Reykjavík Grapevine - 17.10.2008, Qupperneq 11

The openers, Tonik, were promising – a vibrant pairing of synth &
bass, and they played with enthusiasm and panache. Unfortunately,
as the evening started there were (at most) ten people in the bar and
with the best will in the world we couldn’t muster the mood that these
guys deserve. A little later, as the venue started to fill, Yagya took his
place and began to produce the most beautiful music of the night.
Electro-rhythms verging on Astral Projection levels of psytrance cre-
ated a mood of sublime sweetness. Tentatively, in pairs and small
groups, people began dancing, eyes closed, half-smiles of pleasure
across their faces. Sadly, the evening lacked continuity as the next art-
ists, Skurken and Frank Murder, achieved the unexpected result of
completely dispersing the gathered crowd. This was a shame because
the people here have obviously come to get down and dance: tapping
feet, bobbing heads, they are ready to go... but the opportunity has
gone... Skurken played a set that is delivered with enthusiasm but
lacking in originality. His tracks reek of Malcolm Middleton and are
just not the right sound for this bunch of people on this night. Frank,
by contrast, epitomised the problem of poor sound balance and too
much bass marring the evening. The screen displaying the visuals
was a great contribution to the ambience but positioned exactly where
the sound engineer should sit in order to hear what the rest of us
do. Even the ‘salsa dancers’ that had been determinedly sashaying
around the empty f loor were driven away by the thrumming vibra-
tions. By a happy coincidence, however, exactly as 22 filled up at late
o’clock, a superb combination of MC-ing and hard breakbeat got
everyone moving. Suddenly, the venue suited the sound that was be-
ing produced and by God was it well-received. Finally, when Biogen
took his place, this old hand showed the youth how it was really done.
Building up from a techno base, he increased the both tempo and
the mood, finally dropping some dirty, dirty baselines that had us
simply writhing with pleasure. If only we had him all night. HeatHer
rosemary Harrison PHilliP
Upstairs at the Reykjavík Art Museum, a black plastic skull revolves
on a turntable. Fifties rock ‘n’ roll seeps out of the attached head-
phones. The piece is called ‘Doppelgänge’. Across the room a large,
red cushion gives birth to a trail of smaller, pink cushions. This piece
is called ‘Zeitgeist’. Downstairs a quintet of male, thirty-somethings
play stodgy blues-rock that echoes across the almost empty main
hall. Let’s call this piece ‘Wrong Place, Wrong Time’ AKA Esja. The
hall is no less empty come Sprengjuhöllin’s arrival, but begins to fill
slowly to the sound of the lovable-as-they-come Reykjavíkian’s stir-
ring indie-pop. They possess an indelible charm that hangs around
even when they’ve announced the start of their “six-minute murder
ballad” ‘Konkordia’. The song’s sinister subject matter is wasted on
us – even with the cue – because of the beaming smile on bass player
Georg’s face. It was murder, I tells ya- murder most cheerful. From a
killing to an aggravated assault of the eyes, thanks to the disco king
get-up of Dr Spock’s aging lead singer. He’s matched a see-through
shirt with a fur coat and improbably tight leggings – haute couture
that only a man who’s auditioned for Eurovision (the Spocks came
second in this year’s Icelandic heats) would feel truly comfortable
in. Musically they’re System of a Down shed of the politics, sincer-
ity and a degree of ability but, after 24 hours of watching mournful
singer-songwriters, we’re ready to admit that a grown man with his
cock cling-wrapped in pink spandex might be just what the doc-
tor ordered. Eurovision’s loss is our considerable gain. Seabear’s
singer doesn’t look like the sort who’d appreciate the humour in
Dr Spock’s act. He’s a miserable little so-and-so, which is a shame
since his band – six of them, on all manner of bells, f lutes, keys and
clangers – couldn’t look happier to be here. At their best they con-
nect with the audience like a heyday Flaming Lips. Unfortunately,
the door I’m leant against – shaking with the vibrations of the band’s
anthemic playing – moves more than their singer does. In contrast
it near rattles off its hinges when Hjaltalín start up, all four-to-the-
f loor drum pounding and bass playing as heavy as a sonar pulse.
Their grandiosity unites the crowd, which has somehow swelled to
fill the hall and is stamping the f loor in approval. There’s a reason
why the strobe light stays on for most of their set as, like MGMT, this
is disco-rock for hippies with rhythm. The exuberant arrival of Páll
Óskar, for lead vocal duties on their closing number, gets them the
roar of the night from the now adoring crowd. Danish doom-rockers
Munich have a tough job following them. A long setup time doesn’t
help and the room’s half empty by the time they’re on stage. Singers
Mikael Kærsgaard and Karin Nielsen do their best with those that
are left, but by now we’re all looking a little spent. Parts of Munich’s
set may sound like the world falling apart (due to some battleground
drums and sonorous guitar work) but for the most part they’re un-
able to stir us from our post-Hjaltalín haze. Henry Barnes
Reykjavík Art Museum
22
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