Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.07.2013, Blaðsíða 37

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3 m/s - electricity generation begins 15 m/s 28 m/s 34 m/s - turbine shutdownOptimal conditions for electricity generation
Into the wind
Visitors are welcome to the interactive exhibition on renewable energy at
Búrfell hydropower station, a 90 minute drive from Reykjavik. North of the
station you will find Landsvirkjun’s first wind turbines, part of our research
into the possibilities of wind farming in Iceland. Guided tours of the wind
turbines every Saturday in July 1 - 5 pm.
Landsvirkjun is the National Power Company of Iceland.
Open daily, June-August, 10 am to 5 pm:
Búrfell Hydro Power Station
Interactive exhibition on renewable energy
Fljótsdalur Hydro Power Station
Végardur Visitor Centre
Krafla Geothermal Station
Visitor Centre
More info and route instructions at
www.landsvirkjun.com/visitus
THE HOUSE AT EYRARBAKKI

Opening hours: May 15th - September 15th daily 11.00-18.00 or by an agreement
Tel: +354 483 1504 & +354 483 1082 | husid@husid.com | www.husid.com
Árnessýsla folk museum is located in Húsið,
the House, historical home of the Danish
merchants built in 1765. Húsið is one of the
oldest houses in Iceland and a beautiful
monument of Eyrarbakki´s time as the
biggest trading place on the south coast.
Today one can enjoy exhibitions about the
story and culture of the region, famous piano,
shawl made out of human hair and the kings
pot, are among items. Húsið prides itself with
warm and homelike atmosphere.
The House at Eyrarbakki
A sunny day in Njarðvík
My day started by attempting to get to Ásbrú in time for
the Fan vs. Band football match, but ended up missing it
by a hair. It seems like everyone else did too though – not
a single person I bumped into had been there. Now I’ll
never know if Thurston Moore scores offside.
The next plan was to catch ‘My Neighbour Totoro’ at
Andrew’s Theatre, a movie specially curated by my new
BFF Tilda Swinton, but for some reason it was resched-
uled. Instead they were showing one of her selections
from the previous day, ‘Our Man Flint,’ a James Bond
from the ‘60s parody starring James Coburn that most
likely served as Austin Powers inspiration. Now I want to
see the first 90 minutes.
My cohorts and I decided to catch the next movie as
well, another Swinton-pick, the 1940s comedy ‘To Be Or
Not To Be,’ where Carole Lombard and Jack Benny es-
cape WWII Poland by outwitting a bunch of dumb Nazis.
So many hijinks and misunderstandings! Out in the lobby
after the film, we ran into Grapevine intern Parker and
Projekta management maven John ‘Brainlove’ Rogers,
and instantly formed a team for Dr. Gunni’s Pop Quiz at
the Officer’s Club. We didn’t win, scoring 21/30, but we
got some real obscure ones right and had many laughs.
After the quiz, John informed us that there was a con-
venience shop on the former NATO base that sold various
snack items and possibly big cups of coffee. Unfortunate-
ly, there was a 15-minute wait while they brewed a new
pot and I wanted to see SQÜRL, so we hauled ass back to
Atlantic Studios.
I marched into the old airplane hangar and played
a round of my own ATP game: Spot Jim Jarmusch. His
iconic white mop-top had been floating around the crowd
all of Friday, like the snowpeak on Audience Mountain,
but now he was right up onstage. He and his band looked
like three black shadows in the shifting purple and or-
ange floodlights. It was visually impressive but musically
speaking, well, let’s just say Jim should stick to making
movies. Seriously though, the Jesus & Mary Chain called
and they want their demos back.
I can feel my head is burning!
There was the longest set-break of the entire festival be-
fore the next act. A solid 45-minutes of hanging out in
the concrete yard built up massive anticipation for the
moment of truth: Mr. Nick Cave’s momentous return to
Iceland. Right as the set began, Cavemania took hold and
it became difficult to distinguish the chaotic beauty of the
music from the cheering of the crowd.
Quickly into the second song, “Jubilee Street,” I no-
ticed a commotion happening down at the far right side
of the stage. It was only later that I found out from ATP
organiser Tommi Young that Nick had fallen off a ramp
he’d had built from the stage to the audience. Luckily,
things went on as normal, with the smouldering king of
sleaze flirting with a woman in the audience (if she claims
virgin-birth by him in nine months, I’d believe her), and
busting moves throughout the show.
Seeing Nick Cave play live was such a huge Finally!
moment for me, an overgrown Goth who obsessed over
him from the moment I heard my first Birthday Party
song, “Deep In The Woods.” What’s more, this show so
wildly exceeded my expectations, pushing my heart up
into my throat every few moments. My floodgates broke
during the set’s last song, but then, despite the pain in his
ass, he came back to do “Red Right Hand” as an encore!
That guy is a fucking pro, and I need to watch Scream
again. Oh, and literally half the crowd left right after his
show.
Coming down and bailing out
After all that stimulation, I had to calm down by sitting
in Andrew’s Theatre for 20 minutes listening to the DVD
menu loop of the film ‘I Know Where I’m Going,’ then
grabbing a big coffee from the convenience store and
splitting a bag of salt & vinegar chips with my man and
my best friend (actual, not Tilda Swinton). We got back to
Atlantic in time to watch Deerhoof be adorable, looking
like they drank a case of the Rhinoceros energy drink my
best friend had just bought.
I crashed pretty hard right after their set and spent the
time until Chelsea Light Moving just lying somewhere. I
had spent the whole festival sober, but things were start-
ing to get fuzzy. Thurston Moore’s latest band was way
more punk than I realised, and I really liked their sour
demeanours paired with upbeat tunes. Their tribute to
Pussy Riot, “Lip,” is still stuck in my head.
I saw what Æla was getting at when I walked out of the
hangar, but if there’s one thing I know about that band is
that I can’t handle them sober. (When I’m drunk I basical-
ly try to climb onstage with them though. Totally differ-
ent story.) I lay around somewhere until Dead Skeletons,
which I’d been told was really something to see.
Fit for one who sits and cries
After an intriguing prelude of guided meditation script
and dim visuals, the musicians signalled to the sound-
tech to crank their instruments way up and launched into
a set of garbled songs, like off-cuts from one of Singa-
pore Sling’s lesser albums. I feel like I’ve seen and heard
Henrik Björnsson do the same thing over and over again,
and it didn’t gain anything from some Hot Topic t-shirt-
looking graphics on a tiny screen and masses of burning
incense. I could still smell peoples’ drunk-farts.
On the drive home, the colours of the moss, the clouds
and the rising sun were more brilliant and dreamlike than
I had ever seen. Random patches of mist appeared and
dissipated around our car, and the clouds clung to the
tops of the mountains. The memories of the weekend and
the views ahead reminded me to always keep on pushing
the sky away.
Pre-Saturday
Night Party Party
Saturday
by Rebecca Louder
I came away from ATP Iceland with a programme, a chopped wristband, unused
bus tickets, a pop quiz sheet, an incomplete bingo card, a copy of Ace Frehly’s ‘No
Regrets,’ and a photograph with Tilda Swinton. For the first time ever, I was leav-
ing a festival with more possessions and dignity than I arrived with.
Music