Reykjavík Grapevine - okt. 2019, Side 21

characteristic jocularity replaced by
a solemn tone. “As a result, I saw the
only solution being putting an end to
my own life. Thankfully it didn’t work.”
The attempt was a wake-up call for
the musician. “It made me realise that
I had a deep unsolved problem. I had
undiagnosed depression and anxiety
that I never fucking bothered to check
up on,” he explains. “But the night it
happened, I met up with all of these
guys and we had a conversation about
it. I said, ‘Hey, I just tried to kill myself,’
and they were so supportive.”
The rest of the group nods. Each
remaining silent, allowing Finnbogi
to continue. “These people that I had
then started this band with, they
were so kind and understanding and
I really think that if they hadn’t been
there, who knows what could have
happened?”
“We share a common ground with
this stuff, and it’s really important
to us to discuss it; that’s what makes
this a healthier band. We write about
that,” he explains. “The deep emotional
torture of having a cell in your head
that you can’t get out of.”
Using the
platform
“It’s sad to say, but a lot of us have lost
too many friends [to suicide],” Gunnar
reveals. “We lost a very good friend
of ours recently and we were playing
while her funeral was happening. I
cried on stage. But that’s why we do it.
This is our message. We are an homage
to our fallen friends. Une Misère is
a safe space, we want to help and we
push this message. People can come up
and talk to us if they need to.”
At this, Fannar’s face falls, perhaps
remembering the memory of play-
ing during a friend’s funeral. But Une
Misère’s message, that of tolerance and
acceptance, reaches people, Fannar
emphasises. “You’ll play festivals to
10,000 people or club shows to 100 and
if you can reach one fucking person in
an entire room that either connects,
understands, or sympathises with the
things you are saying, it’s worth it.”
“One kid came up to us at a meet
and greet,” Fannar recalls, his expres-
sion betraying the deep meaning
behind the anecdote. “We thought no
one would show up. But this one kid
shows up and he just said, ‘Everything
you guys said, I was so happy to hear it.
None of my friends understand what
I feel.’ He talked to us and that meant
the fucking world to us. We actually did
something.”
Gunnar nods. “At the end of the day,
that’s why we do what we do,” he says.
It’s clear that none of what they are
saying is just lip service for a magazine
article. This is who Une Misère is.
“We want to reach out to these kids.
I would drop everything to talk to some
random kid who isn’t feeling good,”
Gunnar continues “It’s such a big taboo
subject and it pisses the fuck out of
me.”
“See, we might not have a big plat-
form but we do have a platform. We get
to play in front of thousands of people
and not using that time to reach out
to people who aren’t feeling good...”
he pauses, clearly emotional about
the gravity of mental health. “Well, I
wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”
“Our mantra is ‘No Wound Too
Deep,’” Gunnar says simply. The four
words adorn the banner that hangs
behind them during shows. “And we
take it very seriously. If anyone wants
to come talk to us about anything, ever,
at any time; Don’t hesitate.”
The pinnacle
of misery
‘Sermon’ exemplifies Une Misère’s
‘No Wound Too Deep’ philosophy.
The highly-anticipated album, which
the band describes as an undefinable
mashup of different types of hardcore
and metal, will be, as they emphasis,
the pinnacle of Une Misère. “If you look
into the meaning of the word,” Finn-
bogi explains, “A sermon isn’t always
religious. It can be a celebration, and
we are a celebration of misery and
devastation.”
The titular track and first single is
an unrelenting, heavy, sludgey anthem
that seems made to mosh along to at
a festival. It’s a fight song. “Lyrically,
‘Sermon’ is about going to the end
of the world to destroy yourself,” Jón
explains.
But thematically, this album will
dive much deeper, expanding Une
Misère’s ethos that it’s ok to not be ok
into a wholly realised ideology—a true
sermon about sobriety, veganism, and,
of course, mental illness.
“Surrendering. Being able to surren-
der yourself to your emotions,” Fannar
says, when asked for his final thoughts
on the album. “That it’s human to feel
bad and you should embrace it. You’re
attending a sermon of realising it’s ok
to feel like shit. It’s poetic in a way. And
it goes back to the name of the band.”
He smiles. “It’s a fucking misery.”
21 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 15— 2019
“Our mantra
is ‘No Wound
Too Deep,’
and we
take it very
seriously.”