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32
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 13 — 2010
I love free shit. If there is something that I can get
for nothing, then my grasping mitts are all over it.
And when Iceland’s premier death metal monkeys,
Severed Crotch, are having an album release concert
that’s FREE, then it’s definitely a date!
As I arrive, Manslaughter are setting up.
They’re looking relaxed compared to the cack-handed
debacle of the Thule Rocks festival a couple of weeks
ago. Tonight they piss venom and crap thunder with
a set mixing sludge metal with roaring hardcore. In
fact, why they don’t just ditch the metal and be pure
hardcore is beyond me, as they do it brilliantly and
it’s something Iceland has been seriously missing
the last couple of years. I feel the call of the wild as I
launch into a moshpit that contains... err... two other
people. Everyone else is just standing there in their
posed nonchalance and won't take part in the fun. I’ve
said this before and I’ll say it again: when it comes to
hardcore music, Icelandic crowds are pussies.
At first glance Angist look an interesting
prospect. And when the vocalist starts to sing, it’s
with a mighty guttural growl that reminds me instantly
of Thorrs Hammer and Arch Enemy, which brings a
cheer from the crowd. But by the second song, there
is something seriously fucked with their sound. The
guitars are inaudible and everything is just completely
swamped by the kick drum. It gets so that I ask the
sound engineer if he can sort it out, only for him to say
that their sound is ‘a mess’ and he can't do anything
with it. This completely ruins the performance, which
is also not helped by all their songs sounding pretty
much alike. Perhaps it’s a lack of experience or just a
general fuck up, but my first thought when they finish
was ‘must try harder’.
The place becomes seriously packed as Gone
Postal start fubbing around on stage. However,
they take forever to set up so I imbibe several drinks
and take the piss out of a friend for dressing up like
a groupie for Endless Dark. Now GP are a classic
marmite band in that you either love them or hate
them. This is only the second time I’ve seen them and
I’m very much coming around to their style of death
metal, which only seems to have two settings, kill and
bring it back to life (then kill it again). But singer Tobbi
is surely a sight and voice to behold. Whether it’s his
nuclear shrieks or fearsome hair windmills, the real
secret to his success is that he has the cheeks of the
cutest hamster you’d ever want to own. It took all I
could not to storm the stage and pinch them.
Now it’s time for the big boys. There’s a tinge
of sadness tonight as Severed Crotch’s drummer,
Gunnar, is leaving Iceland and there will be no more
Crotch for a year! This is a shame as they’ve finally
created some real momentum and recognition by
releasing their album ‘The Nature of Entropy’. As
they explode into their own brand of complex death
metal that no one else does better in the country, the
crowd (finally) go completely apeshit as I get some
musical questions answered (the dog barking sounds
on ‘Breeding Failure’ actually come from bass player
Þorður). It builds up to a pretty glorifying spectacle as
SC morph into the house band for some old forgotten
pagan god (you know, the really nasty, gory one).
It certainly feels like an old god has skullfucked me
forever. As it ends, I need to sit down and wonder how
far they could go if they had been Swedish of German.
Probably would have booked them as headliners for
Eistnaflug 2012.
—BOB CLUNESS
Films | Review Music | Live Review
Music | Album Review
Technically, Rökkurró makes no
mistakes with tuning, rhythm
and production; however, “Í
annan heim” fails on a larger
level. The album lacks musical
intuition—every song sounds
formulaic and bland.
The finger-picked guitars never
expand into something shimmering. Instead, the
same simple, slow-moving guitar phrases and
chords are recycled throughout each song. The lead
singer’s voice, much more suited for background
harmonies, lacks original style, range and energy.
Everything about the percussion: the flat production,
heavy down beats followed by slow drum rolls, and
extreme repetitiveness, follow the formula for a
typical Christian rock song (you know, that genre of
music that puts God first and music last). The strings
follow predictable swell progressions, landing on
tonic notes, and weigh down the songs rather than
pushing them
The ambient moments fail to create grandeur
and the folk moments lack intimacy. “Í annan heim”
falls short on innovation, intricacy, movement,
energy and surprise. People who like Sixpense None
The Richer, watered down Evenescence or Christian
rock radio might like this album. If you are not one
of those people, then you should probably stay away
from “Í annan heim.”
—EMILY BURTON
Ms. Burton Mr. ClunessTwo critics. One album
Rökkurró
Í annan heim
rokkurro
Flat-Pack Post Rock. «
» Not suitable for music therapy...or
anything else for that matter.
Ok, first of all let’s get one thing
out of the way. Í Annan Heim
is by no means awful. It’s a
competently put together
record containing nine tracks
of soft, ethereal glacier rock.
But ironically, the sound is
also the main problem with it. Í
Annan Heim comes across as the product of a life
spent being developed in a genetics lab with the
sole purpose of creating music that would only be
enjoyed by backpacking tourists. Like a purebred
Touristcore with four asses.
With child-like female vocals, apologetic
drumming and winsome picked guitars, it feels like
other Icelandic bands mixed together, only not quite
as good. Even when they wake up and put some
fizz into it, as on ‘Sjónarspil’, it just sounds like Sigur
Rós’ ‘Glósóli’ sung by Mammút. So while it ticks all
the relevant boxes for a person travelling the golden
circle, for the rest of us the sheen can’t disguise that
there is a lot better out there.
—BOB CLUNESS
–
Manslaughter, Angst, Gone Postal,
Severed Crotch
Sódóma, August 14
Farewell, but not goodbye, to
the House band from Hell....
Talking About The Next
Generation
Georg Bjarnfreðarson is a fucked up, middle aged
lunatic. And he’s in prison for murdering a woman.
But, after Georg implements some “prisoner-
friendly” changes – mandatory daily fitness and the
first smoke-free cell block in Scandinavia – guards
and inmates form an unusual alliance to get Georg
paroled. Starring Reykjavík’s esteemed mayor, Jón
Gnarr, as the eponymous hero, “Bjarnfreðarson” tells
the story of the child behind the man that no one
likes. Young Georg was made to wear a girl’s coat
to school, attend get-to-know-your-vagina sessions
and listen to his mum shitting in the bathroom,
which is missing a door. Thanks to Freud, we know
that where there’s a screwed up male character
there’s a mother to blame. And, yeah, in this case
there really is!
Trying to make life better for everyone and
everybody hating him for that, the struggle of Georg
continues. Out of jail, in the real world again, Georg
finds himself living with two former acquaintances:
lethargic family man Daníel and lady killer Ólafur.
This odd trio, rounded out by Pétur Jóhann Sigfússon
and Jörundur Ragnarsson, appeared together
in a series of TV-shows previously. Watching
Næturvaktin (Night Shift), Dagvaktin (Day Shift) and
Fangavaktin (Prison Shift), Icelanders came to love
Georg Bjarnfreðarson and his sidekicks. The result
is 20% of the Icelandic population seeing the Ragnar
Bragason directed “Bjarnfreðarson”, in cinemas.
The DVD, released in May of this year, offers English
subtitles, so now everyone can get a taste of
Icelandic humour.
Focussing on situational humour,
“Bjarnfreðarson” is clearly a comedy show spin-
off. The characters do experience a personal
development, but they don’t develop beyond being
clichés: the hippie with the goatee, the wannabe
cool-guy in buffalo-boots and the shy guy stuttering.
This movie isn’t the best movie ever made, but that’s
not what to expect. The humour balanced between
melancholically subtle and directly brute, this film
does what a good comedy does: it gives you a real
good time, but leaves you with bitter taste in your
mouth. And don’t forget that there’s one added
bonus: you are going to see Reykjavík’s mayor
completely naked.
—WIEBKE WOLTER
Bjarnfreðarson
DVD release, 2010
A collection of the atonal yammerings of a weird,
deluded shut-in, Hátindar has mostly only novelty
value. The songwriting is fairly formulaic and
perfunctory, and the delivery method—one dude with
an acoustic and a harmonica (except for the couple
of songs which make good use of the ‘auto-accomp’
feature on an electric organ)—doesn’t offer much
variety.
Like most musicians who’ve opted for this
format, Insol’s focus is on his lyrics and their
elocution, and they’re by far the most interesting
bit. Direct, eccentric and random to the point of
sounding stream-of-consciousness, they detail the
musings and sensibilities of a marginalised, self-
styled poet with a slightly skewed view of everyday
life, and if you’re into that kind of thing, fine, but
listening to this album made me damn near as crazy
as this guy sounds.

—SINDRI ELDON
Music | Album Review
Like being the only sober person at
Woodstock.
Insol
Hátindar
Insol
–