Iceland review - 2002, Page 24

22 ICELAND REVIEW
insists an onlooker named Hjalti. The duo is performing beneath a canopy extending
from their Winnebago.
“Bragi is 79 and he forgets nothing,” says Hjalti. “When he has an accordion in his
hands, he knows everything.” Judging by the size of the crowd gathered around the
Winnebago, Hjalti speaks the truth.
One fan hanging around the campsite is Ragnar, a 72-year-old Icelander who lives in
Spain. This former sea navigator, and organ player, has come here to visit family and
enjoy the festival.
“When I hear this music, I know that I am home,” he says, looking so tan it’s obvious
he no longer lives in Iceland. Ragnar sways to the music as he talks. Between sentences
he hums. “I’m 72 in October and I haven’t been to a pharmacy once. The music keeps
me young. I still have ten more years to go!”
While accordion music keeps Ragnar young, many of the fans I speak to cough and
wheeze while they talk to me about their love for this music. Let’s face it, these campers
haven’t got long to go before they’re camping out in that great accordion festival in
the sky. Is there anyone here to carry on this Icelandic tradition of accordion music?
One man’s museum
I’m standing in what was once the town hospital. The building is currently being trans-
formed into Ísafjördur’s new museum and records hall, but at the moment the half-ren-
ovated insides are currently housing 64 different types of accordions, all but two
belonging to one man: the president of the West Fjords Accordion Club, Ásgeir
Sigurdsson.
Ásgeir might just be the man to pass the torch to the younger generation. Tonight
he’s dressed, like all members of his local club, in a cream button-down shirt and pur-
ple vest. A purple bow tie completes the outfit. The one-time chairman of the Icelandic
Accordion Association races back and forth answering questions about his collection,
while guests throw back complimentary shots of Icelandic brennivín. I try to speak with
Ásgeir, but he’s busy sponging up the attention. His daughter, Sigrídur Ásgeirsdóttir, is
left behind to field my questions.
My friend and I are
tagging along with the
filmmaker and his crew
of one, bearing
witness to this odd
festival that has all
the cheese of a Las
Vegas convention.
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