Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.04.2013, Side 26

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26The Reykjavík Grapevine
I’ve Never Been North
A first-timer's review of Aldrei fór ég suður
Close to the northernmost tip of Iceland lies Ísafjörður, a
small town nestled deep in the crook of Skutulsfjörður.
Several hours of mountain road from the lights of Reykja-
vík, it's a remote spot for a music festival, especially in the
usually chilly Icelandic springtime. But the climate doesn't
deter the organisers of Aldrei Fór Ég Suður, or the 2,000+
festivalgoers who have kept this popular occasion rolling
into its tenth year.
The Grapevine team set out for Ísafjörður under blue
skies, scything around the sea road at the feet of Esja,
through the long tunnel north and past mountains draped
in leftover snow and reflected in mirror-like fjords. We see
the remains of recent heavy blizzards, with drifts engulfing
roadside fences completely and mountaintops gleaming
like iced cakes.
But as the Westfjords draw near, a wall of weather
sweeps in. The car is swiftly eaten by clouds and the
journey turns into a nerve-wracking whiteout. The ice-blue
snowdrifts grow together until they merge with the sky
in a yawning, bright white void. It feels like we're driving
from nothing, into nothing, the car a slow skier slaloming
between the roadside markers and shocks of yellow grass.
By the time we crawl around the tip of the final peninsula
and down into the dramatic, sweeping bay of Ísafjörður, Sin-
dri Már Sigfússon is on stage. He cuts a recognisable figure
even from way back in the car park, standing static with his
distinctive stoop as he strums and sings. His band Sin Fang
has changed configuration since ‘Flowers,’ their sunny, me-
lodic sound taking an indie-rock flavour via the addition of a
second guitarist. The set is comprised entirely of unreleased
new material, but Sindri's eddying vocal melodies lend a
sense of familiarity and continuity to the show, winning a
rousing reception from the bustling crowd.
A WORKING CLASS HERO
After a short break, the festival's tiny beer & pylsur tent
empties for Bubbi Morthens. Looking like a lost member
of Status Quo in sunglasses and a waistcoat, his style is
gleaned directly from the impassioned Americana of giants
like Dylan and Springsteen. Kids are hoisted onto shoul-
ders and there suddenly seem to be a lot of stetsons in the
crowd. The festival is in a party mood for this show, erupt-
ing almost immediately into a mass sing-along.
Bubbi is apparently Iceland's working class hero, his ev-
eryman lyrics transposing Icelandic culture onto traditional
rhythm & blues—so rather than being about the cotton
fields or the dusty crossroads, his songs are about working
in fish processing plants and surviving the long, dark winter
nights. He seems like he could go on for hours, revelling in
the limelight and packing his thirty-minute set with crowd
participation antics, but even this legend of native rock only
gets a short extension on the standard twenty-minute slot.
After an equally Icelandic take on rockabilly from Langi
Seli og Skuggarnir and some workmanlike post-rock from
Stafrænn Hákon, the night is rounded off by Valdimar, who
plays a celebratory set of jubilant, enticing songs backed
by an impressive big band. The sound quality has been
uniformly excellent throughout, especially considering the
hasty changeovers, but it seems to click especially well for
Valdimar. After a warm-hearted and thoroughly charming
performance, people pour out into the snow, beaming their
smiles into the darkness.
THE LOCAL SCENE
After a morning spent exploring the defiantly remote and
breathtakingly picturesque nearby towns of Flateyri and
Suðureyri, we head back to catch some of Ísafjörður's local
bands and hometown heroes. The first act we see is the
unashamed dad-rock five-piece Sniglabandið, who grin
from ear to ear throughout their robust set; they're followed
by proficient-but-nervous teen metallers Hörmung, who've
clearly put in the practice-room hours but are perhaps a
little dazzled by the stage lights.
If there has been a slight lack of edge in the music so far,
Futuregrapher reverse the situation with a set of mid-after-
noon jungle and hard breaks, accentuated by some genu-
inely unhinged, simian dancing. After starting the music,
Futuregrapher comes out in trackie-bottoms and proceeds
to bounce around the stage screaming for a few minutes,
jabbing at the crowd and conducting the rapid-fire rhythms
like the scariest 7 AM amphetamine-tramp at Glastonbury;
he's joined by a rapper who seems comparably zoned out
and almost gets into a confrontation with the laptop opera-
tor when a sudden change of pace interrupts an extended
anti-capitalist rant. The music itself isn't breaking any new
ground, but the aggressive, nihilistic stage spectacle is
absorbing and creepy in equal measure.
Prins póló play with an extended line-up that includes
Benni Hemm Hemm on bass and Borko on extra percus-
sion, giving an impressive boost to their ever-charming
scruffy indie sound. They're followed by Dolby, who finish
on a ruthlessly efficient crowd-pleasing medley of soft rock
anthems that includes snatches of “Smoke On The Water,”
“Jump” and “Eye Of The Tiger.”
A JUBILANT FINALE
The young stars of Reykjavík on tonight's bill are Oyama
and Samaris, both of whom up the art-factor consider-
ably. Full disclosure: I work with Oyama, so I somewhat
predictably like them a lot, but I was a fan first, and the
show reminds me why as they gallop through a four-song
set of stylish, discordant shoegaze. The shimmering intro of
“Everything Some Of The Time” gets a roar of recognition
before the drawn out noise-rock finale of “The Garden,”
which peaks at ear-splitting volume.
Samaris are becoming a vehicle for the maturing talents
of Jófríður Ákadóttir, whose breathy, emotive vocal delivery
is spine tingling tonight. On the strength of this perfor-
mance the sky is the limit for the eighteen-year-old singer,
and as Samaris play set-highlight “Góða Tungl” I wonder
if the warm but ‘90s-retro production can match her rapid
development.
Ojba Rasta deliver an effortlessly entertaining collection
of dubby reggae, playing with a laid-back passion that earns
them a rare Aldrei encore. This paves the way for Jónas Sig,
who is joined by roughly half the town's inhabitants in the
shape of the Ísafjörður town orchestra, for a jubilant finale
to a fun night.
The Bubbi lyric from which the festival takes its name
goes “I never went south, I never had the courage.” But in
2013 it takes more courage to head into the freezing north,
and for those who braved the cold, there was a party worth
the journey. - John Rogers
Photo: Alísa Kalyanova
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