Chapter 24 of Search For a Dancer, a memoir of a week spent in Iceland in November 2022
It was nearly midnight by the time I left the cabaret. Seeing all that exposed flesh in the burlesque acts had made me hungry.
Is any food more Freudian than a hotdog? Available 24/7 at the Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur stand, right on the way to the art museum. Even at midnight you’ll have to wait in line:
After partaking of this toothsome comestible, I went into the art gallery venue. A Turkish delight was to be had there in the folk-rock stylings of Altin Gün:
Rocked-up traditional Turkish tunes, with a great singer and a killer electric bouzouki player. The real deal, albeit in a strange pearls-before-swine situation; a jaded crowd in an Icelandic music festival might not be the best venue for them; a wedding dance scenario would be perfect. You can catch their whole act here (at a different festival):
Keeping with the food metaphors, I went back to Gamla Bíó for some tasty HAM:
Salty veterans of the Icelandic music scene, going back to the 70s: meaty, beaty, big and bouncy. They are older but still untamed, with the scary Óttarr Proppé growling out the vocals:
Looking down from the balcony, the churning crowd reminded me of Brownian motion of germs under a microscope. With the threat of Covid still lurking around, I was wary of joining the throng in the mosh pit, although I did stay to the end (in the balcony). After getting back to the apartment I unwound a while with a glass of red and the last of my harðfiskur. It was after 2 a.m. by the time I got to sleep.
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