and down and
cathartically beating drums. Despite whatever reserva-
tions you may have about Sigur Rós’s music or about the
merit of the concert as a whole, the song was undeniably
captivating to watch simply because of the clear and or-
ganic thrill of the performers on stage. It was possibly the
most fun I have ever had watching musicians perform,
ever.
Towards the end of Sigur Rós’s set I was hoisted up
to see that the garden was filled to its brim with tiny little
heads, (later estimated to be around 30,000 concertgo-
ers,) peaking for the night’s final set.
Björk took the animal metaphor to a new level, dressed
in a spotted rainbow-coloured headdress that made her
resemble some glamorous human koala bear. Prancing
around the stage barefoot, licking her lips before unleash-
ing her lyrics, she looked like a spectacular animal of her
own creation, dancing about and whipping her arms with
seeming instinctual flair.
On the big screen Björk was magnified both in size
and audience, broadcast to a global audience of 2.6 mil-
lion (according to the U.N.) via National Geographic’s
World Music Website. Although the crowd was riled up
and thrilled and Björk’s set superbly professional, it all
must have looked much more purposeful via satellite
than it did from 10 meters from the stage.
Even from way up close the message was hazy. De-
spite the informatory slideshow, the hook that would have
made the concert as momentous and as noble as it pur-
ported itself to be, the accessible message, was missing.
The voice of the artists, the connection of their music to
the message and the message to the audience was not
vocalized by either of the headlining acts.
After Björk’s grand encore where she commanded her
army of brass with throws of her hands, chanting “Nát-
túra! Náttúra!” the crowd dispersed to reveal a blanket of
trash. As I survey the scene a woman looks at me and says
indignantly, “What is it that we’re supposed to be fighting
for?” before leaning over to collect the half-full bottles of
Icelandic Spring Water into a plastic Bónus bag.
Deafening Silence
BJörk took tHe aniMal MetapHor to
a neW level, dreSSed in a Spotted
rainBoW-coloured HeaddreSS tHat
Made Her reSeMBle SoMe glaMorouS
HuMan koala Bear.
Rally by Iceland’s most influential musical talents
pleases aesthetically, aurally, but forgets message
WHERE
Grasagarðurinn, Laugardalur
WHEN
Saturday, June 28
WHO
Ghostigital
Ólöf Arnalds
Sigur Rós
Björk