Reykjavík Grapevine - 18.10.2008, Síða 11

Disorientation is the diagnosis for a jaded Saturday night crowd.
Prince Valium prescribes a similar medication that his name im-
plies, his spellbinding electronica feels like a comedown, enveloping
the listener and posting them to icy Siberia. One guy certainly looks
dressed to go there, sporting hat, scarf and baggy brown coat; he
slow-paces around the room and is perhaps on valium himself. This
provides a fantastic visual accompaniment to a wholly worthwhile au-
dio. One man lies asleep on the f loor now for Stereo Hypnosis and
it’s a wonder because the immersive, reverberating drones are a little
too loud. The father and son duo work best when they neglect their
ambient tendencies and make a bit of mess. A cluster of beats re-
call the Italian collective Port-Royal for sheer texture and maximum
isolation. Next, a visit to the bathroom sees a keen groomer try to
comb the Grapevine’s hair. This is becoming a very trippy experi-
ence. Luckily Sykur arrive to deliver a huge party parcel. These two
young teenagers stack up a tower of synths that never threatens to
topple. Plus, it’s free of annoying vocals, so the driving bass lines do
the talking. By the end, they finally have everyone dancing. If these
young chaps drink lots of milk then it’s exciting times ahead. Down-
stairs, Oculus DJ’s tech-house but at 11pm it’s too early a slot to be
doing this. Steve Sampling scrambles around in his record box and
scratches all over his vinyl. It’s not really danceable but there’s nobody
here to do that anyway. Steve would probably appreciate it if one man
and his dog showed up. Ingi Þór of Family of Sound fame loves his set
a bit too much. He seems happy though in playing to what would be
a poorly attended house party. However, when he plays some Simian
Mobile Disco, it brings a glorious finish and immediate nostalgia for
Simian’s Friday DJ set, just a day later. DJ Hero’s Trial play techno
that skids all over the ice and many show off their dance moves and
some are a bit too aggressive in doing this. Plugg’d close up with
techno fare that’s good for drunk, silly dancing, even when sober.
MArcus wAlsh
The first three bands are natives of the unreconstructed rocker va-
riety, but that ain’t a bad thing. Bob Justman is the kind of boy who
sings heartfelt songs of wronged love as though he ain’t the one
breaking all the hearts: looking and sounding like a younger, more
melodic Nick Cave, he starts his set with wistful country-tinged
angst-pop –groovy and mournful all at once – and ends by busting
out the raunchy rock n’ roll. The sound is great: every drumbeat feels
like a punch in the face, and that’s is a good thing. Next up are Jan
Mayen, and already the teenage girls are pressing themselves against
the barrier. Maybe they like the way the singer plays guitar; watching
him f lailing and jerking that thing around is like watching unscript-
ed porn [and that’s a good thing, too]. It’s chippy, sharp-edged indie-
rock with nineties overtones and mathy tendencies, but despite the
precision there’s real abandon in these riffs. A dude in a tail-coat
appears at interludes to coolly Pwn the hell out of a moog while the
rest of us – and them – headbang like crazy. Epic. Dikta are epic as
well, but in a Ben Folds Fiveish sort of way, especially when they start
hammering at the keys. It’s affronted, enjoyably un-hip rage-pop
with big percussion and stirring screamo choruses, embarrassingly
earnest but lovable nonetheless. Fortunately Boys In A Band were
around to show ‘em all how chest-beating macho rawk should be
done: with ego, attitude, camp theatricality and a sense of humour.
Referencing spiritual forefathers AC/DC, who [also] elevated bad
taste to a glorious art form, these guys are all about the bandanas,
the thrusting crotches, the beats as big as your balls. Keytars! Korgs!
Sweat and hair and swagger! They rock. The boys announce their
intention to reunite the nations of the Faroe Islands and Iceland, but
insist on a formal introduction: on the count of three, we all have to
yell out our first names. It’s ridiculous and we know it, but it feels
good – a lot like the band. On stage they’re mental, melting every
teenage girl down to a wet cliché, and even the po-faced press rats
are grinning. After these guys, CSS look positively staid: the sound
is muddy and over-amped and we’re deprived of all the subtlety and
sexiness in a great big wash of sound. Maybe they’re not feeling it
either; it all looks a bit formulaic, with Lovefoxxx doing her inevitable
thing and the rest not doing anything much at all. I wander off to the
bar, where the sound is better. Vampire Weekend are worth return-
ing for, all precision and control. There’s a sunniness to them, but
despite all the afro-beat hype, there’s nothing loose or laid back here,
nothing funky – it’s brisk and brittle like the northern sun. Boogy-
ing stiff-legged in the blue lights, the lead singer comes on like Elvis:
the whitest of whiteboys who made a black style his own. They’re
a weird band, but a damn good one. I leave just as the last song is
finishing: making my way through the crowd there are guys in suits
and ties that are throwing down like no drunken teenage girl ever
could. And that ain’t a bad thing at all. Jessie DArling
Reykjavík Art Museum
22
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