Reykjavík Grapevine - 17.07.2009, Qupperneq 34

22
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 10 — 2009
Sunlit Halls
Eistnaflug (translated ‘Flight of the
Testicles’, ‘TestFest’, or, worst of
all, ‘Flight of the Testes’) is a metal
festival held annually in the small
eastern Icelandic fishing port of
Neskaupstaður. The Grapevine,
diligent as always in the monitoring
of high culture, sent an observer to
bear witness to the drunken insanity
that occurs when pretty much all of
Iceland’s metal subculture gathers in
a tiny town to watch thirty bands play
the most extreme Iceland has to offer
musically. The observer, as fate would
have it, was me.
To best capture the impossibly
chaotic and unpredictable nature
of Eistnaflug, or indeed any large
outdoor music festival, I have decided
that an ad verbatim, unabridged
and uncensored transcription of the
A6 Moleskine notebook I acquired
somewhere and jotted down random
observations in would be the best way
to re-experience the festival. They are
however, for the reader’s convenience,
proofread.
Bear in mind that the following
opinions expressed are not necessarily
truths, nor even opinions I hold today.
I feel, however, that this makes them
all the more effective: an account
written after the fact would only be
tainted by wisdom I’ve gained or lost
since, and would be too focused on
discerning a purpose to all the lunacy
I experienced. Not one word has been
added or omitted.
Thursday, 9th July.
The first fourteen notes are not
timed, but they were taken, to the best
of my recollection, between 4:30 and
7:30 P.M. All other untimed notes are
impossible to place correctly.
Senior citizens: “Heavy metal.”
There is cold beer at the back of
the car. (Ford Focus) Everywhere is
warmed by sunlight shining through
windows.
I watch first band Skítur play.
There are 33 people in the room.
Everyone outside is too drunk to
communicate; inside, everything is
too loud. Some guy’s girlfriend pushes
his hand away as he tries to hug her.
They walk towards the bar.
Skítur is asked for an encore, but
the singer needs to take a piss. The
afternoon sunlight is intensely
uncomfortably bright outside. The
bouncer thinks my notebook is
alcohol. We exchange awkward
grunts.
Everyone is drunk and half-naked
and everyone reeks of sweat. I lie
and smoke a cigarette in some grass.
Someone quotes HAM’s version of
Airport.
“Ég fíla þessar kringumstæður þar
sem að fólk tjaldar bara til að geyma
draslið sitt í og sefur bara þar sem það
deyr.”
It’s ten to seven and someone falls
over drunk and vomiting. The sun
beats down hard. It’s so impossibly
beautiful here and I don’t understand
this place.
It’s only the first day and already
the consistency of crumbling, dry
mud permeates everything. Tomboys
are everywhere.
It’s 19:35 and we’re debating
whether or not someone’s shitty
Peruvian reggaeton sounds Japanese.
Everyone is drunk.
It’s 20:01 and the campsite applies
temporary tattoos to each other. The
sun drops behind the mountain.
It’s 20:17 and the sky is incredibly
blue. I’m thinking of going to see a
band or two. Someone is throwing
up close by. The hollow crunch of
someone stepping on a beer can has
become commonplace. Almost none
of the girls are wearing bras. A circle
of garbage has begun to form between
the tents.
My photographer groans multiple
times as he takes a sip of whiskey, as
if he’s been stung by something. The
dusk shadows the mountain in an
indescribably intricate way. No-one
notices. Someone notices a slab of
barbecue is on fire.
21:03 and everyone smells of
campsite undergrowth. People are
lying down on the pavement. I reach
the venue and everyone is sweaty
and disgusting and happy. A band
has just finished. Someone feeds his
girlfriend pizza. I look at someone’s
face too long, I have to nod to them.
Do it twice, I have to talk to them.
I stand around a car that has
Butthole Surfers blaring out of the
stereo. Another car, a moving one
with a local driving, beeps at a drunk
guy with a guitar case. The shadow of
one mountain moves over another. A
girl dances atop a Toyota SUV and the
car alarm goes off. She skitters into a
crowd. No-one believes I am who I say
I am and some girl says she was born
in ’98.
I stand alone and drink beer by the
venue entrance. I think Plastic Gods
are playing. Punk may not be sexual,
but metal is. “I’ll give you 1000 ISK for
a blowjob,” someone says to a girl.
Plastic Gods are hypnotic and amazing
in every way imaginable. The bass
strap comes loose in one song. No-
one cares. The bassist screams into
his mike. The most interesting music
in Iceland is played here three days a
year. Everyone here knows that.
I’m on my way to the pier to piss off of
it, and someone yells at me, “Hey do
you have a light?”
“No, I don’t smoke anymore.”
“Really? Not even... magic?”, he
says, brandishing a very long rolled-up
cigarette.
“Uh... yeah, sure, I smoke magic.”
It’s 22:56 and I’m higher than
god. The music drones on inside, but
my beer is too valuable to pour out,
so I’m stuck outside for now. A guy
smacks my ass as he passes me and I
spy my photographer stumbling over
the street with some rolling tobacco. I
enter the venue and a band is trying
very hard.
“Who is this?”, I ask someone.
“I don’t know.”
They speak accented English as
they leave the stage. I ask someone
else. I can’t hear a word he says. I ask
again.
“ Actress. From Germany.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Thanks,” I add. I stand by the exit.
Every five minutes, somebody hugs
someone they haven’t seen for years.
It’s 23:53 and I’ve sort of lost track of
events. I run out of the venue and walk
around town.
Friday, July 10th:
0:34. I sit in my tent and debate
whether or not to leave it again.
Someone calls my name; it’s for
someone else, just a coincidence.
There are more single girls here than
last year. Someone talks about Star
Wars, someone else keeps yelling my
name. I think I’m about to leave my
tent.
01:14 Someone is breakdancing
atop the lavatory crate. He falls off.
Everyone cheers.
It’s 01:52 and I return to the
lavatory crate. 4 people are camping
out on top of it, hurling obscenities
at passerby. Everyone is listening to
metal.
The time is indeterminate. I can’t
find my allergy medication and my
hangover shows no mercy. I’m going
back to sleep.
Read the stunning conclusion to Sindri's
Eistnaf lug coverage in our next issue.
On Tour | Grapevine Goes Eistnaflug Rock Festival – Part One
www.islenskibarinn.is • info@islenskibarinn.is
The Icelandic Bar • Austurvöllur • Reykjavík • Tel: 578 2020
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beautiful meal for us.
We had the most
amazing freshest fish I've
ever had in my life.
It was all so perfectly
cooked too...Beautiful!”
Jamie Oliver’s Diary
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