Reykjavík Grapevine - 07.04.2017, Síða 23

POW! BAM!
In the late 1990s and early 2000s, a
group of Icelandic artists came out of
the woodwork and took over. You’ve
probably heard of them. In fact, they
might even be the reason you’re in Ice-
land. Sigur rós, múm, Ólöf Arnalds,
sóley—these bands achieved interna-
tional success, captivating audiences
with their imagination and eccentric-
ity. They popularised, or perhaps even
created, the reputation of Iceland as
a land of unbridled creativity—com-
plete with waterfalls and knitted
sweaters.
This music was placed under the
umbrella term of “krútt,” the diction-
ary definition of which is “cute, ador-
able, cuddly, or attractively childlike.”
Yes, calling music “cute” sounds de-
risive—and this label was considered
so, at least at first—but it became
the genre’s name nonetheless. Krútt
music is soft, emotional, and on the
surface, naïve—but with an eyebrow
raised. It’s tonally advanced and es-
capist in nature, but also self-aware;
a beautiful world created knowingly,
and a counterculture that replaced the
antagonism of punk with walks in the
woods.
Krútt’s influence on Icelandic
music cannot be overstated, and the
waves of it are still rolling. Take Retro
Stefson or Of Monsters and Men—
you can’t deny that there’s something
krútt about them. Even more recently,
look at Daði Freyr, Iceland’s runner-up
for this years Eurovision. While wear-
ing a chunky sweater, he plays a keytar
and sings about love. What a krútt.
But if krútt is, as Icelandic mu-
sic historian Dr. Gunni described it,
“comfy and most of all testosterone-
free,” then it follows that hip-hop
would be the anti-krútt. Masculine,
sexual, and aggressive, hip-hop, even
in its most low-key form, would never
be called comfy (unless it’s the dazed-
out-too-much-benzos-style rap that’s
currently popular, but even that defi-
nitely isn’t naïve).
Hip-hop is currently dominating
the Icelandic scene. Amongst teens
and twenty-somethings, rap is the
most popular domestically made mu-
sic. It’s a common joke that every teen-
age boy is a rapper—a funny-because-
it’s-true situation. And Icelandic
rappers don’t rap about krútt things,
they rap about rap things: partying,
hanging out, drugs, love, sex, political
anger, violence, whatever, just in Ice-
landic. They don’t wear wool sweaters,
or if they do, it’s referential. If elves
are mentioned, it’s probably about do-
ing ketamine with them (like in the
Shades of Reykjavík lyric). They don’t
disavow the idealistic view of Ice-
land, but they rather, uh, mould it into
something... rappy.
No other movements have captured
Iceland better than these two in the
last 20 years, so we talked to three peo-
ple from each, to get their thoughts on
each other. For rap: Gísli Pálmi, Alvia
Islandia, and Vigdís Howser, formerly
of Reykjavíkurdætur. On the krútt
team: Kristín Anna, one of the found-
ing members of múm; sóley; and Árni
Vilhjalmsson, formerly of FM Belfast.
THE FIGHTERS CLINCH
All three rappers appreciated the style
and intensity of krútt music, but said
they don’t listen to it casually. This
seems reasonable—you probably
aren’t going to bump “Von” by Sigur
rós while you run to the supermar-
ket. Sóley attributed this to medium:
krútt music is meant to be consumed
as an album, and as an activity itself.
It therefore feels jarring and melodra-
matic to pull out a small segment as
accompaniment to something mun-
dane.
Krútt artists appreciated the op-
posite. Sóley liked the DIY process of
rappers, releasing one song at a time
rather than a whole album. It makes
it easier, she said, for anyone who
wants to make rap to just start doing
it, which she encourages. Krútt artists
also saw an emotional intensity and
sincerity in Icelandic Hip-Hop that
none of the rappers mentioned. They
liked that Emmsjé Gauti and Aron
Can were writing love songs. Árni ap-
preciated Gísli Pálmi’s “realness,” and
Kristín Anna said the same of Reykja-
víkurdætur.
“THE SINCERE
GENERATION”
Árni went even further, calling this
hip-hop generation “the sincere gen-
eration.” It’s a pretty unusual word to
hear next to rap. C’mon, does Future
really have his baby mama and his side
chick kissing? It seems doubtful. That
said, hip-hop does have a legacy of
emotional honesty, between the shoot-
ings and hoes. Put that into a small
community like Reykjavík, add social
media, and you’re left with enforced
sincerity. In a city of 120,000, you can’t
come out with a rap song about how
you do a shit-tonne of drugs and party
all the time if you don’t. Everyone will
know, and no one likes a liar. (The ex-
ception is rapping about money. There
is no big money in rap here but every-
one pretends they have stacks of it. It’s
a socially acceptable delusion.)
Krútt music didn’t have this issue
because it explored different topics.
The music didn’t require grandiosity
and self-promotion, which rap does.
Social media was less all-encompass-
ing, as Kristín Anna discussed. Be-
fore social media, there was no need
to condense your whole project into
140-character thoughts and funny
videos. No one made a larger-than-life
persona to sell themselves. There was
no medium, so there was no need. But
if you want to get any attention in rap,
a persona is required.
But social media and the social
grapevine (not the Reykjavík Grape-
vine, just the “heard it through the
grapevine” grapevine) enforce this in
a way krútt didn’t have to deal with.
Consider this abroad example: If Emi-
nem came out with a song adamantly
against domestic violence, people
might side-eye a little bit. It is, as
Kristín said, a different world, and it’s
pretty interesting that with their older
worldview, krútt artists saw a sincer-
ity in Icelandic rap that no rappers
did. Sóley raved about the message of
GKR’s “Morgunmatur.” “He’s like, I’m
just doing what I want, I’m rapping
about breakfast and I don’t care what
anyone thinks!” she laughed. “It’s just
fearless—completely don’t-give-a-
fuck fearless. I love it.”
In the end, the krútt kids admired
the attitude and confidence of the
hip-hop acts, and the rappers admired
krútt’s production values and creative
ambition. So ultimately, despite their
differences, the two groups shared a
mutual admiration—and doesn’t that
seem pretty krútt?
What do you think of
Icelandic hip-hop?
Actually, I dreamt about Gísli Pálmi the
other day. Ragnar Kjartansson was sit-
ting with him trying to teach him an
open G chord on guitar—an older wise
man teaching a young one, “This could
one day be of use to you.” Gísli Pálmi is
all humble and sweet but he doesn’t really
care about the chord, and I’m telling him:
“I totally understand you. I was like this
when I was younger. I didn’t want any out-
side influences." At that time, I thought
it would stain my authenticity, but I’ve
outgrown that now. I’ll go see hip-hop
here live ‘cause I like dancing to it. When
I saw Reykjavíkurdætur, I could hear ev-
erything they were saying and I cried
from laughter. If I had seen anything like
that from girls when I was young, I nev-
er would have been such a wimp maybe.
But I saw the 101 Boys the other day at
an art piece and they were just like play-
ing video games there, but snacking and
stuff. It was authentic. Maybe that’s what
I was telling Gísli Pálmi in the dream. I
think he probably doesn’t care about the
acoustic guitar very much, but like... em-
brace your surroundings. Embrace your
complexity. If you’re going to play a role,
make sure it won’t kill you. Make the role
yours, live it. I woke up from the dream
really caring about him. But really, in my
dream, he is me.
How has music changed
since Krútt?
When I was performing fifteen years ago,
I never saw videos of my performances.
The self-consciousness is just on a dif-
ferent level nowadays, so for this gen-
eration it’s very easy to put on a charac-
ter, to be like, “This is my performance
character.” It gives you freedom. But for
múm, we were making our own separate
world. Like, let’s go to this lighthouse to-
gether with no phone signal and we can
live there and be in this space together
making music with anyone. I mean, even
making online profiles for your music, we
never did that, so there were no conscious
games. Alvia is a different generation.
She’s got the power of knowing who she is
and who Alvia is, and her personality and
how she performs, and it’s kind of related
to making online profiles where you have
to edit and curate yourself. It’s changed
everything.
23The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 05 — 2017
“I DREAMT ABOUT
GÍSLI PÁLMI THE
OTHER DAY.”
Kristín A
nna
Genre: Krútt
Claim to krútt fame: Former member of
múm and solo musician (she’s playing at
Mengi on April 14th).
FINAL
ROUND
THE GREATEST FIGHT IN HISTORY
GET YOUR COURTSIDE SEAT!