27.3.2008
I Never Went South Festival - Clash Music Curated by Mugison. And his Dad.

Review Written by: Matthew Bennett
Date Posted: 25.03.2008 - 15:01
Event Date: 21.03.2008 Location: Ísafjörður

Thanks Goodness for that then. When a festival calls itself ‘I Never Went South’ the implications of northern travel are patently obvious.
Nestling under a blanket of near permanent snow amongst the northern Fjords of Iceland, This event is now in its fifth low-key year and manifests itself as a two day, free music showcase of indigenous talent curated by one of the God-Fathers of the industry – Mugison. And his Dad.

Nestling under a blanket of near permanent snow amongst the northern Fjords of Iceland, This event is now in its fifth low-key year and manifests itself as a two day, free music showcase of indigenous talent curated by one of the God-Fathers of the industry – Mugison. And his Dad.
The Bigger Picture:
Akin to the Fence Collective’s ‘Home Game’ in Fife, Scotland where a tiny village is commandeered in the name of folk music – I Never Went South is a local delight deliberately hosted both geographically and ideologically from the exhausted and beaten track of corporate sponsored brand wank fests which appear to be popping up like generic ring fenced mushrooms in increasing propensity.

Having been to South by South West the week before (an American breaking band showcase in Austin) Clash’s latest foray was very much North by North North as trains to Glasgow gave way to Planes to Reykjavik and from there a tiny plane across the volcanic sculptured wilderness to the northern most tip of this bizarre country. Landing in an isolated town just shy of the Arctic Circle called – Ísafjörður – home to an ice hardened 4,000 people it was clear that any proceedings would be an intimate and privileged insight into one of the most musical nations on earth.
The rules are simple. Mugison picks the best variety of Icelandic bands with around 35 playing over two evenings in the town’s harbour. No band can play two years in a row, there are no rehearsals nor sound check - and its fucking freezing.
What follows now is an account of a weekend of Icelandic musical adventuring with legends playing alongside teenagers and new bands borne magically through impromptu stage sharing and resultant hugs. The sounds were as varied as the landscape with traditional Indie colliding into Ghetto-Tech Tap, ironic Trance Pop, Faroese Fok, Ska, Blues and balls out Rock and Roll.
Few words can convey the warmth, individuality and distinction which is generated when partying under the Northern Lights near the Arctic Circle amongst a close community of music obsessed Viking descendants – but let’s have a little go. .


Friday Evening:
The evening after Bob Justman really got rolling when Hjaltalin, who had previously entertained the evening before in Reykjavik, (both playing in the venue Organ then inviting us back to their lead singer’s Mum’s house for a good old fashioned party) laid down their euphoric compositions. Regarded as one of the most promising acts in the country having won the Iceland Music Awards, Hjaltalin purvey melodic indie rock with a conspicuous bassoon, cello, three part brass section and usual rhythm section allowing them to alternate between full bloodied rock basslines and the soaring appeal of Sufjan Steven’s heraldic approach. Epic promise.

In a nation where personal entertainment is the key from isolated madness, Mugison’s programming of the evening possessed a lovely level of friction. Third band in Ben Frost opened up with heaving, distorted bass far left of leftfield. Clicks, pops and plunging levels of sub bass swarmed around the packed warehouse populated by walks of life from every tier of this tiny nation of only 300,000.
The population though small is welcoming and open minded to a massive degree – the crowd, heavy with middle aged mothers with many a child in tow, soaked up the disorientating instrumental sounds effortlessly. As the two guitarists duelled through experimentalism Frost manipulated his laptop warping the atmosphere to a point where Pansonic – the arch dukes of noise terror would have been well satisfied. Gut settling sounds.
Rapturously received after 20 minutes it was again clear that the Icelanders, no matter how old will listen and appreciate any creativity though no doubt helped by the fact that they are related in some vague capacity. Next up Vax were dispatched to appease the middle palette as their well meaning power pop surfed a US West Coast accessibility, reinforced with a sunny American accent, occasionally swerving into a Hammond furore capable of jolting the Inspiral Carpets back into their best pop moments.
Any music fan who has dipped a toe into the geothermal waters of Iceland’s music over the last two decades will be aware of the Sugarcubes; the band that spawned Bjork’s dominating forces. One of the true legends of the scene, drummer Sigtryggur Baldursson, has never tired of his grass roots activity, back now with a band named Steintryggur peddling an Eastern Dub fusion with live congos, bangra flavours and ephemeral basslines that sound liked like Alex Paterson on holiday in Goa.
More positive friction ensued as the calm was roundly shattered by Mordingjarnir, who rotundly delivered thrashed up punk which exploded into 1,000 pairs of ears simultaneously. Whereas some bands choose to sing in English, some mix and match and occasionally plump for an American inflection - there’s a core of acts that sing vehemently in Icelandic, harmonising their spiky rock with their terse plosives in their native tongue and Morðingjarnir lead the charge on their indigenous funk.
Next up: a spine straightening tad of hype. ‘Iceland’s answer to Aphex Twin’ was muttered throughout the crowd. Queue severe intrigue. Satisfied by the arrival of Biogen. A largely hirsute character who looked and acted like he’d fallen from the back of Hell’s Angel bike and landed in a bag of ketamine with his laptop. Fierce yet funky drill and bass, thundering techno grooves, raging static and plunging breaks whipped the crowd into a mosh. Later described by curator Mugison as his favourite act of the evening it seems this reclusive bedroom bandit has a bright future in hardened dance circles.
Skakkamanage - Reykjavíkian heroes were up next, having entertained us in the legendary Kaffibarrin the night before their perfectly angled melodic indie was the perfect sonic After Eight from Biogen. With bohemian Birky, a vulnerable female keyboardist au fait with Belle and Sebastian keeping their tight percussive structures warm, Skakkamanage pummel their crowd with sunshine vibes enlightening towards the much anticipated final trinity of Hjalmar, Megas and Mugison

The former of this triptych tickled with Ska and Reggae jaunts towards angular territories of Mick Jones from the Clash. Fun frolicking and playful Hjalmar came across like a ginger incarnation of the Specials incongruously playing their sunshine skank in one of the most freezing landscapes in the world.
After a quick reshuffle on stage Hjalmar transformed into the backing band for Megas – an absolute living legend and described as Iceland’s answer to Pete Docherty. This association however is derived from Megas’s hard drug abuse and acclaimed poetic acrobatics. Regarded locally as a genius, Megas was a high brow mathematical professor whose high strung personality led to mental collapse only to be re-appropriated through musical salvation and private hedonism. This 70 something figure, haggard and sunken in face deftly delivered an arch lesson in Bluesy, wonky Country which Johnny Cash himself would be merrily tapping his grave foot to.
Rapturously received Mugison then took to his own stage launching fast into throaty balls out Blues, a stark contrast to his electronic work but playing to his home crowd of ages eight to 80 it was only ever going to go one way.
With several stone wall classics under his belt there were tastes of his new album Mugi Boogie, self produced and self released out in mid May. Mugison has commandeered entire northern communities to help hand make his 20,000 albums, from the local geriatrics coffee morning (600 albums made) to the local young football team (1800 made) Mugison’s personality extends far past heartfelt banter as her mainlines into the national economy.
Enjoy Mugison closing Friday night's activities -

Saturday Night:
The afternoon started with a splash. One renowned local lout managed to spin his car into the harbour along with three happy hardcore doting brethren. But once they’d been fished out the music started in earnest with Halfkak whose imitative heavy rock suggests they could lose the first half of their name.
The somewhat teutonically named Vilhelm were next up forging a fine line in Calypso inflected bawd. Wonky and fun filled their double bass and congas served up a exotic tone completely incongruous to the freezing backdrop.

Rap has it’s moments in Iceland and thus Prinsinn og Rattó timed their 15 minutes of fame to local perfection protruding their heavy lyrical stand off far into the crowd which swelled significantly for the arrival of Benny Crespo's Gang – much lauded indie adventurers who had the tenacity to lug three vintage keyboards through a six hour journey through the icy northern Fjords from Reykjavik.
Mixing searing rock with eerie Portishead palpable lulls under tender female vocalisations, they raised the bar to yet another level and sent a note of promise to their future international careers.
Such a small population diametrically implies that going PLATINUM in Iceland requires less units. In fact a gold disk requires 5,000 sales and the holy grail double that at 10,000.
As such as, after local angst rockers Diagon and Tortoise-esque Sudden Weather Change moving proceedings swiftly on it was the Gold Selling Sprengjuhöllin who dominated the mid evening. Doling out anthems fast caught by the crowd it was a surprising sing along time as the majority joined the lyrical force despite these teenagers only forging their punchy pop for two years. Jaunty Libertine-esque narrative rock peppered the harbour area and sealed these youngsters future on a national level beyond doubt. A spot at Iceland Airwaves, the national festival seems assured for them.
The neighbouring island of the Faroes has perennially forged an alliance with Iceland, often borne through necessity but their musical boundaries are mellifluous too and Eivor, the stunning folk singer from this tiny North Atlantic isle showcased her vocal range with a deft flummox. Aside from acoustic pluckings she hammered out a rhythmic trance on a some crazy indigenous drum akin to a Bodrun before blazing an incredible sonic performance of pseudo tantric beatboxing. Effortlessly tremendous.
Juxtaposition was again at a premium as the over 60’s local fish factory choir arrived, adorned as if at a Mafia funeral resplendent in Sunday best only to be fronted by Otter Proppe, singer of arch surrealist electro thrash masters Doctor Spock. As living legends from the Volcanic brink go; Proppe didn’t so much take the biscuit as abduct then gang rape all the confectionary they can find.
The trademarked yellow rubber glove came out, sported too by every member of the geriatric choir, Karlakórinn Ernir, as boisterous and violent interjections and fist pummelling alternated with Proppe’s Hunter S Thompson inspired narrative growl.

The next three bands all lent careful direction to an event where all the bands contrast so much. Mysterious Martha revelled in great visual and fashion components, Múgsefjun blitzed a lewd line of accordion power pop whilst Skatar were possibly the most distinctively Icelandic act with Beserk naked chests, gold lycra pants, walls of distorted guitar and experimentalism incarnate as they riffed up a zeppelin storm simultaneously presenting a neat distillation of the irrepressible spirit of their unique nation.
Now apologies need to be made here to the next three bands. We missed you. The double edged sword of holding court in an Arctic environ means you are at the vagaries of the surroundings. This includes the cataclysmic ambience of the Northern Lights. As the sky streaked with electric green pulses the bands played on but after a 45 minute display of this fleeting phenomenon it was time to return to the harbour for the last four bands. We’ll just need to return next year to fill in those gaps.
UMTS (meaning Ultra Mega Tecno Bandið Stefan) riled the now lairy crowd into Berserker mode with their teenaged pastiche on Trance Pop.. Ripping their tops off in true Viking style they waged war on the crowd in power chords and Euro pop flavours but the place erupted.
Without skipping a beat XXX Rottweilerhundar – a rap trio purveying filthy hip hop beats took the sounds even further into the future and were one of the highlights of the entire weekend. Complex, wonky and seedy their sounds and raps tell drunken tales oof Icelandic life flipping back the folk forms which have helped sustain their wild country for so long.
The final bands, Sign and SSS’ol were populist options as the former Metal fiends are one of the most bought contemporary act, though those with faint hearts maybe should opt for a quick breath of fresh air before SSS’ol, a 90’s pop act with many national hits took the event to its official conclusion.
For anyone bored the O2 Wireless styled events where rosters are shared and everything is franchised ‘I Never Went South’ is a direct antithesis and complete remedy.
Virgins to this Volcanic isle are recommended to get there as soon as possible and enjoy their distinctive blend of hedonism and musical nuance. There are few places on earth like Iceland’s Northern Fjords and even less bands willing to rock out under their stars…

by: Matthew Bennett <<back