Reykjavík Grapevine - des. 2021, Blaðsíða 9

9 The Reykjavík Grapevine
Issue 12— 2021
take a picture of Jón Arnar next to the slot
machines, because he used to play them
here,” Kalli explains, adding that this is not
a go-to bar for any of the band members.
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We gear up and leave for the next waypoint,
PÜNK Restaurant. As the weather seeps into
my bones, I clench my teeth to fight the cold.
The few minutes’ walk feels like an eternity,
but the guys in leather jackets don’t seem to
mind.
PÜNK was Sölvi’s choice, and as Kári
points out, he fits there “like a fist in one’s
eye”. The place has a tiki bar type of ambi-
ance, and Sölvi—wearing a Hawaiian t-shirt
and sunglasses straight out of Miami Vice—
blends in like a chameleon. However, the
sleeveless Metallica top underneath breaks
the image a bit.
We sit down on the corner table and order
ourselves another round of beer. The conver-
sation revolves around the development of
the band from its early years to present day.
“When Gulli and I started Skrattar we
were both inspired by a band called Suicide,
and especially their gigs. Their performances
were always versatile, the songs were never
the same. We wanted to bring that freestyle
vibe to our own shows,” Kalli says.
He claims that in the early days they were
a bit wilder on stage, but that somehow
changed when Sölvi joined the band. “He was
baffled by the fact that I wasn’t singing the
lyrics as I was supposed to,” Kalli laughs.
According to Sölvi, the thing that he
brought to the band was a change of energy
at their gigs. “I had been involved in the local
metal scene and saw how those bands were
able to pull this primal energy out of the
crowd. I think that was something I brought
to the table when I joined Skrattar,” he recalls.
The others do not object to his assess-
ment. Even though the band feel like they
have always been able to create a certain
atmosphere at their concerts, that has risen
to another level during recent years. Their
provocative stage presence has drawn atten-
tion, making Skrattar renowned throughout
Iceland.
“I remember a gig we had on July 17th.
There was a festival going on that same day,
but we weren’t a part of it. However, most of
the people listening to our music were going
to be at the festival, and we were anxious
that nobody would attend our concert,” Kalli
says, describing the day everyone realised
they were on to something. “When we went
on stage, the venue was full of people. After
that night, I thought we really have some-
thing great going on here.”
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The guys have yet again polished off their
beers before I manage to finish mine. Sölvi
jokes that his anxiety is taking over because
he isn’t drunk enough for this interview. I
offer him the remains of my beer, which he
gladly tosses back. However, Kalli seems to
have a better solution to Sölvi’s problem:
“Let’s do shots and get blackout wasted!”
This conversation is, of course, part of
their endless banter—but as they say, noth-
ing is that much of a joke that it isn’t at least
half true.
We approach the bar and Kalli orders
Fernet-Brancas for everyone. After swigging
the bitter, brown liquid down my throat, I
can’t help but let out a grinning “Oj ma!ur!”
I’ve told the guys the only word I know in
Icelandic is “kúkalabbi”, so Sölvi gets excited
when he hears this idiom coming out of my
mouth. “I’ve always said that everyone starts
speaking languages when they get drunk!” he
cheers.
After downing the shots, it’s time to move
on. As we are waiting for Sölvi to join us, the
rest of the boys pull out their cigarettes—a
habit that repeats each time we step outside.
Kári kindly asks if I want one as well, but after
seeing that there’s only one smoke left in the
carton, I decline. I tell him I don’t want to
be that annoying party-smoker who steals
everyone’s last cigarettes. Without saying
anything, he pulls out another carton from
his jacket pocket and urges me to take one.
Now, I don’t know about the state of rock ‘n’
roll, but at least we can say that chivalry isn’t
dead.
As we are walking towards the next stop,
Spánski Barinn, I notice to my delight that
it isn’t that cold anymore. Or who knows,
maybe it’s the alcohol running through my
veins at this point. Either way, it’s a nice
surprise.
At Spánski we are greeted by Agustin, the
sweetest bartender in the city. He speaks
Icelandic with occasional Spanish sentences
replenishing his speech. In addition to beer,
he brings a bowl of seasoned nuts to the table.
I understand why Skrattar like to hang out
here, even though the bar is almost empty on
this particular Wednesday night.

It’s obvious that the true essence of these
guys won’t be revealed by a plain old inter-
view at a cafe. I want to peek into the real-
ity of Skrattar, so we arrange a pub crawl
around their favorite bars in Reykjavík. We
set a date for a Wednesday night, which
I thought—combined with the tightened
pandemic restrictions—was going to be a bit
of a bummer. Bars can’t stay open late, and
the boys would probably want to take it easy
in the middle of the week. However, it turns
out I could not have been more wrong.
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We start our journey from Kringlukráin, a
restaurant located inside Kringlan shopping
center. An odd choice, given the fact that it’s
located quite far away from the city center,
where the rest of the crawl will concentrate.
I’m led to a round table in the back, with no
sight of Skrattar just yet. I sit down, order
myself a beer and wait for them to arrive.
As the waiter brings me a glass of jólab-
jór, Skrattar arrive. I notice that even though
it is cold outside, these guys are all wearing
leather jackets. Maybe they truly are the last
hope of rock ‘n’ roll.
The band consists of five members: lead
singers Karl ‘Kalli’ Torsten Ställborn and
Sölvi Magnússon, guitarist Gu!laugur ‘Gulli’
Hör!dal, bassist Kári Gu!mundsson and
drummer Jón Arnar Kristjánsson. Unfortu-
nately, Jón Arnar, who works as a sailor, was
sent out to sea and was thus unable to join
us. Be that as it may, the remaining band
members slammed a framed picture of him
on the table in front of me before taking a
seat themselves. “It seems like he has died
at sea and we’re commemorating him by
bringing his picture here, but really we just
thought he should be with us somehow,” the
guys laugh.
And this is surely not the last laugh of
the night. These characters are all about the
banter, and they say that’s also the aim of their
music. “If making music stops being fun,
the outcome of the product won’t be good,”
Kalli explains, while the other members nod
in approval. “There’s a lot of humour in our
music. Actually, I would say that most of our
songs have started with something that we
have all found funny,” Sölvi adds.
Even though Skrattar emphasise the
role of humour, the band have cultivated a
mischievous image of themselves through
social and print media. Leather jackets, ciga-
rettes, bare skin and beer are very much the
aesthetic. When asked if this really describes
how they are as people, the response I get is a
jaded laugh from the whole group.
“We didn’t create this image, other people
did. We’re just normal guys, but the media
is making people believe that we actually are
the devil,” Kalli says, gulping his beer. Sölvi
agrees and reveals the craziest comparison
they have heard of the band. “Somebody
described us as the offspring of fentanyl and
heroin. And they meant that as a compli-
ment!” he says, shaking his head.
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However, Skrattar concur with the claim that
they’re the last hope of rock ‘n’ roll in this
country. They think that these days Icelan-
dic music is heavily concentrated on hip
hop and techno. “There are, of course, indie
rock bands and all that. But they don’t play
the type of rock that we are known for,” Sölvi
explains.
Although the group agrees with the above,
they still don’t want to label themselves as
a pure rock band. Skrattar used to refer to
their music as “cigarette rock”, but they
don't really stand by that anymore. The band
members listen to everything from ABBA to
deep death metal, and that comes through in
their productions.
Kári goes on to describe how these differ-
ent genres take a new shape in their music.
“For example, you could say that the tone
of it is punk-ish, but the ‘I don’t give a fuck’
attitude typical of punk music is much more
mellow in our songs,” he explains. Gulli nods
and clarifies that they are not even trying to
make rock music, to which Kári adds that
even though they’re using rock instruments,
they’re adding electronics and attitude.
Because of all these genres mingling in
Skrattar’s music, they have ironically shifted
their description of it from “cigarette rock”
to “cigarette pop”. “We’d like to make it clear
that we are actually a pop group nowadays,”
Kalli says jokingly. So, does the future of
Icelandic rock ‘n’ roll lie in the hands of a pop
band?
By this time, the guys have finished their
beverages. My glass is left containing a few
sips of beer, but I decide to leave it as is—a
decision that truly shocks Sölvi, as he will
reveal to me later that night. We head out and
hop in a taxi that takes us from Kringlan to
the next bar, Mónakó.
Now, those of you who think that this
bar—judging by its name—is an elaborate
casino in the heart of Reykjavík, I’m here to
tell you that this image is far away from the
ugly truth. This is a place where lost souls
go. As we step inside the bar, we are hit by a
pungent smell of cigarettes. At first I think
that it’s coming from a smoking area inside
the pub, but as we head upstairs we walk past
the source. A man hiding in the staircase is
inhaling every last bit of his cigarette. Ironi-
cally enough, he is sitting right next to a sign
that clearly states “No Smoking Inside”.
Luckily, we don’t stay here for long; appar-
ently this place was included on the list of
bars to visit as a prank. “We just wanted to