This is the celebrated journal of Mr. Simon Collison A.K.A Colly

It’s Slow, it’s Blow, it sounds like snow

27th October 2004

Honestly, this is the last post about Iceland for now. You can look forward to some waffle about mod-rewrites and RSS in the next offering. Anyway, here - should you be interested - are four reviews I’ve written for scathing online music magazine Speakers Push The Air, plumbing the depths of music cliche to dissect performances from Slowblow, Gus Gus, Leaves and Quarashi. All photos kindly provided by Emily Dawes. Oh, and watch out for the swearing in this post, curse-fans.

SLOWBLOW (21st October, Hafnarhus, Reykjavik)

The lead singer is a film director, and someone else was in Mum. They use unusual instruments such as saws, and record their music in bathrooms. They’ve been around for ages, have banged out three albums, but in all my visits I’ve never heard of them. So, why is everyone telling me that this band are great, well-worth seeing, not to be missed, next big think to come out of Iceland?

On they come, wedged on the bill between Hood and Fourtet. It looks like a bored schoolteacher has just marched on with a naughty pupil for some kind of voyeuristic detention. Oh, hang on - there are a few more musicians. Everyone looks very calm. The crowd seem very expectant. The first strains of sound drip from the stage. Ooh, sounds lovely. This is delicate, crunching, soft, hard, contradictory elegance and brilliance all wrapped up in exemplary delivery. The girl who used to be in Mum (Kristin Anna Valtysdottir, pictured below) looks lovely in polka dots and Icelandicness. She makes use of a probable 42,478 instruments in the space of 45 minutes. Indeed, for such a slow burn orchestral sound, the band needs to be very industrious to keep the noises flowing.

I watch the band standing next to Adem, who seems to be enjoying the musical instrument rotation and sweet sounds nearly as much as he’s enjoying the fact that he doesn’t have to do any more work tonight. His band-mate Mark is in awe at Slowblow’s harmonium, and we generally spend our time applauding and saying “Wow” after each song. Things pick up even more when they play Dark Horse, a brooding slab of Icelandic introspection featuring a spine-tingling blues riff that seems almost out of character, and acts as a pivotal moment in the set.

Lets be clear. Slowblow don’t make party music. The music fits in somewhere between the textural aura of Sigur Ros and the deep, dark woe of Low. However, there’s beauty in this sound that tingles the neck hairs. It’s slow, it’s blow, it feels like snow. I really don’t want to make comparisons with the geography of their homeland - the cracking of glaciers, the burst of the geyser - reserve that stuff for Bjork. This music sounds like people. It sounds like life when humans get involved with it. I think I was in it somewhere.

On the strength of the gig, I bought the latest, beautifully packaged, eponymous album the next day. Chock-full of homemade sounds, happy accidents, and even the sound of a waste bin, it does everything I had hoped for. Here are a band that trap the transient on record, and thus seem to really enjoy the freedom of performing live. Front man Dagur Kari Petursson is probably gonna get caught up making the follow up to his hit indie film Noi Albinoi, but lets hope he gets excited about the sound of his trailer or dustbin, and gets inspired to keep making more music.

GUS GUS (23rd October, NASA, Reykjavik)

Great. It’s long since turned 3am, so Gus Gus are over an hour late. In the space of the next three hours, I need to watch the gig, get back to Hafnarfjordur, pack up my belongings, eat, change, cover my tracks and get a cab to the airport for check-in. NASA (a club, not a space station) is rammed. Maybe 72 percent of the population are in the venue. The mood is drunk, noisy and expectant. I’m itching to see the band, but fatigue crossed with many bottles of lager is starting to make me consider my options.

Oh, wait. Yes, here they are. I wonder how they line up on stage these days? A “collective” in the true sense of the word, Gus Gus have been on the scene since 1995 - a creative depository for filmmakers, artists, tunesmiths, designers, blokes who like to dress like cowboy truck drivers - it’s all there in the Gus Gus pot. Currently centred around President Bongo, Earth, Biggi Viera and the wonderfully named Buckmaster De La Cruz, the army is smaller than it’s personal best of seven, but there’s still great alchemy, and the loss of founder Daniel Agust has not dampened the output. I can just about see cowboy-dude over the amassed masses, and is that a female vocalist on his right? Hmm, clearly this is gonna have to be one of those “reel around the subject” type of reviews.

Gus Gus first came to my - and the world’s - attention in 1996 or 97, with debut album Polydistortion. They were certainly looking to impress the world primarily, but I became hooked on the subtle, textured approach to dance music, which they pursued further on follow-up This Is Normal, which featured a fine song about giving someone a “lady shave”. Stripping things down and removing vocals on Gus Gus Vs T-World, they showed their sensitive side, and even wrote a song about a mountain. To bring things up to date, latest album Attention gets all hi-octane, with tracks such as Unnecessary and David surely big enough to inspire movement in even the most solemn soul, the latter cheekily marrying supposedly out-dated synth-shapes with vividly sexy lyrics and anchored beats. It seems that regardless of line-up, Gus Gus can always turn on the style, and are always evolving.

Clearly though, they are not punctual. I manage to catch about half-an-hour of their set. They kick-off with lots of noise and colour, and a phat (sorry kids, did I just make that word uncool?) Dance You Down, with all it’s “Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-Da-da-da” beats and dense vocals. I think they are jumping around a lot, but it’s difficult to see over the head of Mr. Tallsson and Miss Lankydottir in front of me. The music segues seamlessly from song to song, with occasional unprompted applause and whooping from the pit. Mood-wise, this shit is incredible. I’m not condoning alternative methods of staying awake, kids, but a trip to the “chemist” would’ve really made sense of NASA with Gus Gus at the controls. In the absence of such methods, all one can do is admit the march of time, and make for the world’s most expensive taxi rank.

So, a review high on history and low on gig facts. I’m not bothered. If Gus Gus had managed to pull themselves away from their Lucozade and sugar drops a bit earlier, perhaps I could have stayed a while longer, or maybe managed to summon the energy to get a bit nearer the front. As it happens, I’m still unable to bend international flight schedules to my every whim, and Icelandair won yet again. The band is still great, and the gig did nothing to suppress my enjoyment of their collectivism. Like cheese they have matured well, although there may have been some discolouration. Unlike cheese, they probably taste shit in a sandwich, and make fucking brilliant, edgy, hyper music. Go see ‘em if they tour to Norwich or Pontefract or whichever pointless, non-Icelandic town you live in, but don’t fret about getting there on time. President Bongo will still be shopping for Olde English Moustache Wax whilst you’re running to the venue.

LEAVES (23rd October, Hafnarhus, Reykjavik)

Iceland’s Leaves got a bit of criticism in the UK for sounding too English around the time of their debut long player Breathe. Yes, there are sniffs of The Verve, Elbow, Radiohead and such like, but so what? I’ve never been too impressed with lazy comparisons anyway. I’ll happily spend hours reminding everyone that Keane sound like a disinterested Coldplay pumped through a flatulent arsehole, but that’s a rare exception. If they covered Sonnet or Fake Plastic Trees I’d see the reasoning, but pre-second album Leaves don’t need any handouts.

Bravely last night, they ignored their debut album completely, and opted to play entirely new stuff, showing they’ve matured into a much more experimental, dare I say progressive bunch capable of speeding stuff up, slowing it down, and really engaging a crowd with unheard material that filled Reykjavik’s vast Hafnarhus (Harbour Gallery).

Initially, I was a bit concerned at the lack of familiar indie-rock and album favourites, but song-by-song Leaves built a set of true beauty, with rolling drums and echoing synth so warm I actually took my coat off. It wasn’t perfect by any means - a little too rough around the edges with a few too many long-winded solos and the like, but generally the impression was of a band sailing into more mature waters, ditching the deflating dingy of blousy rock and heading for Amnesiac Island. I don’t really know what I mean by that, but it’s the best I can do. To be honest, if you weren’t there, I’m not obsessed with doing all the work for you.

I’ve no idea what the new album will be called, or when it??s out, but I??ll be sure to recommend it on the strength of this gig. Oh, and for those of you who might, like me, have been wondering why Leaves don’t really have any press shots, it’s probably because they look terrible. Still, who cares if they keep making this kind of noise?

QUARASHI (23rd October, NASA, Reykjavik)

In 2003 I was asked to write a one-off article for terrible Nottingham rag The Evening Post, specifically for the Claim To Fame column. Devoid of any real claims, I decided to write an in-depth exploration of the time I helped a troubled singer save his band, and also saved his relationship. That band was Quarashi, and the article was mostly true.

Fast-forward six years, and my memories of downing whisky in Reykjavik’s now-gone Cafe Frank with Hoskulder are growing feint. I’d been so impressed with Switchstance and their early tunes, that to ditch the band had seemed a terrible idea. I started a one-man alcohol-fuelled mission to convince him that there were more songs, more samples, and more opportunities for Iceland’s only rap band. Sure, they were all having all sorts of problems, but this thing seemed too good.

Thankfully, shit was sorted out, and in 2000 Xeniezes came out - a big, brash, bollocks-out breezeblock of an album that became my most copied Icelandic album ever. Anyone who heard it saw past the Beastie Boys comparisons, hearing instead a bonkers fusion of very cool samples, funny/frightening lyrics, and genuinely well-crafted songs. Mostly sung in English, and with heavy sprinklings of “Motherfokker” and references to “bombing the mic” like Hitler, this was serious stuff. Hell -there was even a song about a comfy pullover. Now that’s eclectic.

So to NASA, October 2004. The club is probably 300 percent over-capacity. I’m wedged against a table in a main thoroughfare, wishing I were into frottage. I cannot see the stage, and the guys would have to be 12 feet tall for me to see them bouncing up and down. But fucking hell, what a noise! Clearly this band still mean something to a great number of Icelanders - NASA is going off like a nail bomb. I’m still sad to see that Hoskulder is no longer in the band (he’s gone off to get a degree for some reason), although old vocal partner Steini and some new bloke keep the old flavour juiced up, or whatever Westwood would say. Man, I’m losing touch - what do the kids say these days? Opener Switchstance sounds enormous, and big old fave Stick ‘Em Up! gets a right ovation. This is big, baby, and I can’t help but pity the poor fools over at Hafnarh??s who’s ears must be bleeding at the pain induced by an hour and a half of Keane.

Right. This is turning into some sort of self-obsessed reminiscing diary entry, so I’m gonna break my fingers. Suffice to say that Quarashi still have the swagger, passion, songs and “Motherfokkers” to keep Icelandic hip-hop alive for some time yet. So long as the vocalists can avoid troubling relationships, drugs and the unnerving desire to “go off and study”, things should remain rosy for a little while longer. Fucking excellent.

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