Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2015, Blaðsíða 32

Hverfisgata 15,
101 Reykjavík
facebook.com/safnahusid
32 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 12 — 2015MUSIC
I watched as one un-
fortunate fellow (who
was probably not
thinking about such
theoretical concerns)
walked out of Gau-
kurinn, ralphed onto
the sidewalk, took a
few steps onto the
grass, and continued
spewing into the
spongy sod sporadi-
cally.
Innipúkinn is the festival for those who
can't be bothered to go to Þjóðhátíð or
any other countryside shitshow because
it's not their scene, because they don't
care to forego urban comfort, or because
they simply forgot to plan anything else.
Why not just do all the things you do in
the countryside in downtown Reykja-
vík instead? The irony is that this ends
up looking just like a typical weekend in
Reykjavík, albeit with an extra night of
debauchery and a few more performers.
And, of course, that grass.
It's always interesting to see how
people react to a new element in an oth-
erwise familiar setting.
What happens when a
road—a means of trav-
elling through, a non-
place—becomes a place
to be? A perimeter of
small wooden shelters,
each with benches and
counters, surrounded the
grass. A picnic table and
a few lonely trees filled
the centre. I was, per-
haps, more interested in
observing people's inter-
actions with the tempo-
rary, artificial landscape
than I was in watching
the performances. For
instance, I watched as
one unfortunate fellow
(who was probably not thinking about
such theoretical concerns) walked out
of Gaukurinn, ralphed onto the sidewalk,
took a few steps onto the grass, and
continued spewing into the spongy sod
sporadically. Not far away, but far enough
away not to notice the chunder, a group
of teens sat in a circle on the grass, as
though Naustin were no different from
a park.
A cold, wet rock
Towards the end of each night's pro-
gramme, this outdoor space became a
venue in its own right. With DJs spinning
into the later hours, it seemed like the
real party was outside. The festivalgoers,
docile and still for the most of the indoor
live sets, let loose, dancing in every patch
of available grass and, when it was full,
dancing on the tables. Lightbulbs strung
across the street illuminated smiling faces
under the newly returned darkness of
night. "Why doesn't this happen every
night?" I wondered,
then promptly remem-
bered that, despite the
dryness of this summer,
Iceland is a cold, wet
rock in the middle of an
ocean. Could Innipúkinn
have worked in the
rain? Is the indoor mu-
sic programme enough
to make Innipúkinn feel
like a festival, not just
a marathon of familiar
acts? Who knows. Luck-
ily I didn't have to think
about that.
Each day the grass
seemed one shade
browner than the day
before. At the end of the
festival, the grass disappeared; this exper-
iment in urban space ended; the block of
Naustin returned to its normal, unremark-
able self, albeit with a thin residue of mud,
beer, and perhaps bodily fluids caked to
the curb. With the future of Gaukurinn and
Húrra up in the air, I'm curious to see if
Innipúkinn will be held in the same place
next year. Wherever it is, however, I do
hope there'll be grass.
On Grass
Innipúkinn turns
a stretch of street
into a park—
madness ensues
Words Eli Petzold
Photos Timothée Lambrecq
Hands down, the best thing about Innipúkinn this year was
the grass. No, not the grass that seemed to perfume the
smoking decks and bathrooms of Gaukurinn and Húrra.
I'm talking about the soft carpet of fresh grass that cov-
ered the whole block of Naustin for the festival's three days.
No, not AstroTurf, not a giant green rug. I mean real, pho-
tosynthesizing, pure Icelandic turf, excised from pastures
greener than 101, rolled up like rugelach, and laid out along
the entirety of the block—a lil' bit of the countryside here
in downtown Reykjavík. It's like you left the city for Verslu-
narmannahelgi without actually going anywhere, like you're
out camping in the country, except without all the parts of
camping that involve anything related to camping—which, I
believe, is the whole point of Innipúkinn.
Innipúkinn literally
translates as “Indoor
Demon,” you guys.
The term conveys
something akin to
an Icelandic couch
potato, but with more
angst and cooler hair
(or so I imagine).
Innipúkinn literally translates as “Indoor
Demon,” you guys. The term conveys
something akin to an Icelandic couch
potato, but with more angst and cooler
hair (or so I imagine). Given the name, I
expected something slightly demonic (or
at the very least agoraphobic) about the
festival—both of which I could get into.
It was therefore funny that the acts
that fit my imagined theme for the week-
end—Sin Fang, with his sad eyed whisper-
singing; M-Band's slouching, solemn
improvised noise-over-techno music;
and Sóley, whose melancholic vocal loops
alone I could listen to for days—were rela-
tively sparsely attended. And those who
did show up for those shows didn't seem
fully engaged. For Sin Fang and Sóley,
who played at Húrra, attendees chatted
amongst themselves as if they were back
at the bar, or in their own living rooms. I'm
talking non-stop banter, here—not just the
occasional aside.
M-Band's Sunday set at Gaukurinn
was loud enough that any chance for
chatter was offset, but the crowd sure was
thin. There was plenty of space between
patrons to dance, though only one guy
was really getting into it. No one stood
at the front of the stage. Many didn't stay
through the whole set, preferring to come
and go as they pleased. All three of these
acts are talented, and under the right
circumstances could easily captivate an
audience—but there seemed to be some-
thing lacking in the crowd's reception, en-
thusiasm, and energy.
Fucking party
The opposite was the case for Reykjavík
hip-hop darlings Sturla Atlas and Gísli
Pálmi. These guys were on fire. Or rather,
the crowds were on fire for both of them.
(And though I regrettably missed Icelan-
dic lupine rap duo Úlfur Úlfur, I'd bet that
the atmosphere was similar). The people
of Innipúkinn had clearly had enough of
dark, wrought, moody noise experimenta-
tion and riffs on solemnity. They wanted
to fucking party. And since few, if any,
major rap and hip-hop acts have regular
tour stops in Reykjavík, these and other
locally grown hip-hop acts serve to fill
a huge pop-cultural void for concert-
goers who have grown up cherishing
recorded imports.
Sturla Atlas and
entourage owned the
stage with their brand
of auto-tuned pop-hop
(not meant in the de-
rogatory sense) and fac-
tory-setting beats. There
were potential moments
of innovation—a few cool
samples in “Lotta Girls,”
and the slick rhythm of
“Pills”—but mostly their
sound was an agglom-
eration of their genre's
standard production and songwriting
practices. That said, their stuff is catchy,
which is an art in itself. On top of that, it's
fun to watch. All four guys on stage emit-
ted high levels of energy, gesturing grand-
ly and getting the crowd pumped by re-
minding everyone who they were between
each song.
Then, when sunglasses-enthusiast
Gísli Pálmi came on, things really got
wild. Húrra was packed tight well past
the double doors to the venue, and more
kept piling in somehow. The man's rhythm
and flow were pretty solid, occasionally
crossing over the realm of the excellent.
His shirtless machismo and performative
dominance weren't too, too overdone; and
his lyrics, though incomprehensible to me,
were sonically interesting and rhythmical-
ly wild. I wonder, though: if I'd understood
what he was saying, would I have enjoyed
the set more or less?
High/low
The party spilled outdoors after Gísli's
set—when the beturfed Naustin was
turned into an all-out block party thanks
to Sturla Atlas and our dear, dear frenemy
ethanol. This left DJ Introbeats's set at
Húrra under-attended.
The Sturla Atlas takeover and result-
ing block party was by far one of the high-
est points, and simultaneously the lowest
point, of this year's Innipúkinn. It reached
great heights, because it carried over the
killer vibes and high en-
ergy from their and Gísli
Pálmi's sets, and aug-
mented it tenfold. On top
of that, their second (and
drunken third) perfor-
mances were done sans
autotune, which took
away a sense of overpro-
duction that had made
their first seem not-
quite-live-enough. The
track list of their DJ set
was packed with dance-
able hip hop, r&b, rap,
and party hits. Good times and good vibes
all around, save for the occasional shove-y
drunk or rogue face-sucking couples.
The shared experience of that Sat-
urday night (that went well into Sunday
morning) was incredible, but there were
some real problems lurking underneath.
What brought the experience way, way
down for me were the sheer number of
intoxicated, lily-white twentysomethings
gleefully singing along to each and every
N-word blaring out of the speakers. It's
not a good look, guys; and it's telling. It's
beyond the shady area of appropriation
(which people argue back and forth on).
It is a concrete example of why the Ice-
landic hip-hop scene, while jocular, lively,
and often entertaining, is simultaneously
insidious.
Rap and hip-hop acts are clearly what
many in Reykjavík want—to experience
in concert, and to produce as creatives.
And it's something many clearly respond
to: the majority of Innipúkinn was out-
shined by a single night of hip-hop. But
does everyone know what they're dealing
with here?
It doesn't appear so.
Words Sam Wright Fairbanks
With a twenty seven act line-up staggered over three nights and in two venues, it was
assured that you couldn't see everything at Innipúkinn, even though you might want to.
While the rest of the city seemed hell-bent on getting out—barbecuing, communing with
nature, or just getting fucked-up somewhere a bit more bucolic—I thought those attend-
ing Innipúkinn would be the kind who felt no need to go far, who embraced the darkness
indoors (and in themselves).
What: Innipúkinn Festival When: July 31-August 2 Where: Húrra & Gaukurinn
Inner Demons
And Outdoor
Fan Service
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