Aldrei fur eg Sudur (2006?)

Of all the places I travelled with this job, Iceland was the one I returned to over and over again. Maybe four or five times in a couple of years. There is a reason for that: Iceland is fucking brilliant.

Aldrei For Eg Sudur

Isafjordur, Docks

The name translates as ‘I Never Went South’; a typically brash double-entendre, as well as a real comment on the perceived centralisation of the Icelandic music scene two hundred miles warmer in Reykjavik. And a typically direct and pointed comment that, despite received wisdom that to ‘make it’, bands need to get on ‘the circuit’ and prostitute themselves with a series of ever-more desperate gigs in the nation’s capital, bands, artists and performers can quite happily exist and thrive without having to play games with their careers and their lives. The parallels are, of course, obvious and transcend national boundaries. 

And in the West Fjords of Iceland, an idea generated over several beers and between farting contests by the inventive and successful electro-acousti-fizzer Mugison and his harbourmaster pop to put on a festival in this tiny, ravaged and ravaging fishing town can come to fruition thanks to those most wonderful words: Why. Not. Often there are a thousand good reasons to NOT do something; not to put your neck on the line, your balls on the coals, to step outside the comfort zone; all this ensures is a static and featureless musical landscape and a slow death. Lucky then, that there are people for whom such negative thoughts from others act as a spur and a motivation; in the case of Mugison and the team of volunteers this means clearing out an old fish warehouse, whacking together a stage from old pallets and jerry-rigging up a swift bar - and, yeah, The Fly helped sweep the floor in preparation too. 

Most of the bands here are Icelandic – quite a few from Isafjordur itself, a remarkable town so steeped in music that 90% of its youngsters attend music school. Familiar names include Mugison himself, the sweet acoustica of Petur Ben, the insane, incendiary Minus and Reykjavik! – local-hearted and fuzzling, a band whose name itself is another eyebrow-raised sly-dig in itself. Restricted to twenty minutes each, with a five minute changeover, the bands perform their very best tracks with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of performance; shorn of the bullshit that often surrounds the live arena, there is a levelling of the playing field at work here and any sign of ego is jumped on with frowning disappointment. 

The over-riding sense is that this is somehow how gigs – festivals – always should be; the music is at the centre of a celebration of disparate artists that range from Isafjordur’s brass band playing Smoke On The Water to Aela, Lay Low and Ampop. Fittingly, the whole kaboodle comes to an end with an ultra-rare performance of the Icelandic legends, Ham, a band without whom The Sugarcubes themselves may never have been heard of outside the land of the hidden people. The music has ended but celebrations have only just begun. Celebrations of two words: Why. Not.

Rev. Shoo