Reykjavík Grapevine - 13.08.2010, Blaðsíða 17

17
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 12 — 2010
EISTNAFLUG
Neskaupstaður July 8 - 10
Thursday
I arrive at Neskaupstaður at six in the
afternoon, after a long road trip with my
young nephew and his six-month preg-
nant girlfriend. It took us twelve hours
and half my day’s supply of alcohol to
get there. Neskaupstaður this year feels
colder and cloudier that last year. I’m
told that there was a mighty downpour
the night before, meaning that most of
the campsite resembles a turgid swamp
containing bestraggled heavy metal
refugees.
Because of our lateness, we’ve al-
ready missed several bands, including
Bastard and Svartidauði, so I grab a
bag full of beers and head straight down
to the venue so as not to miss anything
else.
As I arrive, Endless Dark are already
playing. Excellent. We can stop the EU,
fine foreign foods and animals from in-
vading this country’s borders, but we
seem to have failed to stop the scourge
of Crabcore from infecting the nation’s
musical youth. When the ending of one
song sounds eerily familiar to the chorus
to Leona Lewis’ ‘Bleeding Love’, then you
know you aren’t off to a flyer of a week-
end. Add to this the bass player wearing
the tightest, brightest blue shorts this
side of Reno 911. However, I give a mas-
sive plus to the keyboard player and the
fact that his hair looks like someone let
off an afro bomb in his face.
Thankfully the atmosphere is raised
a few notches with the arrival of every-
one’s favourite doom/sludge metallers,
Plastic Gods. But something doesn’t
seem quite right onstage. Oh wait a min-
ute, there seem to be gazillion guitarists
up there. The music also seems to have
mutated a bit. A couple of the songs
seem to have been sped up so they now
resemble a slowed down Soundgarden
or Church of Misery. But they introduced
a new song that that was closer to Neu-
rosis, and was truly EPIC in its scope. By
the end I was nodding my head thinking:
“Why the fuck has no one signed these
guys up?”
I need to decompress a bit, so I ven-
ture outside and catch up with people.
By the time I get back inside, Fortíð have
played most of their set. It’s safe to say
that they are the polar opposite of End-
less Dark—seething operatic black met-
al, all leather trousers and sweat. But
as I’m already rather drunk as a skunk,
I spend an inordinate amount of time
staring at the sound desk, which seems
to be a cross between the Starship En-
terprise and the instruments from a
Björk concert.
Ok we’ve experienced a fair amount
of metal and hardcore. Now for some-
thing a bit different. Reykjavík! are not
metal, but they are noisy and immensely
good fun. Especially when you see lead
singer Bóas, who jumps all over the
place like a meth-smoking ferret on a
hot plate. But the moshing I felt was a bit
half-hearted, so I decided to get a de-
cent cardio workout and leapt into the
fray to throw some metalheads around
a bit. Total joy, but I felt sorry for that
poor guy I used as a makeshift battering
ram...
I manage to catch the first half of
Sólstafir’s ice bastard metal set. And
they’re great, but... I’m not sure, there
was something missing. When they
played last year, Sólstafir were bathed
in the darkest blood-red. And man they
looked fucking terrifying, like David
Lynch had directed the light show. To-
night it’s all bright white light and way
too much smoke. The songs themselves
are also good, but felt a little tired. I de-
cide to spend the weekend’s food allow-
ance on Brennivín and Ópal.
So far this evening has been all about
alcohol, mass violence, bruises and
metal in all its forms. But this seriously
doesn’t prepare you for Napalm Death.
Even though they have been around
for three decades, they are more angry,
focused and belligerent than just about
anything else out there. Now, I could
claim I’d taken notes about how this
song was great and that song was tight.
But I’d just be lying, as I spent most of
the time right in the moshpit (moshpit?
It was more like asymmetrical warfare)
and it was simply an hour and a half of
grindcore as the most brutal shock and
awe I’ve experienced. At a couple of
points I was seriously getting worried for
my own personal safety. In my notebook
I managed to scribble down “help!” and
“Lord forgive me.”
I have no recollection of how I got
to my bed, but the last thing I can re-
member is almost getting pole-axed by
multiple shots of warm Ópal, somehow
acquiring a specialised insulin needle,
and squaring up to Klink and coming off
worse to their superior judo moves.
- BOB CLUNESS
Friday Night
I spent most of Friday slathering kids in
corpse paint at the off-venueso I missed
the entire afternoon programming over
at Egilsbúð. I made it down just in time
to catch the last few songs from Wistar-
ia, whom my friend was super excited to
see play. They were all shirtless and an-
gry and real heavy, but there was some-
thing kind of nu-metal about the music.
It was all “Look at my big monster cock
slapping you in the face!” Nice homo-
erotic undertones. My friend, as it turns
out, had mistaken them for some other
band and was confused as hell.
Next up was some band whose name
I wasn’t entirely sure of, but my first
thoughts were “What the fuck is this
shit?” Turns out it was Cliff Clavin. They
weren’t actually bad, and I know there
are always a few token non-metal bands
at the festival, but I did not go there
for weaksauce, radio-friendly, mid-
‘90s alterna-rock! The bassist’s forced
rock’n’roll posturing was so unbearable
and unsuitable with the music, it was
like watching a car crash.
Then Gone Postal came and saved
the day. I believe it was my friend and
colleague Bob Cluness who told me that
at last year’s festival, Sólstafir spent their
set immersed in smoke and red light and
it was terrifying. Watching Gone Postal’s
set made me fully understand this.
I went outside for a 500 ISK burger
and on my way back in sensed I was in
the presence of rubber gloves. I sure
was, because Dr. Spock was on! Awe-
some! Reykjavík municipal government
ROCKS! Maybe it was the hangover or
the cheap burger but I found my mind
tricking itself that Jón Gnarr was on
guest vocals. That would have been
cool. Anyway, it was all kinds of batshit
crazy, as I hoped for.
I had to make a necessary run back
to the off-venue, but managed to come
back in time to see Momentum ripping
through the concert hall. Seriously,
it was kind of like being yelled at by a
dinosaur. Nice one from the dude who
decided to crowd-surf during the ballad
portion of their set. Their last song was
so epic and intense that long after it was
finished, people could be heard chant-
ing the chorus together. Moving, truly.
Finally it all ended with Sororicide
and woooooooah… holy shit. If I were
epileptic, I would have been having a
seizure during their set. These guys
really do their own thing, but most re-
freshing is that the singer kept up the
growling voice while talking between
songs. This band really was lovely. They
had delightful interplay of growling and
shredding and double-kick drumming.
Simply stupendous.
- REBECCA LOUdER
Saturday
Fuck. That’s what slithered through my
beaten-up mind when I woke up the
morning of the last day of the notorious
Flight of the Testes. Several reasons for
the fuck, to tell the truth, but fuck can
be elicited by various motivations. Fuck,
my tent is wet, is that really weird rain or
is some dude peeing on my tent? Fuck,
who’s this broad lying next to me. Fuck,
I’m hung-over as hell. Fuck, I bottomed
all the booze yesterday and will have to
drive to the next fjord to buy some more.
Fuck, it’s so late the pools probably filled
with ill-reeking metalheads. Fuck, did
all that shit from last night happen? But
mainly: FUCK YEAH, the last night of
Flight of the Testes is at hand and, par-
don my French, but it will be gruesomely
epic!
To get over these several fucks, me
and my flock of seagulls decided to give
the shabby-metal-brunch at the hotel a
go, advertising the feast of a lifetime all
over town on sloppy yellow stickers. That
turned out to be ludicrously overprized
sloppy hotel buffet, so it ended up add-
ing another fuck to the table rather than
eradicating the others. But they had
though some sort of a snobby-lobbyish
metal playlist burning up their stereo,
“Boys are back in town” by Thin Lizzy
and other similarly accessible “heavy
metal”. That was kinda funny. A definite
drug of choice whilst you’re stuffing your
face with bacon and the like.
When we reached Egilsbúð for the
concert it once again proved that the or-
ganisers at this great festival could basi-
cally cut out the the first five acts that
take place between 3 and 6 pm, with-
out anybody giving a fuck. Firstly, the
sound always seems to suck that early
and the first gigs seem to serve as some
kind of sound checks, and secondly, the
performers are never getting jiggy wit
it, maybe because they’re yet too hung-
over or maybe ‘cause there isn’t anybody
there. It was at least a godsend that the
scandalous off venue, Mayhemisphere,
showcased acts such as Retrön that
had dreadfully been cursed to perform
in front of an empty hall. But you can't
blame the crowd; everybody was just
getting marinated in the sun, puffin' a
spliff and getting ready for the night's
mania. Or getting their faces all splat-
tered in corpsepainted, courtesy of our
dear Ms. Louder. And most things were
actually much awesomer in the artsy
Berlinesque factory than in Egilsbúð,
which added a greater depth to the
"Flight of the Testes" scene this year.
The festival’s climax was undeniably
the mind-blowing combination of Mí-
nus' early stuff and the ear-raping wall
of sound that Severed Crotch created.
Jesus Christ Bobby, it's really ineffable.
Fuck.
- SIGURðUR KJARTAN KRISTINSSON
Saturday Night
Saturday rises like a bad hangover in
my cot at Eistnaflug central. Last night
was all Bob Cluness spraying drunkenly
in my ear and the odd idiot getting in
fights. Today is the end of money, wits,
bands and endless trudges to the camp-
site for those who can’t seem to hitch a
ride.
Retrön somehow got the short end
of the stick and open up tonight’s pro-
ceedings. Pity for them, ‘cuz these fine
fellows in spandex can really tear up a
crowd a lot larger than the seventeen
souls present at this early hour—espe-
cially if their stellar drummer boy brings
his A-game.
Moldun are a machine of internet
self-promotion. I catch their airwaves in
the Jacuzzi at the public swimming pool
next door to the venue and can’t make
out didley squat. Rumour has it they
trade in run of the mill metalcore, and
that I’m better of relaxing in the bubbling
water.
Next up is football. The irony of miss-
ing the second half of Uruguay and Ger-
many’s bronze medal World Cup game to
play black metal vs. death metal football
is not lost on me. Rebecca Louder paints
the teams in appropriate colours, and
the game is a draw despite the fact that
that black metal is for anorectic shut-ins
and death metal reigns supreme among
art forms.
I catch up with In Memoriam and am
disappointed as well as batshit drunk.
I think the sound production fucked
them. Beneath are competent but can’t
seem to hold your humble writer’s at-
tention. A passed out Bob Cluness in
the backroom bar provides more enter-
tainment as I tape his shaved head with
messages about his cluelessness.
Kolrassa Krókríðandi are the next
perpetrators. I don’t feel qualified to
comment on their trite genre. In short:
they bored me. I feel like I’m getting into
a negative rut here, but I can’t help it.
Since Mínus seemingly shifted creative
control from the brilliant backbone of
Bjössi and Bjarni to the pretentious wail
of Krummi and Siggi, I felt better argu-
ing with a French writer than witness-
ing them. I sorely regret this as news
reaches me of an old school Jesus Christ
Bobby set.
By now it’s time to pay attention.
Celestine are up and there’s no need to
pray they will slay. Bludgeoning post-
metal on par with early Isis and Neurosis
erupts like a stack of anvils to the chest.
These guys obliterate and should be
signed big time, post fucking haste.
Headlining megaliths Severed
Crotch—Severed motherfucking
Crotch!—explode like a cluster bomb
raid. They perform with vigour and em-
ploy every single trick in the playbook to
an ecstatic crowd. Shit is right legitimate
with them fuckers and smiles are plas-
tered on every face as the pit implodes
and a paraplegic is flung from the stage
into a stage dive. Mind-boggling is the
recipe for the ‘Crotch and spent is the
feeling of revellers in the pit.
After the night quickly degenerates
into a THC fuelled, alcohol driven meleé
to the tunes of DJ Töfri. People get bare-
chested on the dancefloor and the bus
leaving at ten am is quickly forgotten
about. Bad move on my behalf.
- BOGI BJARNASON
ENTER THE HANGOvER
Some of yesterday’s parties re-capped
The summer of 2010 has been one of festivals and parties. Every goddamn weekend has been dominated by a three-day art or music or
theatre or pottery or gardening extravaganza that you just can’t afford to miss. They all entail opening and closing parties, binge-drinking,
staying up and throwing up and sometimes even watching a show or two.
We’ve been present for most of them, as you may have read about in our previous issues. Since fall’s cold, dark, wet darkness yet again
looms over, we thought we’d take a look at some of the parties we’ve attended this summer and attempt to draw some sort of wisdom from
it all. We figured that might come in handy, as there are yet more festivals on the horizon, cool ones like Menningarnótt, Reykjavík Jazz
Festival and Iceland Airwaves. You can use this coverage to prepare, maybe.
So read on! for some words about Seyðisfjörður’s LungA, Reykjavík’s Gay Pride weekend, Neskaupsstaður’s Eistnaflug and the Faro-
ese G! Festival. What wisdom did we draw? Well, if its raining, then folks generally have a worse time than if it isn’t raining. So don’t plan
your festival to happen on rainy days.
PS – Festival planners: quit planning so many goddamn festivals! Doesn’t anybody hafta work anymore?
GUðNý LáRA THORARENSEN
ENTER THE HANGOvER