Reykjavík Grapevine - 05.10.2018, Page 21

21 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 18— 2018
send it in. It was a proper solo album in
that way.”
Working in this kind of isolation is
wildly uncharacteristic of 101derland,
which is known for its rotating roster
of musicians and friends creating and
chilling out side by side. Logi’s solitude
was notable, and seemed eccentric to
the others. But in the end, he empha-
sises, it was absolutely necessary. “I
had to do it that way.”
THEY LIKE ME?
“Dúfan mín,” the first single from
the album, was recorded in one such
isolated session. The song is a calm
hip-hop track that manages to walk
the line between banger and ballad,
neither hype nor cloud rap. It’s some-
what unclassifiable, genre wise, but
there’s something in its hard-to-
pinpoint sound that just works. Since
its release, “Dúfan mín” has garnered
more than one million plays on Spotify.
“I didn’t realise that it would reso-
nate with people the way it did,” says
Logi. “I’ve been trying to figure out
why the song is as popular as it is.”
He squints his eyes. It’s clear he’s not
being humble, but that he’s genuinely
confused by the attention the track has
received. “It doesn’t have a club beat
and it’s kind of chill, but it still got so
many plays. I’m always trying to figure
out, in what situation can you just blast
the song?”
It’s in these rare moments that Logi
the businessman and Logi the artist
merge. At once, he’s the music mogul,
pacing the room desperately trying to
work out the formula behind popular-
ity, and the musician, coping with a
level of attention he didn’t anticipate
surrounding an intensely personal
piece of art. Together, they grapple
with one question—why do all these
people relate to me?
LOCKER ROOM
FRIENDSHIPS
But while Logi’s album is a particu-
larly vulnerable one, Icelandic hip-
hop has been trending towards the
introspective recently. From JóiPé x
Króli rapping about anxiety, to the
emotional trap of Flóni, there’s a cloud
covering the Icelandic hip-hop scene,
and it seems to get darker with each
release. So where does Logi, the puppet
master, fit into this?
He pauses for a long time when
asked. “I don’t know. It’s also been
happening on an international level for
the last few years,” he says carefully. It’s
true—just look at Kanye West’s recent
album about his bipolar disorder, or
any of Lil Peep’s catalogue.
But for Logi, there’s something
about Iceland that’s more insidious,
something that incubates these feel-
ings to a greater degree. “In Iceland,
everybody knows someone that has
killed themselves,” he says starkly. “I
realised when I was going through
my deepest depression, people were
doing nothing about it. Nobody was
speaking about it. Every week we had a
young male kill himself and no one did
anything.”
His voice develops an uncharac-
teristic edge, like he’s finally vocalis-
ing thoughts that he’s been waiting a
lifetime to express. “People think that
Icelanders are artistic souls that are
so in touch with nature,” he says, “but
we are pretty emotionally suppressed
overall, and we are a suppressive soci-
ety in regards to boys talking about
their feelings. I feel like the vast major-
ity of Icelandic males have this sort of
locker room mentality, or locker room
friendships, where you can joke about
a lot of things but you can’t talk about
your feelings.
“Girls are programmed differently,”
he continues, his thoughts gaining
traction. “They speak about, ‘oh, my
boyfriend did this,’ to their friends.
Boys don’t say that. They’d never say,
‘oh, my girlfriend did this and it makes
me feel sad.’ It makes me feel angry. I’m
sad. I’m angry.' Boys don’t do that.” He
pauses. “It’s a core issue.”
THE LIGHT AT
THE END
But Logi is hesitant to say whether
or not he has moved past Icelan-
dic emotional suppression, or even
finally left behind the dark period that
spurned ‘Litlir svartir strákar.’ “In a
way, I have, but it isn’t something that
you depart from completely,” he says.
“I don’t really like talking about how
I feel better, because it always strikes
me that when people say they’re a lot
better, they’re not.”
His level of self-awareness about
his mental health does, though, betray
that the worst is probably behind him.
“At least I can say that I don’t have the
suicidal thoughts,” he says. “I don’t
have the depressive thoughts. I feel like
when I go to sleep, most of the time,
I am just tired and happy.” He gives a
small smile. “There is not so much
eating me on the inside anymore.”
Of course, the threat of a relapse
weighs heavy on Logi’s mind. “The
thing is, if I go into a depressive state
again, when do I realise it?” he asks. It’s
clear the question is not if he goes into
a depressive state, but when. “Then I
think, if I am feeling happy right now,
if I am up, I must go down as well,” he
continues. “Of course, you have to live
in the moment, though.”
THE NEXT BET
Logi, though, never lives completely in
the moment. At all times his eyes are
on the future, looking for the next big
thing in Icelandic music, searching for
the movement that’ll take down Icelan-
dic hip-hop, as hip-hop took down
indie so many years ago. Looking for
the next bet.
When asked about it, Logi doesn’t
answer confidently or meekly. Rather,
he speaks like he’s telling you what he
made for dinner last night. In Logi’s
mind, what he’s saying isn’t a predic-
tion or opinion, it’s just a fact. “Indie
music is not going to take over again.
It is done,” he explains. “And rap music
is not going to collapse. The market
is really saturated with rappers at the
moment and it’s probably peaked, but
it’s going to stay steady for the next few
years.”
So then what will be the next big
thing? “Female artists that produce
and write their own songs. That is just
a market that is not being catered to
at all,” Logi says. “The music women
make really resonates, and young
women want to listen to music by
young women.”
Immediately, you can see the wheels
turning in his head, thinking of which
artists he’ll work with next, collabo-
rate with next, or even just listen to.
He nods. “Yes, that will be the next big
thing.” All bets are on.
“We bet on hip-hop in
Iceland and it became big.”
Photo: Timotheé Lambrecq