So on Friday, in a continuation of the French Spring festival, I went to the Nouvelle Vague concert down at Hafnarhúsið (the harbor house, AKA Reykjavík Art Museum). It's a smallish venue with lots of lobby space and a well-organized ticketing process, so there was no standing around outside, no rushing the doors, or any of the usual concertgoing mania one gets when Not In Reykjavík. In fact, the only line I stood in was the line for my free beer. Although I'm sure the price was built into the ticket, it was so unexpected (FREE BOOZE! Are we still in Iceland?) that everyone started the evening off with that frisson of joy that free stuff gives you. Plus, when it's an audience of Icelanders, it does take a while to loosen them up for the clapping, the swaying, and sing-along, even when regaled with Latin American syncopation.
The crowd was Pretty People Reykjavík- lots of suits, lots of edgy and expensive glasses frames, lots of carefully styled disheveled hair on the women, and square jaws, dewy lips, and high cheekbones everywhere. Pleasant crowd-watching for sure. We situated ourselves at the perfect acoustic distance from the speakers, at a place where I could see through all the very tall people in the audience (even with heels making me about 5'11", I felt short there).
I'd only heard three songs by the group, and I don't know any of the band member's names, so like usual when I go to concerts here, I had no idea what I was in for. Adventures at every turn! Anyway, the group came out almost perfectly punctually (no opening act)- two female singers who I'll call by their dresses: sparkly and fringy, a guitarist, a bass player (the classical kind), keyboards, and percussion.
For the uninitiated, this is basically a cover band, playing songs by Blondie, Billy Idol, the Specials, the Clash, and a slew of others. They've Done Stuff to all of them, so for some people this is probably scandalous. However, when they're sung by a beguiling befringed babe with arm movements reminiscent of the illustrations of the famous 19th century singer Yvette Guilbert, it's hard to be angry.
They may have been borrowed tunes, but "Dancing with myself" done as a 30's jazz club ditty is actually pretty cool, and the two singers both had fascinating voices. Fringy had pipes like Janis Joplin crossed with a vintage singer that should have been draped across a piano, and Sparkly was husky, personal, and full of emotion. When they sang together it was another feeling altogether. They were fun to watch too, and actually looked like they were actually enjoying performing themselves (the glasses of what I am pretty sure was wine probably helped a bit too).
The rest of the group was equally entertaining. I couldn't see much of the keyboardist and his Mac thanks to Mr. Viking Banker in front of me, but the Brazilian flavors of the percussionist were catchy, and the bass player's one moment of glory was very moving. Plus, his red cowboy shirt was scorchingly awesome.
We managed to clap and stomp and "meira" our way to two encores, but the gig was up after only 2 hours, which caused another concertgoer to grumble that even concerts on Tuesdays didn't end so early. It did mean that the night was plenty young enough for a round of drinks up the hill at b5, where about half the place was carrying the bags from the CD sale table at the concert.
The other half was busy being beautiful or, in typical Reykavík fashion, watching or playing the chess game that was going on at the long table next to us. Yep, one of the style hound bars of Reykjavík, on a clear Friday evening, contains people playing games of strategy over beer. And there you have it. Friday to Saturday in our fair city.
30 April 2007
29 April 2007
the small views
In the same spirit as my post last year, I've taken some photos of how things look around me today. Now you can see the lace curtained wooden door I open every evening, the curved wooden stair rail that runs smooth beneath my hands, and the little rusty front gate with the clusters of daffodils around it.
And of course, the back yard like the dozens of them in this town, one of the great things about living in Reykjavík. It may be a capitol city but it still has the heart of a village with all the clotheslines, the barbecues and sandboxes, the garages and sheds. It's the secret Reykjavík that is never on the tours but is part of why I like it here so much. There's nothing quite like sleeping in sheets that have blown fresh in the sea air here.
And of course, the back yard like the dozens of them in this town, one of the great things about living in Reykjavík. It may be a capitol city but it still has the heart of a village with all the clotheslines, the barbecues and sandboxes, the garages and sheds. It's the secret Reykjavík that is never on the tours but is part of why I like it here so much. There's nothing quite like sleeping in sheets that have blown fresh in the sea air here.
25 April 2007
flavors of everyday
It's the scent of dish soap when mixed with the sulphur-hot smell of the water here, the keening of the wind that howls in the vent somewhere in the bathroom. It's how I know that the ferocity of the weather by the pattern of raindrops on my windows. A storm's really exciting if both kitchen and living room are spattered with wet, and the wind makes the shade pull in my bedroom clack restlessly on the pane.
It's the smell of air-dried linens and duvet, forcibly infused with Outdoor after an afternoon snapping on the line, and the green taste of a crisp hothouse cucumber grown just across the mountain pass.
It's the color of the tomatoes that squat on the folding Swiss trivet and ripen in morning sun, the taste of local potatoes roasted with plaice from the fish market near work- the one where they're impossibly jolly and pleasant, even just before closing and the store's full. It's the scratch of Icelandic wool on my arms from my lopapeysa, the color snippet of a tea towel that steams gently dry on the radiator in the kitchen. It's the red glow reflected off the sheds outside that glosses the ceilings on the north side.
Sure, Iceland's all about grand vistas for many people, but I suspect that these everydaynesses are the ones I'm going to remember again someday, triggered by ripening tomatoes, the smell of outside in the blanket fibers, or the swish of a dishcloth on yet another dirty dish.
It's the smell of air-dried linens and duvet, forcibly infused with Outdoor after an afternoon snapping on the line, and the green taste of a crisp hothouse cucumber grown just across the mountain pass.
It's the color of the tomatoes that squat on the folding Swiss trivet and ripen in morning sun, the taste of local potatoes roasted with plaice from the fish market near work- the one where they're impossibly jolly and pleasant, even just before closing and the store's full. It's the scratch of Icelandic wool on my arms from my lopapeysa, the color snippet of a tea towel that steams gently dry on the radiator in the kitchen. It's the red glow reflected off the sheds outside that glosses the ceilings on the north side.
Sure, Iceland's all about grand vistas for many people, but I suspect that these everydaynesses are the ones I'm going to remember again someday, triggered by ripening tomatoes, the smell of outside in the blanket fibers, or the swish of a dishcloth on yet another dirty dish.
24 April 2007
party time!
Over the weekend I went to my first Real Icelandic afternoon birthday party, held at the function hall of the church where I sing. One of the guys in the choir was having a stórafmæli (big birthday), the special word for those birthdays when you reach a decade mark. The event was Pure Iceland, down to the birthday boy's attire- the traditional Icelandic getup with the paired line of silver buttons marching down his vest (very dashing!).
This was an afternoon cakes'ncoffee party, with psychedelic green tablecloths, flowered napkins, and proper cups and saucers (this is genteel living, people!). For warmups, there were the traditional flatkökur wedges topped with closely overlapped slices of hangikjöt or smoked salmon. When sufficiently limber from these appetizers, there were cakes, oh so many cakes to attack, cakes looking like they were created by the family of princess and the pea fame if they had gone into the confectionery business instead of being all boring and royal. These were sturdy layers of cake interlaced with mixed fruit, gobs of whipped cream (the real stuff- no rediwhip, coolwhip, or any other sorry goo), topped with more fruit and possibly a layer of marzipan. This was eaten with a sea of coffee or appelsín for the kids. The really seasoned professionals ate the hangikjöt at the same time as the cake, intermixing the smoked flavor with the dripping sweetness.
After we were all half comatose from the sugar, there were speeches, reminiscing, and then since the choir was almost fully present, we sang a few songs. By then the champagne had been busted out, and although our tunefulness might have suffered as a result, the spirit was certainly jolly. By then it was getting on towards suppertime, so people began to rattle off the "takk fyrir mig"s and disperse into the tempestuous spring day soon after that.
Birthdays are serious stuff here- as the birthday child it's your responsibility to provide your people at work with an afternoon cake-break, and failing to do so remains fixed in their minds. I was away in Holland on my birthday last year, and some folks are still keeping tabs on my sugar-provision failure. So, my advice to all you would-be residents of Iceland- don't forget the cake!
This was an afternoon cakes'ncoffee party, with psychedelic green tablecloths, flowered napkins, and proper cups and saucers (this is genteel living, people!). For warmups, there were the traditional flatkökur wedges topped with closely overlapped slices of hangikjöt or smoked salmon. When sufficiently limber from these appetizers, there were cakes, oh so many cakes to attack, cakes looking like they were created by the family of princess and the pea fame if they had gone into the confectionery business instead of being all boring and royal. These were sturdy layers of cake interlaced with mixed fruit, gobs of whipped cream (the real stuff- no rediwhip, coolwhip, or any other sorry goo), topped with more fruit and possibly a layer of marzipan. This was eaten with a sea of coffee or appelsín for the kids. The really seasoned professionals ate the hangikjöt at the same time as the cake, intermixing the smoked flavor with the dripping sweetness.
After we were all half comatose from the sugar, there were speeches, reminiscing, and then since the choir was almost fully present, we sang a few songs. By then the champagne had been busted out, and although our tunefulness might have suffered as a result, the spirit was certainly jolly. By then it was getting on towards suppertime, so people began to rattle off the "takk fyrir mig"s and disperse into the tempestuous spring day soon after that.
Birthdays are serious stuff here- as the birthday child it's your responsibility to provide your people at work with an afternoon cake-break, and failing to do so remains fixed in their minds. I was away in Holland on my birthday last year, and some folks are still keeping tabs on my sugar-provision failure. So, my advice to all you would-be residents of Iceland- don't forget the cake!
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