48 Hours In Iceland

Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

There is a certain unease going around, my friends and I are all in
roughly the same situation, late twenties, mostly single, no kids, no
mortgage, disposable income. It is a happy situation to be sure but we
all know it must soon end and we all worry that we are not enjoying
ourselves as much as we should be.

I know others feel this because we have conversations about it in pubs,
in fact Michael and John were apparently in a pub discussing it when
they decided to do something about it, one of them, I'm not sure which,
suggested doing something stupid like going to a music festival in
Iceland.

The festival goes on for a whole week but we only go for the closing
weekend. It costs a neat three hundred quid for flights, two nights in
a hotel, and a wristband. The people going are Michael, a friend of
mine from university, John, a friend of Michael's from work, and
Graham, who is a friend of mine going all the way back to junior
school. Graham knows Michael well but we both met John for the first
time in Heathrow.

On the flight out Graham confides in me that he is slightly worried,
unlike the rest of us he is not a huge music fan, by which I mean he
likes music enough to buy the occasional CD but he mostly just takes
recommendations from others and rarely sees bands live. We have a
running joke about the festival being all Icelandic death metal which
he has taken too seriously. None of us have much idea what to expect,
Michael and John know a few more of the bands than me but I only know
one, Keane, and I don't particularly like them. Not keen on Keane, as
we say way more than is funny.

We arrive at the hotel about six in the evening where there is a mix up
with Michael and John's room. Graham and I retire to ours with a bottle
of duty free scotch to take the edge off, by the time the other two
appear the edge has been taken off all the way down to the quick. They
catch up and we head into the town.

We hit the media centre snuggled into the back of a very snugly bar.
There we forage for fliers and a very friendly man marks
recommendations and recommendations to avoid in our program with the
same magic marker. Then a restaurant where they feed us very well and
sell us the first of a lot of enormously expensive beer.

Fed and watered we head straight for the nearest music venue on our
map, we find a small room above a small bar where a gentle long haired
dude tells us he will be starting soon, he is very happy to see us
because we are the only people there. Fortunately by the time he gets
going the room has filled to sitting capacity if not standing. He plays
some acoustic folk rock and sounds not unlike David Grey except with a
less wobbly head. He is either Runar or Likn, but probably Runar.

Feeling a little too gently introduced we follow the map to Gaukeurinn
where they have a Kerrang night and Yourcodenameis:Milo are playing
later. Here we get our fix of Icelandic death metal in the form of Dr
Spock, a rough looking collection of shirtless misfits making a noise
something like the sound of barrels falling down a stairwell and
fronted by a portly red faced nutcase in a pair of marigolds who, but
for the fact that he knows when all the songs stop and start, I would
swear was the drunken trucker who gave them a lift in. They are
fantastic. Later the front man throws his gloves into the crowd but
luckily none of us catch them.

Not finding the heavy metal to his taste (go figure) Graham disappears
for a mosey around and returns shortly after the set ends reporting
that there are big queues at Nasa where we want to be later and we
decide to skip Milo and head straight there. This turns out to be a
first rate decision because we get to see Kid Koala, an quiet genius
spinning three decks and making noises a full band would have trouble
emulating. He is followed by Hjalma, Icelandic reggae which fails in
every way reggae can fail. Then Hot Chip, a UK band, five blokes lined
up at the front of the stage behind miniature keyboards, hunched
shoulders bobbing in time to the music, the little guy in the middle
half rapping half talking to the microphone. They are very good and
entirely different to anything I have heard before, this is the real
stuff, this is why I am here.

In any group of people up past their bedtimes one of them is always
close to fading out, his friends need to persuade him on because soon
he will be wide awake and they will be thinking longingly of a soft
pillow and a nice lie down. Outside we nearly falter when Graham wants
to call it a night, but after some hasty negotiation we decide to get
coffee and waffles. To this end we accost two nearby Icelandic girls
who, after some vague diplomatic posturing involving which bands each
other have seen and plan to see, show us the way. In a bar across the
square we quaff bitter coffee but get no waffles. The girls, who are
called Sunna and TheOtherOne, decide we ought to be awake enough and
drag us to the Pjooleikhuskjallarin to see Kimono who play some rather
insipid art rock. On the way there Sunna confides to John that she is
'very into Graham'.

'Oh.' He says. 'Right.'

Leaving Graham and Sunna to get on with it, TheOtherOne takes us
leftovers to an overcrowded bar where the beer is merely horrifyingly
expensive. Fifteen year old kids in tuxedos and formal dresses smoke
cigars and act wrecked, and we are introduced to a famous author who
attempts to knock me out with a hot breath of cigar smoke and alcohol
fumes and says 'I would like to apologise for the drunken state of my
countrymen.' And then, disappointed that I am still standing, moves on
to talk to TheOtherOne.

'Who was that?' I ask Michael.

'He's a famous author.'

'I know that, what's his name?'

'He did tell me, but it was something Icelandic and I've
forgotten.'

After that we hook up with Graham and Sunna again in another bar where
everything gets a bit hazy but we definitely ended up dancing. The last
thing I remember is seeing Sunna hustle Graham into a taxi, a big
predatory grin on her face and an even bigger grin on his.

Day two starts with a very difficult breakfast where I end up alone
with a bunch of despicably well looking Americans. 'Hi.' One says
cheerily. 'How you doing?'

'I'm err? ' I say, waving my hand in the air trying to interpret
through the art of mime the not so wonderful way that I am doing. 'I'm
managing.'

'Cool.' He replies. 'I'm Tod and this is Brad, Tina, and Missi.'

I say only 'Uhhhh.' For some reason I had decided that pickled fish
would make the ideal hangover cure breakfast but it does not. I go and
get more fruit juice.

The ideal hangover cure has been planned for us as part of the
festival, it is an afternoon listening to music at the Blue Lagoon, a
hot spring outside of Reykjavik. During the wait for the bus we get
chatting to a American girl called Andrea, she is a librarian rock chic
from Michigan who is there alone after her friend pulled out at the
last minute. The whole Blue Lagoon experience is ninety percent
Americans, they are brash but amusing, occasionally abusive ('I'm sorry
I don't speak Dick') but never without cause.

So this is the first thing I learn that day (apart from the thing about
the pickled fish which was pretty obvious really), hot springs are good
things. There is a short dash between the changing rooms and the water
in air just above freezing and then everything gets better. Seriously,
when my toe hit the water I had a hangover, by the time my shoulders
were submerged I did not.

We scull about for a couple of hours, see how near we can get to the
especially hot bit belching steam, sit in a sauna, have standing up
competitions (cold), get a beer from the bar (charged to your locker)
and listen to a very well wrapped up DJ while Andrea dances for our
pleasure.

Graham and I get chatting to an American who recommends Kanal that
night.

'Who's on?'

'This French guy I know, he's good but I've invited every hot chic I've
seen and the ratio should be well up.'

Back at the hotel we are so relaxed we can barely keep our eyes open
and catch forty winks before a pre-dinner drink. Andrea joins us for
this and we polish off a hefty amount of duty free, Andrea is excellent
company and at this point I don't think there is a one of us not
smitten with her, or a one of us who understands why she is hanging
around with us, four stiff ass Brits who just want to get drunk and see
rock bands. But then in retrospect, perhaps that was the
attraction.

After dinner Andrea, John, and Graham line up outside Hafnarhusioto see
Keane. Michael and I balk at the queue to see a band we don't really
like and head off to Gaukurinn for more rock. We see a band who,
looking at the program, must have been Vinyl but I remember nothing
about them, then Singapore Sling who sounded good in the program and
are but by this time we are falling asleep on our feet and have to
abandon the set halfway through to go get coffee.

When we return we meet John who has left the Keane gig and come looking
for us, the three of us brave the queue at Nasa after being informed by
the Icelander at the back of it that it will be worth it to see
Trabant, the best band in Iceland. By the time we get in both Michael
and I, reinvigorated by our coffee hit, have sworn off alcohol for the
evening but John is down two rounds so we let him buy us a rum and coke
each. And so much for that plan.

We sneak our way up to the front to listen to the band, for the half
hour duration of the set I am in agreement with the Icelander in the
queue, this is definitely, absolutely, positively the best band in the
world ever. Only after the set do I learn that they are running late
and that was The Bravery, Trabant are still to come.

When Trabant do finally hit the stage it is to the longest most
portentous intro I have ever stood through. The music is a sort of
techno rock fusion thing and the accolades are justified, all pumping
beats and a very charismatic frontman. Later the lead singer reappears
for an encore in devil horns and a peephole bra and dives into the
crowd. There is a sense that this is Icelandic music for Icelandic
people and the rest of us are not really necessary, but who
cares.

Between sets we meet Sunna again who had arranged to meet Graham here.
We tactfully do not mention that he has disappeared with another girl.
Michael finds someone he knows from the real world, there is a very
friendly but slightly lost looking American, a number of Icelandic
people, a nice German girl. Honestly, I met more top quality people at
this one gig than I normally meet in a year, I can't keep up.

The final band are GusGus, an Icelandic lot who have been going for
years under various line ups. They do a very danceable techno thing and
are fronted by a mad blond haired Viking dressed up like Kid Rock.
Halfway through the set he takes off his jacket and announces it is the
symbol of his individuality, before posing and flexing like a body
builder and the Icelandic girls in front of me dissolve into a mush of
flaying hair. I can't blame them, the man has muscles where I don't
have places, if he does it again I might just turn gay.

After the gig John, Michael, and I go off in search of a hotdog and
coffee and maybe waffles. At the hotdog stand we encounter more random
Icelanders.

'Do you know where we can go sit, have a coffee and wind down?' We ask
one girl.

'Wind down!' She spits. 'I am just getting started.' Then she explains
how she has inadvertently stolen a jacket and mobile phone and is
waiting for her friend to return them because she is too embarrassed.
'My nipples will fall off it is so cold.' She says and I don't really
understand the logistics of a procedure that will leave her jacketless
at four in the morning. But I am getting used to not understanding
things by now.

We hang around with her because a strange man has turned up and is
sniffing her hair. 'They want to drink coffee.' She informs a vaguely
terrifying Viking woman who moments ago offered to recite poetry for
our benefit but now seems reluctant.

'Coffee pah!' She spits. 'I am going to this bar with the terrible
music to drink beer.'

I swear to god, that's a direct quote.

When we finally drag ourselves away from the comings and goings at the
hotdog stand we stop off at Kanal where all the coolest people have
gone to listen to weird electronic music. We consider listening
ourselves but there is nowhere to sit and after an evening of vigorous
dance music sitting is what we really want to do. However just up the
street we pass the same little place where we saw the long haired David
Grey dude all that time ago. They are playing Paradise City very very
loud and this is too good to miss. Inside the place is packed, in a
corner a rock DJ is playing classic tracks at stun volume, in front of
him, behind him, everywhere, Icelandic kids are either dancing, trying
to shout conversations, or both.

'My God!' Shouts John. 'They're all wasted.'

When we finally get back to the hotel and discover Graham is not in his
room (the slag) it is six in the morning. John and I sit in the bar and
neck coffee in an attempt to stay up another hour till when they start
serving breakfast. It does not work and after fifteen minutes we go to
bed, music or people could have done it, but caffeine can no longer
keep us awake.

The following day is a long wind down, reunited with Graham and Andrea
again we kill the hours between check out and the flight home sitting
on the beach with a bottle of Rum to keep the chill at bay. At the
airport every single festival goer is heading home and the place is
packed. A couple of British girls we met at the Blue Lagoon give up
they're seats at the canteen and the five of us get a farewell drink
and feed before Andrea takes her flight back to the states and us to
Heathrow.

It is hard to believe we were only in Iceland for forty-eight hours, it
seems more like a week, and before we are on the plane even, it seems
like a very long time ago. I am not sure how to sum it up. I was there
for the music but I got way more than I bargained for, the atmosphere
and the people, these were the best things.

If I go back next year I will be thirty and I know it is stupid but I
do not want to be doing that sort of crap when I am thirty, I want to
settle down, get some shape to my life, commit myself to something more
important than myself. But I do want to go back. I do want to survive a
weekend long party. I do want to hear more music, meet more people, and
see more of that deceptively beautiful country. And I want coffee and
waffles because I never got them and I am convinced they can't be just
a figment of the in-flight magazine. Reykjavik is exactly the sort of
city that would do coffee and waffles at six in the morning, and it
would be good.