Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.05.2015, Síða 24

Amtmannsstíg 1 • 101 Reykjavík • +354 561 3303 • www.torfan.is
experience
classical cuisine
RESTAURANT- BAR
6.990 kr.
Vesturgata 3B | 101 Reykjavík | Tel: 551 2344 | www.tapas.is
Taste the best
of Iceland ...
... in one amazing meal
ICELANDIC GOURMET FEAST
Starts with a shot of the infamous
Icelandic spirit Brennívín
Followed by 7 delicious 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
And for dessert
White chocolate "Skyr" mousse with passion
fruit coulis
late night dining
Our kitchen is open
until 23:30 on weekdays
and 01:00 on weekends
24 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 5— 2015MUSIC
In numerous ways this is a
pure blues/rock album, but
the lyrics throughout are
sharp, witty and personal/political. It’s
easy to pull out any number of Bart Cam-
eron’s pithy phrases: “You wanted a fight,
alright you got a fight / But this machine
don’t kill fascists so I brought dynamite”
(“Sons And Daughters Of The Molly Ma-
guires”); “If I had $400, I would buy me
a freezer full of steak / What do you do
with the money you make? You show me
your arm. You spent $400 on a picture of
a snake” (“400 Dollars”); the entire story
of “If You Can’t Get Lucky Please Get Up.”
This to-the-bone realism is framed
brilliantly by crunchy blues guitars and
great arrangements that include a top-
class, sad-eyed bass clarinet, accordion,
harmonica and even “pots and pans.”
Make no mistake, this is a very well-
constructed set of songs by a group on
top form. And the surprises keep coming.
Just when it looks like the band’s about
to sign off with the fairly straightforward,
poetic blues of “This Murder Won’t Hurt
You,” they throw a major curveball with
the psychedelic odd loveliness of “Alfred
the Elephant.” In one dimension, it’s a
kind of love song between a disembod-
ied pachyderm and his followers. Another
interpretation is that the elephant is the
narrator’s depression. Either way, there
ought to be more songs about elephants.
Elephants are fucking great.
And this record is too.
- JOE SHOOMAN
A man woke up from dreams
of flying to find the grey skies
had finally, irrevocably and
godlessly fallen; a dense, muggy, sick,
slow-oozing fog squelched and squeezed
at the roof tiles of the world, sprawling in
a dazed deception, proof at last that over
our heads there were no dreams. A sad,
gut-burnt laugh of defeat bubbled to the
man’s parched lips.
Yes, he knew it all along: above the
clouds there were never angels. And
there never would be. What is there to
do? Really?
This fudge of tainted protoplasm is
a self-suppurating mess of blue bruises,
black scars and monosyllabic internal
shouts, he thought. If only there were a
way to express this extra-gravitational
mass pushing down on the shoulders of
the soul. If only there were a mode of—
not release, that wasn’t the right word—a
mode of—not escape—just a mode. No, it
was deeper than that.
He picked up the nearest object. It
turned out to be a smashed-up guitar,
welded forever into a fuzz of griminess.
The man’s clawing, desperate hands
moved of their own accord. And there,
finally, in a frequency just underneath
the scraping emptiness of finality, there it
was. He called it a riff. And it begat more;
and the clouds parted, and the sky was
full of fire, motorcycles and alternating
Sabbath riffery and Zep-esque 70s rock.
The man was glad he had woken that
day, and vowed never to dream again.
- JOE SHOOMAN
From the anguished beauty
of the bittersweet melodies
and the dark, atmospheric,
aura, to the stellar sound production
and the vicious throat-tearing vocal de-
livery, Auðn’s self-titled debut album is
altogether flawless.
Black metal has no right to be this
beautiful.
It is also bleakly grim. At times, it is
blasting and brutal, yet perfectly bal-
anced and never straying a solitary note
away from the mesmerizing ethereal
soundscape projected throughout.
The lyrics are bellowed in a harshly
rasped croon, echoing olden phrases in
the mother tongue, speaking drab tales
of blasphemy, desolation and despair.
All over a doom-laden soundtrack fully
befitting a Kaurismäki drama.
This album is like a major-label ef-
fort from a seasoned artist producing
blackened high art by the informed de-
cision of some elitist kvlt committee of
the dark satanic overlords at the helm
of the Norwegian inner circle.
- BOGI BJARNASON
Album
Reviews
The Foghorns
Auðn
The Sun’s Gotta Shine...
www.thefoghorns.com
It’s the blues, Jim,
but not as we know it
Auðn
www.facebook.com/audnofficial
It is flawless.
Ottoman
Heretic EP
Blood, power,
drudge, buzzheart