Reykjavík Grapevine - 14.08.2015, Blaðsíða 32

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 REVIEW
Blaðsíða 1
Blaðsíða 2
Blaðsíða 3
Blaðsíða 4
Blaðsíða 5
Blaðsíða 6
Blaðsíða 7
Blaðsíða 8
Blaðsíða 9
Blaðsíða 10
Blaðsíða 11
Blaðsíða 12
Blaðsíða 13
Blaðsíða 14
Blaðsíða 15
Blaðsíða 16
Blaðsíða 17
Blaðsíða 18
Blaðsíða 19
Blaðsíða 20
Blaðsíða 21
Blaðsíða 22
Blaðsíða 23
Blaðsíða 24
Blaðsíða 25
Blaðsíða 26
Blaðsíða 27
Blaðsíða 28
Blaðsíða 29
Blaðsíða 30
Blaðsíða 31
Blaðsíða 32
Blaðsíða 33
Blaðsíða 34
Blaðsíða 35
Blaðsíða 36
Blaðsíða 37
Blaðsíða 38
Blaðsíða 39
Blaðsíða 40
Blaðsíða 41
Blaðsíða 42
Blaðsíða 43
Blaðsíða 44
Blaðsíða 45
Blaðsíða 46
Blaðsíða 47
Blaðsíða 48
Blaðsíða 49
Blaðsíða 50
Blaðsíða 51
Blaðsíða 52
Blaðsíða 53
Blaðsíða 54
Blaðsíða 55
Blaðsíða 56
Blaðsíða 57
Blaðsíða 58
Blaðsíða 59
Blaðsíða 60
Blaðsíða 61
Blaðsíða 62
Blaðsíða 63
Blaðsíða 64
Blaðsíða 65
Blaðsíða 66
Blaðsíða 67
Blaðsíða 68
Blaðsíða 69
Blaðsíða 70
Blaðsíða 71
Blaðsíða 72

x

Reykjavík Grapevine

Beinir tenglar

Ef þú vilt tengja á þennan titil, vinsamlegast notaðu þessa tengla:

Tengja á þennan titil: Reykjavík Grapevine
https://timarit.is/publication/943

Tengja á þetta tölublað:

Tengja á þessa síðu:

Tengja á þessa grein:

Vinsamlegast ekki tengja beint á myndir eða PDF skjöl á Tímarit.is þar sem slíkar slóðir geta breyst án fyrirvara. Notið slóðirnar hér fyrir ofan til að tengja á vefinn.