Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2009, Qupperneq 18

Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2009, Qupperneq 18
18 The Reykjavík Grapevine Issue 13 — 2009 Scenes From Menningarnótt See Smell Touch Taste Hear - Recounting a day and night of purported culture in Reykjavík Feature | Re-living the past, sorta VALGERÐUR ÞÓRODDSDÓTTIR: In the morning it was very quiet and I was very hung over. The apartment was unusually still and so, it seemed, was the downtown street outside its windows. It could have been any other day, really, a thankfully tranquil, restful, Saturday morning, and to my drowsy eyes it almost was. But outside the shaded window something was already brewing; close to 1/3 of the country’s population would be f looding these streets by the day’s peak, providing the biggest crowds, the most noise and eventually the most vomit the streets of Reykjavik would see all year. The muted serenity of these surroundings betrayed the reality of what lay ahead, and it was clear that the day would be a long one; according to the Culture “Night” program, the agenda began at 10:00 in the morning and stretched on for over thirteen hours. What wasn’t clear, conversely, was what on said schedule could possibly entice me out of bed on this particularly wretched weekend morning. What it was, it turns out, was waff les. Free waff les, and coffee, to be precise. At four different venues even, in case I was so inclined and appropriately ambitious. Right through the darkly blotted newsprint of the Culture Night schedule God seemed to be winking at me, promising that the indiscretions of the past could be forgiven and forgotten with a sweet patterned cake and plenty of jam and whipped cream. And so it was that I set out more determinedly than I would have thought possible of my ailing state, towards waff les, emphatic and resolute. As I made my way through Þingholtin down towards the pond the day proved to be way ahead of me. Various promotional vendors had set up on a small square a block down from my street and traffic had been closed off in all directions. A few people had gathered on what was usually a minor four-way crossing and on a fairly large stage someone sat and was playing a f lute. The waff les promised in the day’s program were mysteriously, though perhaps not unexpectedly considering who was promising, missing from Landsbankinn in Austurstræti, replaced instead by bowls full of stale kleinur standing sadly near a wall in a corner of the building. But there was no turning bank. No bank’s deception was going to keep me from having my waff le and eating it too. At the local Amnesty International headquarters on Þingholtsstræti the waff les were bountiful and the kleinur fresh and voluptuous. The main room was clean and well-lit, and around every table sat people chatting and signing human rights petitions and postcards. Feasting on eager generosity, drinking kókó mjólk and coffee, I shamed myself for having ever thought that Landsbankinn would have been the right place to start. It was now 3 P.M. and the crowds had grown significantly, the thickening mass not yet oppressive but existing nonetheless as a dark foreshadow, a reminder of how packed and impossible the day had been at its peak last year. On Lækjartorg Square a group of middle-aged women were wearing cowboy hats and line dancing to the song Somethin’ Stupid, joined by what must have been their teacher, Óli Geir. The beat of the song was unhurried and steady and the dancers, cool and composed, glided in various arrangements across the low stage while the surrounding crowd watched attentively, smiling, delighted. On Ingólfsstræti it began to mist through the sunlight as Orri and, according to the program, “his friends” displayed the Art of Graffiti on a wall behind Prikið while a group of people sat on the pavement and looked on. Further down the street, on its opposite end, a Garden Concert was in full swing. After a perfectly pleasant couple of songs from a young band whose name I did not catch, Retro Stefson played four songs very quickly, apparently their second set during the concert and apparently as consolation for the absence of FM Belfast who were scheduled to play last but who had not come. As per usual, the kids were full of energy and their songs full of cowbell, a combination that has done a world of good for them as well as their big-brother-band Belfast. It is either a testament to or a condemnation of Culture Night that I had to fight my way through crowds around the Michael Jackson tribute band in order to get to my neighbourhood store and procure a litre of Coke to nurse my hangover. The band was on the stage below Hallgrímskirkja Church on Skólavörðustígur and I could hear them through an open window when I got home. I remember thinking that the singer actually sounded a lot like Michael Jackson, right before I shut the window and closed the blinds. Back at square one. Evening had finally fallen by the time I left the house again and there was a sort of winter holiday feeling in the air, conjured by a range of people coming together to stroll in the evening glow. At a backyard FM Belfast concert on the corner of Bergþórugata and Frakkastígur this mood prevailed and was only enhanced by a youthful charge. A large crowd jumped and pulsated and sang along and Retro At the Grapevine, we love us some culture and arts and music and poetry and literature and waffles and intoxication and vomiting and drunken stumbling. So naturally, we are quite fond of Menningarnótt. It has all of the above, and more. Recounting the whole experience isn’t an easy task. There is a LOT going on, as you may have noticed if you were there (and if you were not, check out our last issue for an overview of the huuuuuuge programme on offer). We can’t do that. But you can still get a glimpse of what the whole thing was about by reading the following: two different accounts of how two different redheads in their early twenties experienced Menningarnótt. You should also look at the pictures. Enjoy.

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