Iceland Airwaves Flashback - 60s Style

I braved the soggy weather Thursday night and had yet another Sixties flashback.
Last week, I was in Iceland. This week Iceland came to me at the Walker Art Center's McGuire Auditorium in the form of the musical collective known as Múm. It was a very strange affair, even by Icelandic standards. Imagine the gentlest, trippy-est flower-power band in the summer of love. This is the experience that constitutes a Múm concert. Not really songs, but vague refrains, not exactly musical parts, but groups of sounds. And lots and lots of la-la-las. I was in la-la land! At one point Örvar, the lead singer, mentioned that " ...we're really playing a quiet concert tonight... it's OK to go to sleep..." If not for the excellent percussion work by Samuli Kosminen, I might have done just that.



I've seen the opening act, Hildur Guðnadottír, play at the Airwaves in 2006 with Storsveit Nix Noltes (Bulgarian /Greek wedding band) and also with the Johann Johannsson project Evil Madness. They were better shows. The second act, Sin Fang Bous, was fronted by Sindrí Már Sigfússon whose singing at times attained a Garðar Holm quality.

Bible Story

"When the truth is found to be lies,
and all of the joy within you dies..."

A Serious Man

A Film by the Coen Brothers

Seeing this movie last week-end must have stirred up the mid-sixties incidents I've been posting about lately.

Set in a Minneapolis suburb in 1967, this film is the Coens' take of the Story of Job, as seen through through the lens of their collective childhood memories. At the center of past Coen Brothers' films has often been a cosmic joke, but this film takes a direct look at the capricious nature of the universe. Although it is quite funny at times, it is dead serious. Larry Gopnik (Michael Stuhlbarg) is an almost-tenured physics professor paralyzed into inaction by a series of events beyond his control; a rudderless vessel in a sea of destructive forces. His family, instead of being a source of pride and comfort, tear at him- an emotional fire-storm that this "man of science" is absolutely helpless to resist. Even his faith offers no solace, indeed it may be the main problem.

All of the Coen Brothers' films have great acting and this one is no exception. There are no "stars" but every role is cast and played to perfection. This movie is a break for the Coens for it is no longer an entertainment, but is really a spiritual story. Not a New Testament story of Faith and Redemption, but rather an Old Testament story of an irrational and wrathful God, and the powerlessness of man.

The Pastels

Of the many local bands that formed in my neighborhood in the mid-sixties, the only one which could be considered a "rival" of the groups I was in was The Pastels. My bands were the usual male-teen proto-punk groups, playing Louie, Louie, Wipe Out, and later, The Yardbirds and The Rolling Stones. We were geeky, erratic and raw boys. The Pastels were a quartet that sang and played folk music and were everything we were not:

Poised, disciplined, and talented girls.

We knew them well, we were involved in many of the same school activities and were competitive in our studies as well. We were more than a bit jealous of them, for they could play "gigs" we couldn't- social affairs, school programs, even parades! Their events were "civilized." We played in fraternity basements and for teen dances, where a fight could break out any minute, and illicit liquor replaced soft drinks and tea as the beverage of choice.

The final week of of our senior year, there was a "Senior Talent Day" (arranged by The Pastels of course) where several musical acts put on a show for the rest of the school. The Pastels were gracious enough (grace was another thing which we boys lacked) to invite my current band, The Hungry Freaks, to play in the show. The Pastels were on prior to us, and we were last on the bill. They had added a bassist and a snare player, and were excellent as usual. We added rap, feedback, sirens and dissonant organs to ours. For our finale we smashed guitars as some of the band members with Soviet flags overran the stage, "fighting" the other ones.

Thirty years later, we got that old band back together and played for our class reunion. We were much better behaved, and we could really play. We invited The Pastels to play, but they declined. In fact, not one of them attended.

Later I found out that years ago, in high school, there had been a rift in their group, something about boy, and they had never played again.

That was too bad. I loved that band.

Cherry Vodka

"Oh com'on, gimme a taste..."

"No! Not gonna."

Schoolyard light shone down on the playground...

We'd taken recess there only a few years ago, and now we had booze.

Cherry vodka. Tastes like cough syrup, but so much better.

What the bums drink at the library... smells like the urinal cakes...

"Izzat a cop car?"

"Nah, jus a... a... CAR!"

Dizzy, the light spinning round and round...

"Oh... oh... oh... oh... oh...."

School tomorrow, I think I'm gonna be sick...

Frida ...viva la vida

Þjóleikhusið, before the curtain

Every time that I've returned to Reykjavík, I've made it a point to see a production at Iceland's National Theatre. This time it was Frida ...viva la vida, a new play written by Bryhildur Guðónsdóttir, who also acted in the title role of Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. This was a very stylized production, with her paintings becoming a part of the set and figures from them, most notably Óxlotl, her dog (and also the Aztec dog of the underworld), and La Catrina, the Mexican goddess of death. Her life, from her disfiguring accident until her death, and her stormy relationship with Diego Rivera, is told in a grim, nightmarish fashion, almost frightening at times. Ólafur Darri Ólafsson becomes Rivera, his immense stature giving Diego an appropriate larger than life aspect. Frida's politics are also covered, Leon Trotsky even makes a memorable appearance.

That an Icelandic theatre would produce an original play about Frida shows what an influence her art and life has had worldwide. The Selma Hayek movie version was visually stronger, as would be expected from a Hollywood movie, but this production brought out the internal struggles of Frida in a more compelling way.

And, of course, if you ever have the chance to see Frida Kahlo's paintings in person, do it. They are the reason we find her more fascinating than ever, and reproductions don't do them justice.

Mondays in Iceland - Coda

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Iceland Airwaves - Recap

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Mondays in Iceland - After Party

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Iceland Airwaves Update - Day Five

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Iceland Airwaves Update - Day Four

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Iceland Airwaves Update - Day Three

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Iceland Airwaves Update - Day Two

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Iceland Airwaves Update - Day One

Go Here to read all the Iceland airwaves 2009 posts on one convenient, time-aligned, page.

Quiet Moments Before the Mælstrom

Tjörnin

The weather keeps getting better, in the upper 40's today with little wind. I went out biking, and for some reason it seemed especially tiring- until I looked at my brake and saw that one of the springs that holds the caliper open had slipped- I was pedaling with the brake on. It was somewhat easier after I fixed that! I stopped in at the Kjarvalsstaðir museum, hoping to see Kjarval's painting of Íslandsklukkan, but it was in storage (they rotate his paintings.) I've got a print of one of his paintings over my bed in my cozy little apartment:


Along the harbour is an exhibit of past and present scenes of the waterfront area, including this locomotive, the first and only train there ever has been in Iceland:



And, of course, there is the Vesturbæjarlaug pool:



I haven't had any deep conversations in the "hot pots" this trip as yet, but there have been moments, like the one Sunday with a mother and father and their ten year-old daughter. The daughter was resting her head on her father's massive chest, talking to him quietly and sweetly. She then started to croon a plaintive childrens' song- a very touching and tender scene. Monday I was in a pot with three older people when some young men from from the U.S. came in and started taking computer repair. Talk about a mood killer! They left soon enough; the ensuing quiet was most welcome. Today, (Tuesday) I was in the same pot. The sun was shining so you could bask in it while the hot water swirled all about you. Then a trio of bikini-clad teen-age girls came in. From the sound of their conversation I surmised that they were Swedish. One had a waterproof camera (normally forbidden in the pool- but who's going object to some girls snapping pictures of each other?) and I used that camera to take a picture of all three them together. The sounds of their voices were like singing as well.

Grace is real.

On the way back from the pool I saw this:



A Cadillac Taxi. Who knows whether the operator was trying to appeal to a wealthier customer, or was downsized and forced to use his personal car in a new career.

The evening found me back at 3 Frakkur, this time for Hvalkjöts piparsteik með piparsósu. I even managed to pronounce it well enough so that the waitperson could understand me.
This dish was a bit rich for my tastes, but still very good.

After dinner I walked the streets a bit. The Airwaves crowd is starting to filter in, but nothing is really going on yet. There is a "Rock 'n Bacon" breakfast show at 10:00 tomorrow morning with the Ultra Mega Technobandið Stefán - a wild group of young men (don't let their picture fool you.) Sounds delicious.

Guð Blessi Ísland

Another fine, albeit breezy day. Picked up my Airwaves wristbands, my bike, and stopped in to Þjóðleikhúsið for my Saturday night theatre ticket:



I wouldn't dare miss a production with my favorite, usually half-naked, Icelandic Actor, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson:



My next stop was this riotously chaotic bookstore:



where I had a delightful chat with Sveitakall, seen here in all his glory:



We got to talking about a certain Icelandic author and we checked the shelves, but there wasn't anything I was really interested in. "Why don't you come with me, we'll go downstairs see if there is anything there..." We went through a back door and down an elevator, then down a hall with several identical doors. He opened the last door and behind it there was a room packed with shelves of "the good stuff." First editions, mostly in Icelandic, and much more. Still, the books on the shelves were not quite what I wanted. "I've got this box," he said, "there may be something in it..."



OMG!!!

After I regained my breath, we negotiated a fair price and I left the store with my treasures. Another swim 'n soak at the neighborhood pool, then a little web cam appearance for all my fans, a few minutes at Friða Frænka and some supper. I dined in early because I had seen a poster at the Háskóla Bíó for a movie I wanted to see and I'd read about:



It is a documentary about the Kreppa and last winter's protests and also about the lives of three of the people involved: a policeman, a trucker, and a witch. Not being able to understand Icelandic, I watched the movie at a certain distance, but the humanity of those involved was clear enough. The protest scenes were very intense, reminiscent of Haskell Wexler's Medium Cool. The evocative musical soundtrack was composed by Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson

Of course, this story isn't over yet, and may not be for a long time. As an outsider, I really can't comment too much on the film. I'll leave you with a link to an Icelandic blogger's reaction: Google translate is pretty sketchy in Icelandic, but the second paragraph is clear enough:

I wept
I wept when I watched about the police against protestors
I wept when Stulli and his wife had (a) Móment when he was going to Norway
I wept when Eva Hawke was to pack down (closing her shop)

Having met Eva once, and, having followed her blog, I almost wept myself.

Guð Blessi Ísland

Mondays in Iceland - #23 - AT LAST!

Reykjavík, Harbour with Sculpture and Imagine Peace Tower

I'm back on the rock. I've got a few days to settle in before the madness begins, I did some walking about, went swimming, and ate at a wonderful little restaurant recommended by Maria's Cat (see comments.) The Plokkfiskur með rúgbrauði was to die for.



Evidently this was Bobby Fischer's favorite place to eat. I may have to go back for the Hrár Hvalur Sasimi að japönskum sið.

And last, but not least:



Don't knock it if you haven't tried it.

More to come all week long...

A Quire of Seven

Short stories can be considered the step children of Literature. Usually not the center of attention, but worthy of consideration nevertheless. This slim collection of seven Halldór Laxness stories almost seems to have spontaneously sprung into existence. This book of absurd sketches is a real curio, redeemed by Halldór's wonderful language and sharp insight into the human condition. His novels have been discussed here before, this edition was published by Iceland Review in 1974 in a lively translation by Alan Boucher; it has a minimal preface and no notes.

The stories give the sense of being parts of a larger whole, indeed, The Pigeon Banquet was incorporated into a play and A Place of Safety shares elements of The Fish Can Sing. They are all wonderful, quirky and humorous, if verging on the fantastic at times. My favorite is An Inland Fishing Trip, wherein the narrator is a befuddled bank clerk who is left at home, alone, for the first time in his married life. His plans for a fishing trip with some cronies ends in disaster, his pleas for help from the neighbor women become exercises in impotence and futility. Corda Atlantica is a satiric commentary on modern life- extremely dense with detail and references, while the other stories explore more banal realities in brilliant style. Not always the easiest read, in fact quite challenging at times, but certainly worthy of consideration of any Laxness fan. If one of his novels were a banquet, these stories would be delicious, rich chocolates.

My Laxness blog-pal Rose is also publishing her review of Quire today.



More on Halldor Laxness at Laxness in Translation

I'm Only Sleeping

Whew! My anticipation of my upcoming trip (fact-finding mission?) to Iceland has even managed to invade my dreams. I'm there already- I saw three acts last night and I even managed to suss out a bit of the arrangements! Once a sound man, always a sound man, I guess. Not too bad, this free entertainment. As far as the actual trip is concerned, things are falling into place, including a ferry ride to Viðey for a visit to the Imagine Peace Tower. Created by Yoko Ono to honor John Lennon's Imagine and World Peace, it sits an an island in the bay and is lit between Lennon's birthday and the day of his death. My dreams of Iceland seem to fit right into the mood of this song of John's:

When I'm in the middle of a dream,
I stay in bed and float up stream.
Please don't wake me,
No don't shake me,
Leave me where I am
I'm only sleeping.

One More Time.

The Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome in Minneapolis just won't let big-league baseball go. The final game was supposed to have been last Sunday, a tie in the standings meant that there would be a playoff game Tuesday. That game ended up going 12 innings, with the Minnesota Twins winning, sending them to New York for another series, and back here again for at least one more game next Week-end.

The Metrodome has always been sort of an ugly duckling as far as baseball stadiums go, built on the cheap with no frills, sporting events (and tractor pulls and dirt bike shows) used the facility intensely. It wasn't pretty, but it was the backdrop for what a whole generation of fans knew as big-league baseball.

When it was new I would ride my bike to many ball games, the team was bad and the outfield seats were only $2. Starting in '87 the team got good and has been a contender most years since then. I stopped going to games, its indoor pallor and artificial noise just wasn't fun anymore. Still, I saw some memorable baseball there- the first hit there (by Pete Rose in an exhibition game), I saw a World Series game, and most of the stars of the seventies, eighties and nineties. And, of course, the greatest player of that era- Kirby Puckett.

The team will move to an outdoor stadium next year, I'll be paying for about $100 of it through my taxes, and at least that much per game if I chose to attend.

Its kind of funny, but I remember my little league games better than any of the ones I saw in the dome. I remember the weather, the way the sun was a factor, the smell of the grass, the clouds and blue sky and just the experience of being alive in the world.

I won't miss the concrete and plastic of the Metrodome at all.

Lost Horizon

"'Slacker,'" explained Conway, "is a slang word meaning a lazy fellow, a good-for-nothing. I wasn't, of course, using it seriously."
    Chang bowed his head in thanks for the information. He took a keen interest in languages, and liked to weigh a new word philosophically. "It is significant," he said after a pause, "that the English regard slackness as a vice. We, on the other hand, should vastly prefer it to tension. Is there not to much tension in the world at present, and might it not be better if more people were slackers?"
    "I'm inclined to agree with you," Conway answered with solemn amusement.

The above quote from James Hilton's 1933 novel Lost Horizon is more than solemnly amusing to a modern reader, but it retains its meaning perfectly. The Shangri-la where Conway and his three traveling companions find themselves stranded is an idyllic place, with only the "moderate" pursuit of knowledge and understanding as the only occupational choice. The book (and the Frank Capra movie) has become a cultural touchstone, and one of the few positive utopia stories to stand the test of time. Its earnest protest against the modern world's conflicts may not be great philosophy, but it does define an ideal (although the lamas still enforce a caste system over the workers who live in the valley.) But, while ignoring some dubious class distinctions (colonialism is always present), the book remains a good yarn, with exotic action scenes (including an airplane hi-jacked during a revolution in Afghanistan!) and an open ended finish which mirrors the yearning for a paradise on earth that is present to some degree in each of us.

Mondays in Iceland - #22 in a Series

Friða Frænka, Reykjavík, 2006

A small second-hand store, stuffed to the point of inducing claustrophobia, and a wonderful place to spend an hour or two on a rainy afternoon.

I've been Polyvored

Imagine my surprise when I found this picture of my bay window:

That's my house, and my drapes, but who is that woman sitting in the Weaver's reading chair? And where did those plants and that parrot come from? Doing a little more snooping brought me to this page. I never knew there was so much activity going on downstairs at night when I was asleep.

Soon I discovered that I had been Polyvored. "Polyvore is a free, easy-to-use web-based application for mixing and matching images from anywhere on the web. It is also a vibrant community of creative and stylish people."

Never in a million years would have I that suspected my house was so trend-setting.

Research

Almost too busy to post. Between getting a new wardrobe and figuring out my photo gear, I've also been researching the various acts who will perform at the upcoming Iceland Airwaves Festival. From the ridiculous (Dr.Spock, Vicky Pollard, KAKKMADDAFAKKA, to the sublime (Fjallabræður, Olafur Arnalds, Uni) this festival has something for everyone.

And I've already fallen in love with Pascal Pinon.