Reykjavík Grapevine - 04.12.2015, Side 16

The Yule Lads are the thirteen Ice-
landic Santa Clauses who descend
one-by-one on the thirteen days be-
fore Christmas to play tricks on Ice-
landic children. Their mother, Grýla,
a mountain Ogress, eats badly-be-
haved children; her partner-in-crime
is Leppalúði, another ogre and Grý-
la’s third husband (Iceland has a high
divorce rate).
The story of the Yule Lads can be in-
terpreted in various ways. It turns out
the present-day Lads were only stan-
dardised in the 20th century. There
is some contention, especially in the
Grapevine office, about whether they
were used as cautionary tales to make
children behave—or just to flat out
scare the shit out of them.
Our cover features some key play-
ers from the New Wave Of Icelandic
Hip-Hop (NWOIHH), a resurgent
music scene here in Reykjavík. These
young artists owned last month’s Ice-
land Airwaves Music Festival, gar-
nering international attention in the
aftermath. This magnetism seems to
derive from the scene’s authenticity;
it’s what the Reykjavík 101 kids want
and support.
Hip-hop is not the first thing that
comes to mind when you mention Ice-
landic music to the average tourist. But
hip-hop’s focus on language means the
genre translates effortlessly into Ice-
landic, a unique language that’s fierce-
ly protected by the Language Com-
mission. Why hip-hop? It could be the
influence of American television, and
the resulting induced appropriation,
or it could be national pride—making
hip-hop Icelandic. Or it could be some-
thing else entirely.
Many of the artists that make
up the NWOIHH are crazy young—
and just crazy. Their de-facto base
is Prikið, the downtown bar that’s
served as a meeting spot for the Icelan-
dic rap game ever since XXX Rottwei-
ler unleashed the first wave of Icelan-
dic hip-hop in the year 2000. It’s also
where these ‘young thugs’ like to get
into trouble or, at the very least, start
off their night.
Finni Karlsson is the big, burly,
intimidating man who owns Prikið.
Geoffrey Huntingdon-Williams is the
slim, handsome, no-bullshit guy who
serves as the manager. They both do
an admirable job of putting up with
these wild young rappers and their
shenanigans. In the Yule Lads context,
think of Finni as Grýla and Geoffrey
as Leppalúði, which—if you’ve ever
fucked around at Prikið and gotten
caught by either of the two—almost
isn’t a metaphor at all.
In fact, these rappers can be seen
as the modern day Yule Lads of down-
town Reykjavík, back when they were
a slightly sinister group of pranksters,
rather than the shoe-stuffing soft-
ies they’ve become today. But unlike
their antique counterparts, these
Hip-Hop Yule Lads don’t teach kids
lessons about proper behaviour. Their
mischievous hijinks instead provide
lessons and warnings for the down-
town party-goer; modern day parables
about what to avoid during a down-
town party night.
Alright, maybe this a weird, half-
thought out idea—pfff, Icelandic rap-
pers as modern day Yule Lads? What-
ever, we’ve all seen the way you act
when you’re drunk. You are definitely
in need some sort of moral guidance,
and if it has to be dressed up as some
sorta hip hop Yule lad fantasy, then so
be it!
So, without further ado, we present:
The Entirely New Thirteen Days Of
Christmas, With Real, Actual Stories
Collected From The Rappers Gracing
Our Cover.
Can you connect the dots of which
Hip-Hop Yule Lad represents which
rapper? And, more importantly, will
you ever learn?
DECEMBER 12
On the first night of Christmas, the
first Yule Lad descends on the streets
of Reykjavík. Stekkjastaur, Stiffy Legs,
used to sneak up on unsuspecting ewes
and suckle their milk, but lately he’s
had to develop a modern approach to
mischief. Nowadays, this nature spirit
inhabits one of our young hip-hop lads
who just happens to be tall and thin
(got it yet?). He convinces unsuspect-
ing party-goers to fight him, but his
stiff legs and tall stature make the
fight difficult—especially for shorter,
Napoleonic gentlemen with big tem-
pers.
“I don’t know what it is about the
social fabric of fast-food joints,” says
Stekkjastaur, “but people always get
into fights there. If you look at fight
videos online, you’ll see that most of
them take place in a fast-food joint.
While I was waiting to grab a sub one
night, I started putting pieces of paper
into strangers’ pockets—sneakily. This
one guy started getting really mad at
me. I could see I was annoying him.
Finally, he turned to his friend and
asked ‘should I?’ Then he lunged at
me, but my stiff legs and significant
height advantage meant he was basi-
cally hugging me, until he pushed me
into someone’s girlfriend. This offend-
ed the guy whose girlfriend had been
pushed, so he punched the angry little
man. I grabbed my sub and tip-toed off
into the night. My work was done.”
Let this be a lesson: DON’T START
FIGHTS IN FAST FOOD PLACES.
DECEMBER 13
On the second night of Christmas,
Giljagaur, Gully Jumper, heads down-
town to have some fun. He’s charming
and handsome, ever the peacock in
the room. Back in the day, he used to
steal cream, but lately his tastes have
changed to a more carnal persuasion.
You’ll see him haunting downtown
bars, surrounded by women (and men)
buying him beer. He’s the perennial
centre of attention, which comes with
some unexpected quirks.
“One night, I just wanted to go
home,” recalls Giljagaur. “I was tired—
it was my third night out in a row.
That’s when a bouncer from B5 waved
to me as I walked by. ‘Come right in!’
he said, and opened the chain for me.
Once inside, I either had to be miser-
able, or get into it—so I got right into
it. These two girls, quite young, cor-
nered me as I was heading downstairs
to the bathroom. They started kissing
my neck and making out with me. The
thing is, I’d just found out I had chla-
mydia. They kept asking me if I would
leave with them, and I kept saying no.
Finally, I told them, ‘I have chlamydia,
okay?’ The one riding my right thigh
never skipped a beat and replied, ‘We’d
fuck you even if you had HIV.’ To their
surprise, this was not a turn on. I went
home alone.”
Let that be a lesson: DON’T TRY TOO
HARD TO PICK PEOPLE UP. IT
MAKES YOU LOOK DESPERATE.
MAYBE NOT THIS DESPERATE.
BUT CLOSE.
DECEMBER 14
On the third night of Christmas Stú-
fur, aka Stubby, strolls into the bar.
Only, he doesn’t exactly stroll so much
as hop straight to the front of the line.
Stubby is tired of being the one who’s
hard to see; the one who doesn’t stand
out. So Stubby goes downtown to the
hottest bars and sneaks in front of ev-
eryone—he’s too good to wait.
“This one time,” says Stúfur, “I put
on a lot of makeup and sportswear and
pretended to be famous. Well, I pre-
tended to be a famous fitness blogger.
I cut to the front of the line, claiming
I was a VIP. Once inside, I explained
that I was famous and did little work-
out routines instead of dancing. All
I asked for in return was some shots.
Another time, I attempted to sneak
past a bouncer while waiting in line
at Kaffibarinn. He caught me and ba-
sically threw me down in the street.
I was embarrassed, but I just went to
my friend’s place, put on some of his
clothes, and went straight back to the
line, and waited like everyone else.”
Let this be a lesson: DON’T CUT IN
LINE. EVERYONE IS WAITING TO
GET IN JUST LIKE YOU.
DECEMBER 15
On the third night of Christmas, Spoon
Licker, Þvörusleikir, arrives. He’s no-
toriously impatient. He used to love
licking spoons right before people
used them. These days, his lack of pa-
tience plays out differently when he’s
drinking downtown. Instead of drink-
ing a spoonful at a time, he now guz-
zles down pints. As a result, he really
doesn’t like to wait in the bathroom
line.
“I was once downtown with my
friends, getting smashed,” recalls
Þvörusleikir. “We were going from bar
to bar, drinking and having fun, when
my friends and I had to piss. We didn’t
feel like waiting in line, or even going
into bar to piss. But we didn’t just piss
in the middle of Laugavegur—we’re
not tourists—we at least went down
an alley. But the police saw us and ar-
rested all my friends anyway.”
Let this be a lesson: THE WORLD IS
NOT YOUR TOILET. PISS IN THE
BATHROOM.
DECEMBER 16
On the fourth night of Christmas, look
out for Pottaskefill—Pot Licker. He
joins smoking circles and scavenges
for hits from communal joints, sucking
in as many puffs as he can without be-
ing called out. We all know him—that
one friend who smokes weed then
goes down in flames with a sudden de-
16 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 18 — 2015
The New Yule
Lads Of Iceland
Tales of drunken mischief and
mayhem from the new wave
of Icelandic hip-hop
By York Underwood
Photos by Hörður Sveins