Reykjavík Grapevine - 13.08.2010, Blaðsíða 35

19
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 12 — 2010
Flight to LungA provide by Air Iceland.
Air Iceland operates flights to Egilsstaðir
Book flights: +354 570 3030
or www.airiceland.is
GAY PRIDE
reykJavík July auGust 5 - 8
Soaked In Rainbows
Grey skies didn’t stop Gay Pride
After a couple of super sunshiny days
last week, I was getting my hopes up
that the celebrations would be bright,
warm and fabulous. But then Iceland
had to go be Iceland and get all gross on
us right when we were going to board
the Queer Cruise on Friday. What an
asshole. Regardless, we boarded the
whale watching boat that the party was
happening on and set sail for fun times.
The good people at Elding provided
the party with tons of cheap booze—500
ISK for wine! Wow! Unfortunately
though, it seemed that most of the peo-
ple in attendance were not really in the
party zone and mostly stayed indoors,
sipping their once-boxed Merlot. Maybe
some streamers or balloons would have
spiced things up. Luckily I ran into a
friend there who was completely sauced
and hilarious, so we flashed a cruise
ship and danced in a conga line around
the upper deck until the boat docked.
CAN’T RAIN ON OUR PARAdE
Saturday was the big day when all the
bears, queens and twinks took to the
streets to march. The parade kicked off
uproariously with our mayor Jón Gnarr
decked out in granny-drag, waving like
the Queen Mum from the top of a float.
It went on with a series of fairly random
floats, such as the bride-and-groom
girls unenthusiastically shuffling about
to Daft Punk, a ‘queer for Christmas’
theme and some kind of Gay Disney
float. There were also some impressive
ones like the stunning operatic drag
queens, Haffi Haff in a Lady Gaga-esque
white lace bodysuit and of course the
magnificent finale of Páll Óskar rising
into the sky in a red tube.
The show that followed at Arnahól
was short and sweet and a perfect
length for the hundreds of tuckered out
kids and bladder-full drunk adults. Most
of the acts weren’t all that impressive
though. Sigga Beinteins did turn out a
pretty fantastic performance, even if the
music wasn’t my cup of tea. Love him or
hate him, Haffi Haff performed his heart
out and got the crowd’s attention. And
of course the host of the show, Mr. Páll
Óskar, pulled out all the stops and had
people dancing all the way up the hill.
WHERE My GAyS AT?
Of course after the kids went home
there was a full night of gay fun ahead to
be had. The city was in rare form and the
streets were littered in sad, dirty confetti
and decrepit rainbow flags. I squeezed
my way into NASA before it filled over
capacity and to see Páll Óskar for a third
time that day, owning the stage under a
trellis of pink balloons. The crowd was
going absolutely berserk for the man,
but it wasn’t very queer, so after many
amazing songs and the heat level rising
to an unbearable level, I headed up to
Barbara to find the gays.
I got up there and saw a few more
same-sex makeouts, but that isn’t say-
ing much. I bumped into my friend from
the boat who thought there were too
many straight people in the bar and he
ordered me to go find the unofficial gay
pride rave down on Skúlagata and tell
him if it was any fun. Once I found it, the
music was way better than Barbara with
real DJs playing real techno, but the rest
was just your typical 101 hipster crowd
standing and leaning on things, talking
to each other through the sides of their
mouths. And still too many breeders.
You could smoke indoors though, that
was pretty cool.
- REBECCA LOUdER
ment for a successful festival concert:
they played a varied set, interacted with
the crowd, and stood out from the rest of
the bands with their unique sound and
contagious energy.
Bloodgroup rounded out the night
with some high-energy, dark electro-
pop. By that time, my friend and I were
exhausted from the day’s festivities and
all the rain. When we left, everyone was
drunk-dancing to Bloodgroup’s sound
and light show. All in all, the music at
LungA was enjoyable enough to make
me want to go next year (as long as it
doesn’t rain so much!).
- EMILy BURTON
drowning In The East
Coast
MUSIC, ARTS ANd RAIN
“You know what they say about the
weather in Iceland don't you? If there's
good weather in the west, it's shitty in
the east,” explained a co-worker shortly
before we embarked on a journey to
Seyðisfjörður for the LungA festival. My
travel companion and I laughed at him.
GUESS WHO'S LAUGHING NOW
After a smooth flight over landscapes
reminiscent of Tolkien’s Middle Earth,
we touch down to the unseasonably
cold winds of Egilsstaðir to find that the
last coach to Seyðisfjörður is long gone.
We spend a few moments frantically de-
vising a plan to hot-wire a car but that
ceases to be an option when the airport
bolts its doors shut and all signs of life
disappear.
With luggage suspiciously resem-
bling a couple of body bags, we drag
our stranded asses to the road and un-
enthusiastically stick our thumbs out.
The first passer-by picks us up, setting
us en route to our destination. Thirty
minutes later, the car descends into
Seyðisfjörður and a gloomy halo of mist
gathers around the mountains, conceal-
ing us from the rest of the world. Seyð-
isfjörður projects a mesmerising eerie
atmosphere which can’t be reproduced
outside of Iceland. Yet this beautiful
backdrop serves as a great contrast to
the happenings below...
WHERE'S THE APOCALyPSE?
Blackouts, vomiting, violence and for-
nication: all the sinning and debauch-
ery one can dream of can be attained
at LungA. But before we can join in the
revelry, we decide to check out an ex-
perimental performance set up by the
workshop group, ‘Through the eye, out
the ear’.
The unsettling scene before us looks like
a futuristic wasteland and is accompa-
nied by screeches of white noise from
the surrounding speakers. A sinister
woman, clad as a blood-red domina-
trix, steps onto a fire-painted platform,
manhandling an innocent-looking girl
dressed all in white. The dominatrix
forcefully smears red jelly all over the girl
in white. Then, she binds the girl’s hands
and drenches her in red paint. The au-
dience watch in confusion and wonder-
ment, despite the painfully-slow pace of
the performance.
The performance ends and we no-
tice a smoky caravan next to the per-
formance stage. We step inside and see
a group of tattooed men wearing floral
dresses sitting around a table sipping
tea. Their heads are covered in green
bags, each one with a noose tied around
their neck. Slightly disturbed and con-
fused, we walk through the caravan and
find painted sticks scattered among the
other rooms. “The theme was catharsis
– a rebirth through explosions,” explains
Helgi Örn Pétursson, one of the work-
shop leaders. We nod our heads, still
confused.
LIqUId COURAGE
We tear ourselves away to hit the swim-
ming pool. Of course the most potential-
ly relaxing experience of the weekend
has to be destroyed by a band playing
painfully discordant and distressing mu-
sic. “Go be all ‘cool and experimental’
someplace else!” a voice shouts from
the hot tubs. As we walk to the pool we
run into a fully-clothed audience watch-
ing the concert. Embarrassed for wear-
ing swimsuits in a swimming pool, we
run to the hot tubs instead and the mo-
ment our toes touch the steaming water
it’s all deemed worthwhile.
Next we decide to check out the Fri-
day night Kimi Records concert. Despite
being one of the festival’s highlights, the
venue is close to empty and the people
there are sitting down. I suspect that
people have opted for the cheaper op-
tion of causing mayhem at the campsite,
or maybe people just aren’t that into
music... Either way it makes for a nice
shelter from the rain.
Suddenly, to lift everyone’s spirits
even higher, we’re all kicked out and told
to pay in order to get back in for the ‘af-
ter-party’. We comply and find Quadru-
plos filling the room with drunken dance
moves. A man of a similar appearance to
(YouTube sensation) The Techno Viking
is angrily bopping his head to the beat,
spitting and frothing at the mouth while
throwing beer cans at the audience. And
with that we went home, for fear of our
lives, to find all of our belongings soak-
ing wet.
THE MORNING AFTER...
We wake up from our drunken sleep and
stumble out of our tent. The clouds slide
down the mountains, onto the earth and
the rain turns torrential. After overhear-
ing a guy saying that he slept in a trash
bag after his tent sprung a leak, we
shake off any complaints we have from
the night. We throw on the same ensem-
ble we’ve been wearing for the past two
days, scorning those who look like they
just stepped off the runway. Clearly, they
aren’t camping.
It’s impossible to think of anything
but the rain. The cafés and restaurants
are crammed till bursting point so we
scour the streets for hours with little to
do. With a couple of clothes markets,
some unsuccessful barbecues and an
outdoor concert to follow, it’s evident
that LungA is taking a hard hit from this
unexpected bad weather.
We walk back to our tent to find our
things gone, and it’s not until I start run-
ning around like a crazy person accus-
ing those around for stealing our things
that we realise about a hundred more
tents have sprung up just like ours.
Crap. We apologetically back away.
THE GRANd FINALE
Finally the festival’s crowning concert
swings round and for the most part the
rain seems to dominate the main stage,
as it’s about the only thing that has
any effect on the audience. A majority
of the crowd gathers underneath any
form of shelter they can find—including
our umbrella space—while a few brave
ones embrace the wet. They remain un-
phased by most of the bands until Retro
Stefson take to the stage—unless you
count the odd idiot dancing to Seabear
like it’s a fucking Brazilian carnival. By
the end, Bloodgroup have transformed a
lifeless crowed into a dance floor buzz-
ing with energy.
We head back to camp with our spir-
its raised to find the remnants of a battle
field. The earth has transformed into a
pool of mud, most of the campsite lies
in ruins and beer cans overflow out of
every tent. Campers run around, drunk-
enly yelling, screaming and causing as
many fights possible as if they are get-
ting drunk for the very first time.
The queue for the toilets is endless
as every stall has someone passed out
on the inside, and after being severely
put off by the young girl with her face
buried in a sink she just threw-up in, we
decide it’s time to hit the hay. “You're not
done just yet,” exclaims one of the girls.
“You're not done with the festival expe-
rience until you're passed out in grass
with your face buried in the mud!”
No thank you.
- ALExANdRA yOUNG
ALExANdRA yOUNG ANd HUGI HLyNSSON
ENTER THE HANGOvER