Reykjavík Grapevine - 17.07.2015, Qupperneq 30

30 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 10 — 2015DESIGN
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But despite the hardships of the North-
ern winter, something continually draws
Kari back to Iceland. This is her ninth visit,
and like so many other artists and musi-
cians, Kari finds that Iceland provides an
ideal setting for her creative endeavours.
The first Farao EP was recorded entirely
in Reykjavík with musician and producer
Mike Lindsay, during a similarly turbulent
period a few Februaries ago.
“I didn't know anyone, that first time,”
smiles Kari. “But I'd grown up with Ice-
landic music—or at least, Björk and Sigur
Rós—and the thought of coming here was
so tempting. I just had to do it.”
The trip almost didn't happen when a
close family member died unexpectedly
just days before Kari was due to fly out.
“It was a really intense time,” she recalls.
“His death was a real shock to the family.
I was thinking of cancelling, but I ended
up coming here, and thinking, ‘It's what he
would have wanted me to do.’”
The EP is an entrancing collection
that bears the hallmarks of this dark time,
speaking of grief and loss with a haunt-
ing, sombre quality. The vocals are often
multi-tracked, with different melodic lines
tangling together; the percussion, by
Magnús Trygvason Eliassen, has a muted,
rainy-day feel. The sense of catharsis is
audible.
“I totally lost myself in the recording,”
says Kari. "I was working and even sleep-
ing in the studio. I was there almost 24
hours a day. I couldn't really cry, and had
no one to turn to. But it was still an amaz-
ing experience, and that's why I came
back to record the album.”
Studio dancing
Kari's new material promises much. Farao
has developed into a band in the interim,
creating a dark, seductive pop sound and
leaving its folk-noir roots behind. The new
troupe have grown together via a series
of increasingly high-profile shows around
Europe, including a tour with Ásgeir that
culminated in a string of Iceland dates
over Christmas 2013.
“The tour was an amazing time,” Kari
says. “We went up to Akureyri and lots
of other places, and played in Ásgeir's
hometown. Literally half the town came to
the gig, and it was broadcast live on the
radio. We hung out with his family. I can't
imagine living in such a small place, but
it's so interesting to see other people do-
ing it, and loving it.”
But small-town life is nothing new
to Kari, who grew up deep in rural Nor-
way. Having been a Londoner for several
years now, she’s developed a love-hate
relationship with big-city life, and enjoys
the familiar intimate scale of 101. Kari also
finds Reykjavík’s tight-knit music commu-
nity inspiring—in particular the carefree,
cooperative attitude that permeates the
scene.
“I have realised how much the energy
of the sessions is present in the final re-
cordings,” she explains. “I've never had so
much fun in the studio as here. I loved re-
cording with Maggi [Magnús], the drum-
mer—we danced around, having a laugh.
We were taking the outcome seriously, of
course, but also just enjoying the process
so much. It was very impulsive and spon-
taneous. People who've heard the album
say it sounds so playful. That's why I want-
ed to come back, to maintain that feeling
of playfulness.”
Takeaway aura
The question of how a country the size of
Iceland produces such a diverse range of
excellent musicians is an evergreen topic
of conversation amongst overseas musi-
cians, journalists, and listeners alike. We
end up gravitating naturally to pinning
down why this might be.
“I've found that people here play for
the love of it as much as anything else,”
says Kari, thoughtfully. “People encour-
age you to be yourself here, and not to
copy anyone or whatever—they have con-
fidence in your decisions, your ability to
find the best way to do things, putting the
music first and the industry second. That,
for me, is a major reason why Iceland has
one of the most exciting music scenes in
the world.”
But as much as different places might
shape the process of making music, it’s
individuals, life experiences and rela-
tionships that lie at the core of Farao’s
subject matter. “The new songs are still
about loss—but no longer about mourn-
ing,” Kari explains. “It’s that mix of des-
perately wanting something, whilst not
really caring if you actually get it. Like an...
apathetic desperation. Those two things
might seem to cancel each other out,
but they don't. The album is about losing
something, but slowly realising you never
really had it in the first place. It's been a
confusing process, trying to understand
how I feel about these things.”
As pop music continually proves, sad
music doesn’t have to be saddening. With
that in mind, Kari is looking forward to un-
veiling Farao’s next chapter. “The first re-
cord was something I needed to get out of
the way,” she finishes. “The new stuff is so
much more confident, and hopeful, and
fun. Now I wanna make people dance.”
Kari Jahnsen, aka Farao, sits in a downtown Reykjavík cafe
on a typically unsettled Icelandic day. We’re chatting amiably
over coffee and watching people slide down Laugavegur
through the frozen snow, when suddenly a violent downpour
of hailstones begins, rattling the windows in their frames. The
street outside empties, and we dissolve into laughter at the
absurdity of the rapid-fire weather.
Words John Rogers
Photo Matthew Eisman
Stories From
The City, Stories
From The Sea
Farao is crafting her new sound
in the bleak Icelandic winter
MU IC