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Friday, October 20th, 2006:
It is chilly outside, but hot as hell everywhere else.
Patrick Watson :: Iceland |
I am in bad shape. Having only slept a few hours because of some construction next door, my eyes are covered in a spongy mass, urging the rest of my body to succumb to a few more hours in bed. Yet the crack of noon hovers above me, and the festival is in full swing. After more sightseeing around Reykjavik throughout the early afternoon, it was back to 12 Tonar for Patrick Watson's in-store performance. Patrick Watson is from Montreal, which delineates credibility from the onset, but his blend of art-rock, ethereal pop, and classical music is unlike anything else in the city. One of the many surprises of the festival, I saw Watson and his band three times. His in-store was pungently jammed and quieter than usual, yet exclusively enjoyable, as Watson displayed his gorgeous croon and post-modern classicism. There is a reason why I saw him twice more.
Icelanders have mastered the art of tactile layering. Everyone strolling Reykjavik's pristine streets was well dressed, either anachronistically or ironically, as frilly pink shirts danced above plaid corduroy jackets, delicately matched up with tight black jeans, a fluffy scarf, and wildly disorganized hair. Everyone was a hipster, and Smekkleysa, a vintage fashion shop just off the main square was the reason behind that. This store had everything, from full size Elvis replicas to a whole section for suspenders and hats. Better yet, a whole bevy of in-store performances was scheduled, including an intimate set from Montreal's Islands. However, there was much ado before Islands, as locals Skakkamanage opened up with a strong set of low-key, windy alternative country featuring two keyboardists and a harmonica. Singing in English but explaining the mess in Icelandic, Skakkamanage have achieved reasonable acclaim in Iceland, as their generous helping of Wilco mixed with the downtrodden helplessness of Sparklehorse has demonstrated. Worth seeking out.
Islands :: Iceland |
Minus Patrice Agrebiou – the sextet's Princely bass player - Islands took to the tiny makeshift stage and crafted five acoustic tracks including "Volcanoes," the magnificent new song "The Arm" and "Don't Call Me Whitney, Bobbie." Buttressed by two violins – because the keyboard they borrowed did not work – Nick Diamonds and company elegantly showcased why they are one of Canada's best current exports, from meandering time signatures to booming vocal harmonies. A paradoxical exercise in restraint alongside a proverbial loosening of the musical bowels, Islands' set provided another cogent thematic twist and turn overriding the festival. Once again, uniqueness was defined; a band with two violins and a bass clarinet performing acoustic music in a vintage shop in downtown Reykjavik. Pure bliss.
A few hours and then back to the Art Museum for Islands' headlining set. Adorned in painters' whites, the band emerged to a full house and blasted through another forty-five minutes of art rock bliss, this time adding the nine-minute magnum opus "Swans" and the brilliant "Rough Gem" to the mix. Every elaborate chord progression was delicate, succinct, and danceable. In addition, the band transformed the dull Art Gallery storage facility into an electrifying environment as expansive as the glaciers surrounding Reykjavik, and hints that the Northern Lights were dancing outside enraptured the capacity crowd in collective aural orgasm. It was near perfect. Actually, the perfection occurred about twenty minutes later.
Eberg at Gaukurinn :: Iceland |
Right after Islands, I saw the Northern Lights. Apparently quite common in Iceland in the winter months, the green and yellow hues surfacing and protracting in disjointed unison were in full force. I trudged up the largest hill in the city and directed my gaze skywards. While I was only on the hill for fifteen minutes – Wolf Parade was starting shortly – time stopped in the presence of the Northern Lights; it abruptly halted. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. Absolutely gorgeous.
Wolf Parade was packed. With fire codes being broken like beer bottles on concrete, I snaked my way to the middle of the stage in the Guakkurinn, the one venue that seemed to be overfilled with show-goers the entire weekend, to wait for Wolf Parade. Then the exodus began - hoards of inebriated, excitable folks bolted for the stage, leaving me with a considerable charley horse, no room to breathe, and nudged between a giant and a load-bearing post. Wolf Parade could have been playing in Akureyi, the northernmost town in Iceland, and it would have felt identical. I ducked outside and headed back to the Art Museum for The Go! Team.
Before The Go! Team was Jakobinarina, a youthful punk band lauded by Rolling Stone as the hit of last year's Airwaves. No more than seventeen and nursed on the blood of The Ramones, the lads were fierce, loud, and heavy, exhibiting Iceland's burgeoning punk rock scene. Who knows, a few more years and a few more beers, and Iceland may have the mainstream's next version of Alexis on Fire.
Now, imagine harking back to the days of recess, a ragtag time enjoying life through the lenses of all things unimportant, including who would assume the role of captain in Nerf football to which couple made it to second base behind the big tree. Therein lies the thematic ingenuity of Bristol's Go! Team, a veritable recollection of musical recess via schoolyard hip-hop, cathartic pop, and lots of dancing. Coagulating heaps of energy through hits "Ladyflash" and "Huddle Formation," The Go! Team led the capacity crowd in a proverbial game of Spud, where everyone in the room threw their hands high when the melody was elevated. Unabashedly fun and juvenile, The Go! Team left Iceland smiling because everyone adores recess. Two more days left.
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