Reykjavík Grapevine - 10.04.2015, Side 18

I’m doing a gig in Selfoss for 17-20 year-
olds? This is going to suck, hard. There’s
no booze. There’s no one there when
I arrive. What was I thinking? I’m in a
basement in Selfoss. That sounds like
the beginning of a novel by Arnaldur
Indriðason.
I was the last one out of the three
opener comedians, so when I finished
I grabbed a seat in the audience. It’s my
first chance to see professional comedy
in Iceland…in Icelandic, a language I do
not know.
A tall, broad man strides onto the
stage. He’s wearing a baseball cap,
which is unusual in Iceland—usually a
good way to spot a tourist or a celebrity.
His face is serious but quickly breaks
into a mischievous smile. For the next
fifteen minutes, he rocks the crowd—av-
eraging eight to twelve laughs-a-minute.
I am suddenly very conscious that
I’m in a different country. Everything
seems familiar, except I can’t under-
stand what he’s saying. I can hear the
timing, see the gestures, hear the laugh-
ter, but I don’t understand. Icelandic
stand-up has the same raw timing as
English-speaking stand up—just slightly
more melodic at times and with more
rhyming. You can hear the set-up and
then the punch line.
By the end of his set, I’m turning to
the other opener comedians and re-
marking on how great it went. Who is
he? He’s Halldór Halldórsson a.k.a. Dóri
DNA, a former Icelandic rapper and the
grandson of Nobel-prize winning au-
thor Halldór Laxness.
Mið-Ísland: The birth
of the new wave of
stand-up in Iceland
Modern stand-up comedy in Iceland is
the result of Halldór Laxness’s grand-
son owing money to a bar in downtown
Reykjavík. Not a bad origin story.
Dóri DNA was a rapper with a talent
for wit and humour, which set him apart
from the scene, especially in rap battles.
“We were a hard bunch,” Dóri told
me. “We were from the suburbs of Mos-
fellsbær. We were kind of problem teens,
so rap came more naturally. I used to
compete a lot in battles. Being funny
was the thing. Some guys could rap bet-
ter than me. Some guys freestyle better
than me. No one was funnier than me.”
Dóri was doing shows all over Ice-
land, but he could feel himself growing
out of it.
“Being a rapper in Iceland doesn’t in-
volve a lot of money,” said Dóri. “I woke
up one morning, looked in the mirror,
and thought to myself, ‘You ain’t this
rapper type anymore. You’re just not
cool enough. You can’t maintain this im-
age.’”
Dóri and his friend Bergur Ebbi de-
cided they were going to start doing
stand-up. Dóri owed money at Prikið, a
bar on Reykjavík’s famous Laugavegur,
and he would pay it off by performing
stand-up.
“It was my first time and I did a
45-minute set,” said Dóri. “I just told ev-
ery joke I ever thought of. It was packed
and people were laughing. It went really
great.”
In the crowd were Ari and Jói—lean-
ing against the bar and studying the
show. As soon as the show was over they
approached Dóri and Bergur Ebbi. They
wanted to be on the next show.
Back at the basement in Selfoss, Ari
strides on stage to steady applause. He’s
dressed sharp: slick hair, clean-shaven,
and a well-fitting jacket. His voice is
steady and quick, with his piercing eyes
expanding at his punch lines for empha-
sis and effect. As a stranger, I can’t imag-
ine him not being a comedian. It’s hard
to picture him standing in the crowd at
Prikið, inspired to become what seems
inevitable now.
“The first time
I became aware of
stand-up was with
Eddie Murphy’s
‘Delirious,’” Ari ex-
plained. “My copy
of ‘Delirious’ had
no subtitles, but I
learned it by heart.
My friend and I would
perform his routines
by memory, but the
funny thing was that
sometimes we had no
idea what he was talk-
ing about. We learned
the timing of humour,
when to laugh, even
when we didn’t know
what we were laugh-
ing about.”
Ari has always
been working to-
wards having a cre-
ative life. As a teen-
ager, he would make
films, mostly sequels
to blockbusters on a
shoestring budget in
his mom’s garden. His
father, Þórarinn El-
djárn, is a celebrated
poet known for his
humour and wit. He
famously referred to
Reykjavík’s pond as
the world’s largest
bowl of bread soup.
Ari had the desire,
support, and poten-
tial to do almost any-
thing he wanted. He
just needed an outlet.
“In the spring of
2009, Dóri posted
the Prikið show as a
Facebook event. This
was back in the day. If
100 people said they
were attending, they
were,” Ari laughed. “I
was interested to see
if they would crash
and burn. I was all
for them doing well.
I just wanted to see
what would happen.
Jói and I stood by the
bar and watched. Im-
mediately after the
show we approached
Bergur Ebbi and told
him we wanted to do
it too.”
Two weeks after
the first show, Ari and Jói joined Dóri
and Bergur Ebbi to perform another
show at Prikið. Not long after that they
formed Mið-Ísland, which would be-
come the first stand-up comedy group
in Iceland.
“Bergur Ebbi named the group
Mið-Ísland,” said Ari. “He’s a guy who
names groups. He’s a group namer. It’s
the official term for the highlands. It’s
the high terrain where nobody lives. I
have no idea why we are named after
that. Bergur Ebbi had a band he named
'Sprengjuhöllin', which translates to
‘The Explosion Palace.’ Another bullshit
name, but it sounds nice and it rings
out.”
M i ð - Í s l a n d
evolved at hyper-
speed. In a country
where Jón Gnarr, a
comedian, was elect-
ed mayor of its big-
gest city, the lack of
a stand-up scene was too conspicuous—
leading to huge growth and opportunity
for everyone, but especially for Ari. He
started doing stand-up in spring 2009,
and then quit his job in January 2010 to
become a professional comedian, which
is what he does full-time. Now, only six
years since his first gig, Ari is Iceland’s
king of stand-up.
Not just a boys’ scene
I’m still in the Selfoss basement when
Saga Garðarsdóttir is called on stage.
She’s an instant presence, tall and capti-
vating, but the most noticeable features
are her energy and voice. She fills the
space, as it is said in acting. You can’t
help but pay attention. Her timing is
rapidfire and her physicality on stage is
hilarious, almost cartoonish. The crowd
can’t stop laughing and neither can I.
“The Mið-Ísland guys started this
boy’s scene,” said Saga. “They asked
me and my friend Ugla to warm up for
them, but we had no clue what to do. I
had never really seen stand-up before.
I had seen tiny bits of Louis C.K., but I
was not a stand-up fan. We warmed up
for them by doing a very weird poetry
reading. We took really old Icelandic
poems and rewrote them as if a teenager
had written them. Then we would ask
the audience which poem it was. It was
like a weird poem quiz.”
Saga studied acting and was used
to performing in sketch comedy. When
Saga’s two friends, Ugla and Nadia, de-
cided there should be a women’s scene
too, Saga avoided joining. She didn’t feel
she knew what to do and her work at
school was already overwhelming. That
was until Ugla called Saga up and told
her, “I kind of booked you on our show
next Thursday.”
“‘You booked me kind of?’ I asked,”
said Saga. “‘Next Thursday?’ I didn’t
have time for that. I didn’t know what
to do. Ugla told me that if I was going to
continue to be her best friend, I had to
perform and be there for her. I was so
nervous. I wrote down every humiliat-
ing experience I’d ever had, which most-
ly consisted of me pissing myself.”
Saga’s first show went well, and after
that she continued doing stand-up. She’s
a regular on the Mið-Ísland show in the
basement of the National Theatre. Now,
she’s a superstar—starring in movies,
plays, and stand-up shows all over the
country.
After the show in Selfoss, I needed
to see more stand-up in Icelandic. It
It’s dark and the roads are icy. I’m squished in the back-
seat of a Toyota between two other comedians—head-
ing to a gig, our chance to open for Mið-Ísland, Iceland’s
comedy super-group. The gig will take place in the base-
ment of a student social club.
18
The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 4 — 2014
1
2
3
4
5
6
1. Þórdís Nadia Semichat
The bellydancer who decided the
next step was stand up comedy.
2. Andri Ívarsson
The guitar-playing comedian
who thinks Type II diabetes is
funny.
3. Bylgja Babylóns
The cult TV star who uses
industrial equipment in her
beauty regime.
4. Anna Svava
The actress who didn’t know she
was doing stand-up comedy.
5. Halldór Halldórsson
aka. Dóri DNA
The rapper with a bar tab who
started the whole comedy scene.
6. Rökkvi Vésteinsson
The passionate lover of comedy
who can’t stop dressing up like
Borat.
7. Saga Garðarsdóttir
The actress turned reluctant
comedian who began as a poetry
quizmaster.
8. Snjólaug Lúðviksdóttir
The writer who loves to make
people laugh.
9. Hugleikur Dagsson
The cartoonist who decided the
mic was as mighty as the pen.
10. Ari Eldjárn
The Humble King of Icelandic
Stand-up Comedy.