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ROCKIN' OUT IN THE WESTFJORDS

An unusual annual music festival takes place on the edge of the Arctic Circle. Paul Sullivan heads to Isafjordur to check out this big chill, full of gyrating sailors, cheap beer and techno-pop gurus ...

Special to MORE INTELLIGENT LIFE

I meet Alexei In a fish-storage warehouse on the edge of the Arctic Circle, where the sun hardly shines for nearly half the year. Bearded and action-man-esque in a furry hat with ear flaps, he is sipping a Viking beer and swaying jauntily to some Klezmer.

We are at Aldrei for eg sudur, a music festival that takes place every Easter weekend in the remote Icelandic town of Isafjordur--the kind of Lilliputian locale that makes the word “population” sound like an ambition. Just outside the warehouse are dancing snowflakes, near-minus temperatures and huddles of shivering smokers.

After Klezmer Kaos, the festival's opening band, ends its set, Alexei swigs his beer, grins and tells me he is camping.

“You’re what?”

“I dug a hole,” he shrugs. He pats his gloves, which dangle from his belt like dead mammals. “It’s only minus six or seven or something during the night. It’s when it gets to minus-15 degrees that you start having problems. Did I tell about the time we went to Finland and lost our cabin in a blizzard?”

Aldrei for eg sudur (AFS or simply Aldrei to those untrained in the baffling arts of the Icelandic language) is an unusual festival. There is no entry fee, all bands, regardless of size or status, play a strict 20 minutes and every music genre is represented. The beer is cheap, the plokkfisskur (fish and potato hash) divine and the port-a-loos spotless, generally. The audience ranges from gurgling babies to gyrating granddads (the bar is set off by a chain-link fence to deter under-age drinking), and the ratio of red-headed bearded men to non red-headed non-bearded men is maybe 3:1. At the bar sit real weather-beaten fishermen, who may regale you with real sea-faring tales.

Days before the festival, organisers and local volunteers throw together the event stage, which is festooned with fishing nets and Christmas lights. The line-up of performers is handwritten on brown parcel-wrapping paper and pinned to the back wall.

The bands are a blur of exotic names like Sin Fang Bous (pictured below), Ekki Pjodin, FM Belfast, Brot, múm. There are sensitive singer-songwriters, raucous post-rockers and foul-mouthed hip-hop troupes. There is even a suited male choir that chants over bombastic rock guitars (pictured top). The quality varies, but as most of the bands hail from the remote Westfjords, the performances are better than expected. Most of Iceland’s music luminaries (múm, Minus, various members of Gus Gus and Sigur ros) have performed here (though not yet Bjork). International acts are more rare (Blonde Redhead in 2007 and, this year, Boys In A Band from the neighbouring Faroe Islands).

The festival all began with Mugison, an internationally known Icelandic musician. After living in London and Reykjavik, he returned home in 2002 to Sudavik, a tiny town a few kilometres from Isafjordur, and decided the area needed its own big event. His father, Isafjordur’s official harbour master and a deeply committed karaoke aficionado (nicknamed PapaMugs), helped plant the seed, and the festival was inaugurated the following year. (Despite the blanket of darkness that covers the region for much of the year, the Icelandic mindset is full of can-do idealism.)

The name Aldrei for eg sudur comes from a song by Bubbi Morthens, an Icelandic rock legend. It translates as “Never Went South”, which aptly captures the underdog chauvinism of Westfjords locals. This is an area of the country that even Icelanders rarely visit, which is a shame, since it boasts one of the country’s most heartbreakingly beautiful landscapes: flat-topped, snow-capped mountains descend sharply into the sea, arctic foxes roam freely and puffins outnumber people.

The most dynamic acts this year included Dr Spock, a band that blends heart-attack levels of rock intensity with romantic balladry (and who perform in pink, plastic elephant masks); Reykjavik!, a group of local noise terrorists (none of whom actually hail from Iceland’s capital); and FM Belfast, techno-pop gurus who cover Rage Against the Machine songs and sing about "running down the street in their underwear" (and who then really do drop their trousers as a denouement).

Then there’s Hermann Gunnarsson, or "Hemmi Gunn", a famous TV and radio personality and former soccer star. He plays a weird mix of skiffle and children’s nursery songs–an acquired taste, perhaps, but judging from the audience’s reaction, his Wikipedia entry seems reasonable enough: “Hemmi Gunn is certifiably awesome,” it asserts. “The love child of Elton John and Paris Hilton, he controls whatever crowd he is rocking.”

Day two unfurls in a similar flurry of bands, beer, snow and fish soup. Mugison performs at 5pm--no headline slot for this modest star, even if his grinding power-blues are more suited to a later part of the day. Indie-pop rockers Vicky–four women and one guy–put on a great show, as do Mammut, who deliver a convincingly mature post-punk sound despite their obvious youth.

Later on I spy Mugison. Dressed in checked shirt, jeans and boots, he’s mingling seamlessly with locals at the back of the venue. He chatting intimately with someone tall and robust and familiar, and looking bemused. It’s Alexei. I amble up and say hello as a barrage of sirens, foghorns and sexy beats are unleashed by Sesar A, a hip-hop artist on stage.

I ask Mugison for his take on the event these days. “It was a joke that turned into the most amazing monster,” he declares with a toothy grin. “But then that’s what music is all about--creating moments, pure entertainment for everyone, the artist and the crowd. It’s great to see grandma with her grandchildren listening to alternative Icelandic rap and indie-guitar stuff. I’ve never come across such a great crowd of all ages. I really don’t think it would work anywhere else in the world.”

I see what he means. After the initial shock of freezing temperatures, bopping sailors and rambunctious pre-teens elbowing their way to the front, the atmosphere begins to feel very cosy, even wholesome. It’s an unusual combination: a cool, sweaty festival with a genuine community atmosphere. The effect is to make a cold, dark place seem overwhelmingly warm and light.

Picture credit: Paul Sullivan

(Paul Sullivan is a writer and photographer who covers music and travel for the BBC, DrownedInSound, the Guardian, Music Week, Wax Poetics and Electronic Beats. He has published several travel guides for Time Out, A Hedonist's Guide and Cool Camping.)