Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.01.2006, Page 19
The parking lots were packed, the lines were long and security
was tight. A foreigner was busy scalping tickets by the entrance
queue, and by the backstage door I bore incredulous witness to a
livid argument over a young man’s right to enter the concert hall.
It’s true: Nothing supports a noble environmental cause quite like
star billing. Some came to save the country from evil smelters,
some came on a date and others came for the sheer spectacle of
seeing so many of the crème de la crème of Iceland’s alternative
scene perform in one night under the same roof. But the feeling
that a sizable portion of the audience was only there to say they’d
been there never quite left me.
To be completely fair, however, there was also a great
number of people who were there to see one act. Rosy-cheeked
teenagers with stars in their eyes and Naked Ape sweaters around
their waists had come to see Múm and Sigur Rós; men in their
late twenties with biceps the size of Brazil were evidently there to
witness the return of Egó, and grim-faced, long-haired youths in
ready-to-shed black t-shirts stood and waited for Ham.
I failed to identify the crowd who had come to see KK,
however, until I happened to glance up to the balcony at the back
and spotted the bitter, weathered faces of all the radical environ-
mentalists old enough to have visited Kárahnjúkar more than
twice. Their faces lit up with attentive eagerness as he strode on-
stage, but KK quickly shook off any hastily applied labelling with
two finely crafted folk ballads sung with such disarming intimacy
that the crowd fell completely silent, a near-inconceivable feat
for an opening act, even if the act has written every other clichéd
Icelandic campfire sing along in existence.
So enthralling was the honesty of KK’s openers that I was
almost disappointed when he switched to more traditional blues,
but he pulled it off, rocking as hard as a balding old man with an
acoustic guitar ever could. His general unassuming demeanour
was also refreshing, and had he paused to remove his wedding
ring, he could easily have charmed his way into the most stubborn
date’s pants.
Múm were as intolerably cute as ever, heralding the night’s
decent into mediocrity with the sickeningly sweet musical molas-
ses of the plinks, clicks and squeaks of their opener. They played
expertly, however, knowing exactly how to squeeze the sounds
they wanted from their instruments. They hit an interesting (well,
interesting for Múm, anyway) note with the gothic accordion
crescendos of their second song, but for the most part remained
firmly sutured into their shiny, sugar-coated self-indulgent musi-
cal land, a distant realm where elves and fairies fly unicorns over
rainbows and feed candy apples to pink-furred pigmy bears with
no claws and vacant smiles on their faces.
My attention span wavered, and I began inspecting the
various bits of environmental curiosa scattered about the venue,
including huge signs bearing slogans like: ALUMINIUM
SMELTING CAUSES BIRTH DEFECTS, CANCER
AND BONE DEFORMATION that had been hand-painted
and hung up on the western wall. Garish t-shirts bearing ironic
slogans in support of the dam were to be found for sale in the
front lobby, and it seemed like Icelandic protestors were at least
taking a step towards getting their shit together. And say what
you like about preserving nature and saving wildlife, (I’m one of
those people who rather enjoy poking dead animals with sticks,
but otherwise avoid fauna), I don’t think I’d want something that
causes bone deformation in the same hemisphere as me.
And if the propaganda didn’t get to you, then truth is
always stranger than fiction: Actual quotes from the MPs who
approved the dam were among the things being projected onto
the massive screens. Siv Friðleifsdóttir’s mind-blowing contradic-
tion was particularly interesting: “Even though an area is a nature
reserve, that does not mean construction cannot take place there.”
Great stuff.
Meanwhile, Múm had scurried off to be replaced by Sigur
Rós, or in other words, the synth stopped playing and the singing
got better. Their set was, predictably enough, one ten-minute
song, and I remember thinking how incredibly bored they looked,
but whatever, gustibus non sit consuetendum, as they say down
south.
The music had remained slow to this point, but that wasn’t
stopping people from having a ball. “I’ve been drinking since
noon, and I’m still bored,” said a youth I spoke with briefly. “But
damn, am I excited to see Ham!” His wait was then made slightly
more interesting by the appearance of Magga Stína, and for the
first time in half an hour someone was moving on the stage.
The jerky post-punk played by her trademark gang of
oddball musicians so perfectly reflected the event’s goals with its
innocent nostalgia and sneering, yet ecstatically cheerful delivery
that little else seemed necessary, but that didn’t really make it
any better. At any other show, Magga Stína’s songs would have
seemed so painfully pointless it wouldn’t even have come across
as music, only a hopelessly decentralised mess of quirks and gim-
mickry, but the occasion somehow gave it just enough merit to
survive. I was so caught up in the atmosphere of the evening that
I didn’t even realise how bad it was until after the band had left
the stage.
The guitars were out of tune, the songs half-heartedly
played, and every band member looked completely oblivious to
the fact that the rest of the world existed, never mind the audi-
ence. So what exactly made RASS the most convincing act of the
evening? Easy: They cheated, by being awesome.
Their punk-played-by-people-who-remember-when-
punk-wasn’t-a-bunch-of-whining-bitches-being-lame somehow
became even more awesome when they welcomed a grade school
brass section (in full dress regalia) onstage to perform a cover of
one of the worst songs in British popular music history: “Con-
gratulations, salutations,” Óttarr Proppé growled hysterically over
the steadily increasing tempo, leaving the rest of us to wonder
what planet we were on.
As tasteless and pretentious as RASS were wholesome and
honest, Dr. Spock barely merits mention, having only played one
song from their repertoire of bizarro-prog-pop-metal, but they
were well-rehearsed, delivering a remarkably tight set considering
their scarecrow of a lead singer was wearing the most impossibly
hideous pair of tights known to man. Yes, everything was going
perfectly well until Damien Rice showed up.
He performed Blower’s Daughter so incredibly true to the
recording that I started looking for signs he might be lip-synch-
ing, but none were evident; I was further mystified when a young
woman appeared vaporously next to him onstage, her voice just
as strangely flawless. I honestly struggled with every bone in
my body to find something lacking or extraordinary in Rice’s
performance, but it just sat there, placid and immobile, and
eventually I gave up. His second and last song of the evening had
a bit more character, and the entire band seemed a lot more edgy
and unrestrained. Maybe they’re just sick of playing Blower’s
Daughter (I would be).
I was still pondering this when a man wearing a grey
barbershop suit and a hat so ugly it was offensive stepped onstage
and started yelling unintelligibly into the microphone and fid-
dling around with an acoustic guitar, and it took me a moment
to realise who it was: Mugison had somehow charmed his way
onstage, and it was at this point that I realised we need more
festivals where every artist plays for about 10-15 minutes before
leaving; that way, if you don’t like who’s playing, all you have to
do is wait a few short moments.
The guitar playing, his sole redeeming quality, would have
been a real treat to watch if he didn’t come off as such a pomp-
ous ass performing a lame bathroom mirror rehearsal, and I’m
surprised he never slipped on the puddle of tears steadily ac-
cumulating by his feet as he wept at his own greatness. His frolics
continued well into Hjálmar’s set; I would have thought a band
could give him more credibility as a real musician, but even in
the presence of relative greatness he managed to look like a total
prat, leading the crowd into an incredibly half-hearted chorus of
“Yeeeeeah, yeeah, yeeeah.”
The crowd, however, loved him, leading me to believe the
only person at the concert with any musical taste whatsoever was
the girl who vomited over the front railing during Damien Rice’s
set. After Mugison stopped singing, Hjálmar sauntered into a tri-
ple helping of their effortlessly melodic reggae, no doubt thankful
he had stopped making them sound like a Christian rock band.
They were solid and reliable as always, but, like most of the other
acts, they didn’t appear to be there to play music, just show their
support, but there’s no point blaming them for that.
But if one band did manage to raise a decent-sized middle
finger to the dam gang as well as put on a show worth paying
money to see, that band was unquestionably Ghostigital. “I am
an educated man, for I can speak Danish!!!” Einar Örn frantically
screamed in his parody of our beloved prime minister while Cur-
ver and his minions were hard at work deafening as many people
as they possibly could. The bass made your head hurt so bad you
never even noticed your eardrum rupturing, and even if you did,
you’d still have fun. There were moments when their lack of va-
riety threatened to do them in, but someone always saved the day
with a well-timed trumpet squeal or a delirium-inducing loop.
This continued for roughly a quarter of an hour before a
handsome man whose face I recognised from television intro-
duced himself as Damon and played a happy little song about the
evils of corporate exploitation, with Ghostigital as backup. They
performed extremely well, considering the song was about two
days old, and just generally made the night all the more memora-
ble.
But the moment so many had been waiting for had finally
come, and when Ham stepped onstage, smartly dressed and neat-
ly combed, someone suddenly remembered there were incredibly
powerful floodlights behind the stage (either that or Curver found
the lighting console and decided to rob us of another sense) and
the party really got going. Ham were a machine, a single-minded
entity with the power to smash anything they touched, a power
they used in full to remind us who the true kings of Icelandic
metal are. From Flosi Þorgeirsson’s satanic goatee to Björn Blön-
dal’s contemptuous sneer, there was nothing onstage that didn’t
reek strongly of Ham.
And then they left, as abruptly as they had arrived, and
with them about a third of the audience. But the ones that stayed
would undoubtedly have waited hours for Egó’s set; the eruption
of cheers that rang out when Bubbi Morthens bounded onstage
wearing the third and fourth most tasteless articles of cloth-
ing on stage that night (his shirt and shades, respectively) made
Ghostigital’s bass lines sound like a walkman at the bottom of a
laundry basket. Egó energetically soared into a glorious three-
song set, accompanied by slightly off-time pyrotechnics, attitude-
riddled guitar solos and lots of, erm, ego. They made no pretence
at giving a crap about why they or anyone else was there that
night, opting instead to fill everyone with a sense of togetherness,
of belonging, that if harnessed, could easily have knocked down
any dam.
Because getting lots of people to do something noble isn’t
about believing it should be done, it’s believing it can be done. If
you can come home at the end of the day saying you fought for
something, whether you can justify it or not, it doesn’t really mat-
ter what it’s for; nobody ever won a game of Stratego by believing
that red is truly more virtuous than blue, they just wanted to win.
It was this desire to win that held that night at Laugardalshöl-
lin together, because when the music gets lame and the booze
runs out, there’s only one thing that can keep a party going: The
chance to score with a hot babe, and if you can think of a hotter
babe than Icelandic nature, then I’d like to get her number.
Did That Really Happen?:
Björk with Zeena Parkins
Nobody knows what to do about Björk when she’s in Iceland:
she’s kind of like the 80-pound elephant in the room. You imagine
someone is going to gush, someone is going to stare, but with her
around, few people are thinking of much else. For this reason, it
was best that Björk went on early on January 7th, playing second in
a lengthy line-up. There was no time for anticipation, nor was she
going to burn up all the air in the building.
Showing up with harpist Zeena Parkins, Björk began with
a delicate Icelandic number from Medúlla, Vigil. With a refrain
of Bærinn Minn, the song’s reference to pastoral qualities seemed
apropos and polite for the evening.
Receiving a warm, if somewhat cautious applause, she
followed with an a capella English-language song. While I was
unfamiliar with the song, and while the English may have been
lost to Björk’s delivery, the short, scale-climbing number was a
remarkable performance. Much is made of Björk’s diminutive size
working in contrast to her overwhelming vocal power… for good
reason. Climbing the scale and losing the words, Björk moved from
polite if shy host to displaying such obvious confidence and ability,
such a clear vocal presence, that her voice seemed a force of nature.
Standing among a crowd of proud protestors, I couldn’t help hop-
ing that this was a model for the political future of Iceland: if those
who were silent but polite could suddenly open up and put forward
something with the resonance of Björk’s voice, I imagined at that
moment, the world would listen.
For a close, Björk was accompanied by a virtuoso perform-
ance on harp, and she moved into more personal territory on her
vocals, with the somewhat bold stylings of her second number now
shifting from political to a declaration of intimacy.
Had Björk performed another number, the concert would
have only been remembered for her. As it was, she snuck off the
stage, destroying only Múm’s chance at connecting with the audi-
ence, as the audience still had Björk on the brain. But by the time
Sigur Rós came on, the crowd was ready to move on. They could
either think about Björk, or they could think about the other music.
Strangely, when I interviewed the crowd after the entire concert,
the majority sited RASS, Ham or Egó as the favourite of the night.
When I asked about Björk, every one said something similar to
what Óli Palli, main DJ at Rás 2 told me, “Oh, yes, of course Björk
was amazing. I had forgotten she performed at the same concert.”
07|01|2006
By Bart Cameron
By Sindri Eldon
Photos by Gúndi