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