Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.02.2016, Blaðsíða 45

Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.02.2016, Blaðsíða 45
FRI 13The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 2 — 2016 nity. There’s an awkward silence when I ask why. They all look at each other, as if daring one another to say something that’s unspoken. Andri finally jokes, “I guess we’re not kvlt enough.” Mannveira meet me at Bar 7 during happy hour, when beers are only 350 ISK. They’re young—newcomers, with only an EP and a few shows to their name. “We wear corpse paint,” Illugi K., their singer, tells me, “but we’re not into like crucifying people onstage.” At this, Axel F., their bassist, immediately pipes up, “Wait, can we do that?” They all start to argue, trying to top each other with more graphic and shocking ideas. I jokingly suggest they could start out by cutting themselves. Illugi plays along, “Nah, do you know how expensive ra- zors are?” I speak with Sinmara at Studio Em- issary, a primarily black metal record- ing studio run by their bassist, Stephen Lockheart. They had just gotten back from playing at a festival in New York City. “Black metal is different than a lot of other musical genres, and art in general,” guitarist Þórir G. emphasizes. He speaks softly, disaffected; it’s clear he takes this very seriously. “It needs a unified look and an enveloping feel. The aim is to be as all-encompassing as pos- sible to achieve a feeling of utter discon- nect from the mundane world.” “In black metal, musicians have high standards.” Dagur G. of Misþyrming and Naðra tells me. “Not just the songs, but the lyrical content, the image, how the members choose to appear. It’s all relat- ed. You’d never see that in death metal.” Bandmate Tómas I. from Misþyrming and Naðra nods and interjects, “Yeah, you’d never see a death metal band rent out an art gallery and spray-paint the walls with blood and cover the ground with earth and rotting meat.” He’s refer- ring to the Úlfsmessa performances—by now a staple at East Iceland metal fes- tival Eistnaflug—where a group of Ice- landic black metal bands have gotten to- gether for the past two years and staged a Black Mass. We sit in Dagur’s room, the erstwhile headquarters of a black metal record label run by the pair, Vána- gandr, which involves all of the above- mentioned bands—save for Auðn. With clean-cut hair and a button-down, Da- gur doesn’t seem like the kind of fellow who enjoys covering himself in sheep’s blood. But appearances can deceive. “There needs to be an atmosphere. There need to be theatrics,” Tómas says. Dagur nods before adding in something sarcastic, “Yeah, and death metal guys play in their normal clothes. We aim to do way more than that.” Throughout the interview, Dagur continually does this. He jokes or says something sardonic, pauses, and then in an instant becomes severe and cold as he discusses the same topic. It’s a trait I’ve noticed in every black metal musician I’ve ever met, whether in Iceland, the US or elsewhere—and I’ve met a few. They laugh and joke about some of more auda- cious elements of the music—the corpse paint, the theatrics—but then instantly turn gravely stern as they emphasise the importance of these things. It reminds me of the response given to a reporter in 2003 by legendary Norwegian black metal stalwart Gaahl. “What’s your mu- sic about?” the interviewer asks. Gaahl swirls a glass of red wine. “Satan,” he responds coldly, after a long pause. His seriousness feels instinctively humor- ous, but you know he’s not really joking. The makings of a scene The general consensus around Iceland’s black metal history is mixed—some start by trying to figure out which old Icelan- dic groups influenced Iceland’s first “proper” black metal bands, others just start there. But when I ask about old Ice- landic black metal, the majority begin by mentioning a band named Myrk, which started around 2000. Hafsteinn was a member. “[Myrk’s singer] was a really charismatic guy,” he tells me, “so what he listened to, everybody listened to. He was the black metal tastemaker back then.” During the early 2000s, the scene was small, overwhelmed by the massive death metal scene and later the hardcore scene, which was more in fashion at the time. “I remember hearing all these hor- ror stories,” Garðar J. of Sinmara says, raising his eyebrows, “like [the singer of Myrk] would go on stage and cut him- self and get all fucked up. One time he had to go to the hospital.” Stephen looks puzzled. “That’s the guy who poured salt and pepper into his wounds onstage, right?” They then debate over whether or not this really happened. Other bands spout similar rumours—the salt, the blood—but no one can give a definitive answer. The myth of Myrk just grows and grows. Sólstafír, which began in 1995, pro- duced two demos in the late 90s that could solidly be defined as black metal. There was also a band named Potenti- am, formerly named Thule, around this time. Their sound is really unique: black metal with a touch of late-90s gothic metal mixed it. “I remember listening to Potentiam a lot,” Örlygur S. from Naðra and Mannveira tells me, “but really Ice- land had this scene where people would make one demo, or maybe one album, and then just break up. Nothing last- ed.” Such was the fate for Myrk. Aside from that, people mention a few other names, but none carry the same loaded legacy. Dagur remembers Dysthymia; Sturla names Withered; Tómas credits Ámsvartnir. All of them are represented on a compilation released by former Sól- stafir drummer Gummi called ‘Fire & Ice’. “You have got to find that,” Hafste- inn says seriously. The black metal scene was pretty barren during these years in mid 2000s; bands maybe made a demo, but they rarely played live. Hafsteinn had left Myrk and was working on solo projects that would eventually become Worm- lust. This landscape didn’t change dras- tically until Svartidauði’s first release. Though they had been playing casually since 2002, Svartidauði only became se- rious around 2006, when they recorded their tape demo, ‘Temple of Deforma- tion’, and started playing live. This was incidentally the first time the Grapevine profiled Sturla and the Icelandic black metal scene, in a piece entitled “Iceland- ers Don’t Care About Satan.” “We had really chaotic live shows back then. We used to drench ourselves in blood and just go completely crazy and beat people up,” Sturla smirks, “so we were never re- ally stable.” He laughs, and emphasises the word stable. “We had like a revolv- ing door policy when it came to the line- up. We kept kicking people out.” He tells me he’s fired members for being alcohol- ics or drug addicts, among other things. One got the slip for attempting to burn down a church. Incidentally, Dagur's first show black metal show was Svartidauði. “I just took it by chance,” he tells me, “walking into the bar at age fifteen. Luckily, I didn’t get asked for ID.” Tómas smiles at this. “I remember this epidemic of metal kids sneaking into bars when there were concerts,” he says. “There was even this one night where somebody broke a monitor so a lot of bars banned metal shows.” He raises his eyebrows. “Well, they used that as an excuse, but I think it was because they had all these underage kids sneaking in, not to buy booze but to watch the show.” Every member of every band in- terviewed talks about how inspired they were by Svartidauði. In 2010, they achieved what no one expected of an Icelandic black metal band—they played a show abroad, joining the Nidrosian Black Mass in Trondheim, Norway. Getting involved in the international community got them a record deal with Terratur Possessions, and they then re- leased 'Flesh Cathedral’ in 2012. “Bands that are active today, like Mannveira and Naðra,” Dagur relays, “were all in the idea stage at that point. The release of ‘Flesh Cathedral’ changed everything in the Icelandic black metal scene. Ev- erybody realised it was possible to make a good black metal album in Iceland, even though it’s so isolated.” The explosion of a scene Today, it’s impossible to name all of the black metal projects currently going on in Iceland—that’s how many exist. Since the release of ‘Flesh Cathedral’, a whole new generation of black metal has emerged. “The scene is just really fucking lively.” Misþyrming’s Helgi R. tells me. “It’s like a golden age for us black metal-heads here.” The relics of this purported golden age are recent releases like Sinmara's ‘Aphotic Womb’, Misþyrming’s ‘Söngvar elds og óreiðu’, Wormlust’s ‘The Feral Wisdom’, Naðra’s ‘Allir Vegir Til Glötunar’ and Auðn’s self-titled debut, which have all sold out and garnered almost unanimous praise from the most credible sources. There’s been international media coverage and multiple European/US tours planned. Misþyrming in par- ticular has been prolific. The band was named the Artist-In-Residence at the Roadburn festival this year, and their album the ninth best record of 2015 by Vice’s Noisey. They also recently re- ceived a Kraumur award and a Grape- vine music award (fun fact: we made up a category just so we could award them with something). But while the black metal commu- nity is tight-knit, there are still clashes. Some bands would only agree to be in- terviewed with the assurance that other bands weren’t going to be in this piece. Others refused to be photographed to- gether. And every band shared some harsh opinions about others within the scene—off the record, of course. Auðn remain remarkably calm about such comments, when I bring them up. They seem happy in their role as the outsiders—proud to be nonconformists. “It’s been weird to experience the black metal community today to be very con- formist to the set rules of black metal and very aggressive against outside in- fluence,” Hjalti S., their singer, tells me. “It seems counterproductive.” It’s true that their sound is completely differ- ent from the Vánagandr bands: melodic instead of harsh, slow instead of furi- ous—which many see as just cause for a rift. Even so, Auðn feel no animosity, laughing as they acknowledge how bi- zarre their situation is. “I mean, if you’re on the fringe of the black metal scene in Iceland,” Hjalti says, strongly emphasiz- ing black metal and Iceland, “what does that leave you with?” No group, though, was exempt from criticism. “A lot of people are jumping on the bandwagon now. They’re just Svartidauði clones,” one musician tells me when I ask about some smaller black metal projects in Iceland. Even popular bands like Misþyrming and Svartidauði aren’t left out. “They are just mimicking that French black metal sound. It’s not original,” an unnamed black metaller says with a sigh. The French black metal sound refers to bands like Deathspell Omega, which have a rough dissonant style. He might have a point—Misþyrm- ing and Svartidauði are all about disso- nance. But Sturla scoffs when I mention this to him. “C’mon,” he tells me. “You do one discordant note and suddenly you are Deathspell Omega. Fuck that!” He puts down his beer and turns seri- ous. “Great band though.” This com- ment feels like a “Hail Mary” after curs- ing—an attempt to appease the black metal gods after a harsh word. To be fair, the comparison to Deathspell Omega is a bit of a stretch— Misþyrming and Svartidauði both have respectively unique sounds, and that’s what has gotten them where they are. Misþyrming—which literally means “abuse”—is unrelenting and wrathful. The band sucks you in so much that it is impossible to turn their album off once it gets going. Meanwhile, Svartidauði has a sophistication to their evilness. It’s polished—these guys really understand and appreciate the mechanics and nu- ances of black metal. Mannveira, then, is pure viral anger. The howls of their singer, Illugi, are despondent and haunt- ing—you won’t be able to forget them. Sinmara has a gothic grandiosity and beauty to their tunes not normally found in Icelandic black metal. Their music is intricate and well-thought-out. If young and prolific Misþyrming is the Mozart of the scene, then Sinmara is most defi- nitely Beethoven. Wormlust, though, is psychedelic—black metal you’d want to trip to. I imagine ‘The Feral Wisdom’, his last album, would be the soundtrack to that fabled acid ego death. As I sit with Hafsteinn in the church, he tells me about how he started a project once based on near-death experiences, in- spired by one he had himself. I can’t help but hear these musings in his music. “There’s a lot of diversity,” Dagur says, yet Tómas looks less than con- vinced. “Yeah, there’s a lot of diversity in sound, but if you look at the line-ups…” He trails off. Indeed, every band notes that the scene is relatively inbred—un- derstandable considering Iceland’s small population. Most point to Tómas as a prime culprit: in addition to own- ing Vánagandr, Tómas himself plays in Naðra, Misþyrming, Carpe Noctem, 0, Grafir, and Nornahetta. He then starts naming inactive bands, or ones with- out studio releases and literally loses count. Even Auðn—a band that Tómas is not associated with— jokes about his prolific attendance. Andri smirks, “It’s like who's playing guitar? Tómas? Who’s playing drums? Tómas? I thought he was on bass.” Aðalsteinn M., another member of Auðn, grins. “So if you don’t like each other, you can’t kill each other like the Norwegians, ‘cause then we are all lacking a drummer, you know?” An- dri mocks fury in response, “You killed the only black metal drummer in Ice- land!” The under- standing of a scene But why black metal? What is appealing about this harsh and—to most people— ugly music? Why dedicate years of your life to a scene that glorifies Satan and suicide? At first, every band loves getting into the nitty-gritty of why they love the genre. They get nostalgic—reminiscing about lending each other CDs in their preteen years, discovering Mayhem or Burzum, growing enamoured, and ul- timately obsessed, with the genre’s leg- ends. But when I start to ask each band deeper questions about their psyches and themselves, most brush me off with sarcasm or a joke. There is a wall. But, then, one does let me in. It’s Tómas. “I think that if you go against the prominent values of society long enough,” he tells me, “then black metal is likely to appeal to you somewhere along the way.” At this, his bandmate Örlygur nods. “Iceland is really rotten,” he says seriously. “It’s not the magical- fairy-elf-land that people want it to be. Both in terms of corruption and urban decay. Just look at the streets, they’re ruined.” They start to tell me about the hor- ror of working in slaughterhouses or the monotony of working in fish factories. “I had to do it all,” Örlygur continues. “Shoot it, hang it up, rip the wool and the whole skin off, empty the guts out. Nasty shit. It’s backbreaking.” Being so close to “It’s like who's playing guitar? Tómas? Who’s playing drums? Tómas? I thought he was on bass. So if you don’t like each other, you can’t kill each other like the Norwegians, ‘cause then we are all lacking a drummer, you know?”-Aðalsteinn, Auðn The aim is to be as all-encompassing as possible to achieve a feeling of utter dis- connect from the mundane world.” -Þórir, Sinmara
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