Reykjavík Grapevine - 19.07.2013, Side 44

44The Reykjavík Grapevine
Alísa Kalyanova
RESTAURANT- BAR
The only kitchen
in Reykjavík open
to 23:30 on weekdays
and 01:00 on weekends
5.990 ikr.
Vesturgata 3B | 101 Reykjavík | Tel: 551 2344 | www.tapas.is
Taste the best
of Iceland ...
... with a spanish undertone
Icelandic Gourmet Fiest
Starts with a shot of the infamous
Icelandic spirit Brennívín
Than 6 delicious Icelandic tapas:
Smoked puffin with blueberry
“brennivín” sauce
Icelandic sea-trout with peppers-salsa
Lobster tails baked in garlic
Pan-fried line caught blue ling
with lobster-sauce
Grilled Icelandic lamb Samfaina
Minke Whale with cranberry & malt-sauce
To finish our famous Desert:
White chocolate "Skyr" mousse
with passion fruit coulis
Are you the
Tourist of the Year?
The Reykjavík Grapevine and Inspired by Iceland
are looking for The TouRIsT of The YeaR.
Tell us why you should be the Tourist of the Year
for a chance to win a free trip to Iceland.
Visit www.touristoftheyear.is to submit your entry!
Stormy
Adventure Time
Storm-lashed Rauðasandur
Festival
pulled back from the brink
Rauðasandur (English: “red sand”) is a small festival in a rel-
atively remote part of the Westfjords, offering a daytime pro-
gramme of wholesome fun stuff like seaside yoga, hill walking
and a sandcastle contest, followed by a party, a schedule of live
music, and a bonfire for the finale. But even with a well-picked
line-up that includes local heroes like Nolo, Samaris, Borko and
Prins Póló, at Rauðasandur the location is the real star of the
show.
The beach itself is about as far west
as it is possible to get in Europe,
nestled in a deep coastal valley
accessible only by dirt road. After
coming off highway 62, the track
ascends steeply into the mountains,
offering a widescreen view over the
glittering fjords behind. But the big
reveal comes around a final blind
corner, when a wide plain of glit-
tering shallows and vivid red ochre
sand sweeps into view, framed by
the graceful mountains of the West-
fjords. It would be easy to think
this place was a mirage, such is the
startling contrast to the mossy vol-
canic land that makes up much of
Iceland's countryside.
Shepherd's warning
After descending a gravel track
scraped into the sheer scree cliff,
new arrivals are waved past by fes-
tival helpers onto the grassy camp-
site field. Most choose to pitch their
tents just feet from the sand, taking
in some opening night open-mic
performances in the nearby barn,
before hopping over a fence for a
nighttime walk. A line of wheeling,
dancing silhouettes punctuate the
sand for a kilometre between the
campsite and the surf, dotting the
shining expanse under a luminous
pink sky—the spectacle is not un-
like Iceland's very own miniature
Burning Man.
But the weather doesn't hold. I
wake up at 6am to find the Grape-
vine's trusty festival tent collapsed,
both poles having been snapped
like twigs in the gales. Outside,
other sleepy campers hastily attach
guy ropes, stamp loose pegs into
the soil, or just try to sleep amidst
the rising noise.
Blown away
After an uneasy night spent dozing
in the passenger seat of the car, the
morning offers no respite. In fact,
the wind worsens throughout the
morning with tent-tearing, car-rat-
tling gusts, to the point where the
glum organisers call in the emer-
gency services for a risk assess-
ment. Things are not looking good.
The campsite slowly empties, and a
couple of hours of solid downpour
later word filters through that the
festival has been cancelled in its
original form, with an invitation to
regroup in the nearby town of Pa-
treksfjörður.
As we take the mountain track
once again, I look down to see the
white festival bus far below laden
with staff, bands and equipment,
crawling sadly away from the
beach.
Yo ho Nolo
But a bunch of hardy Icelanders
aren't going to let a bit of blowy
weather get in the way of a party.
It turns out that our meeting point
is Sjóræningjahúsið, a spacious
pirate-themed cafe-bar, and before
long, the festival crew are setting
up the PA system once again. Fes-
tivalgoers get coffee and soup and
dry off by the open fire, and the at-
mosphere starts to buzz with excite-
ment.
It falls on Reykjavík duo Nolo
to start the party, and they step up
admirably, mixing languid synth
pop, soft guitar tones and earworm
melodies into a slick, seductive
whole. Their sound is more West
Coast than Westfjords, bringing to
mind bands like Seattle's Beat Con-
nection and the soft, easy tones of
the Cascine label. The addition of a
drummer injects a fresh impetus to
their endlessly enjoyable set, which
flies by way too quickly. For all the
casual affectations of their perfor-
mance, Nolo make purposeful and
well-crafted music, and their set
is the starting gun for the festival
proper.
Scholarly melancholia
Borko bring things down a notch
with their trademark scholarly mel-
ancholia, built from tightly scored
guitar work and loose, responsive
drums. Blasts of trumpet hint at
their big-band intentions, but play-
ing as a trio, the sparser sound
serves to focus attention on their
songwriting and musicianship.
There has always been something
listless and plaintive about Borko's
lyrics and minor-key composi-
tions—the optimism of "Born To Be
Free" (the title track of their new al-
bum) is surely ironic. In the hands
of Björn Kristjánsson, life sounds
like a long trudge towards its cer-
tain end, during which happiness is
temporary and hard won.
Prins Póló are on confident form,
delivering the most well-received
set of the night with a run through
their 'greatest hits'. The word
"shabby," oft-used to describe their
sound, is not applicable to this tight
and well-practised performance,
although their other main descrip-
tor, 'charming,' applies more than
ever. Prins Póló play with smiles
on their faces and an infectious
energy that's transmitted to the
teeming crowd, who are whooping
and whirling by the time the encore
comes.
Since signing to One Little In-
dian, Samaris are now label-mates
of Björk, Ólöf Arnalds and Ásgeir
Trausti, thrusting them straight
in the pantheon of most-likely-to-
succeed Icelandic bands. Pressed
for time and harried by technical
difficulties, they get to play only
two songs here, but their quality is
apparent. Jófriður Ákadóttir, also
often seen performing as one half
of Pascal Pinon, is blossoming into