Kråkesølv, Donkeyboy, Juliette Lewis, Ost & Kjex, Altaar, Kvelertak, Frøy Aagre, Karpe Diem, Enslaved, Teenage Fanclub @ Slottsfjell Festival
Tønsberg, Norway 16th-17th July 2010
Tonne One: Saturday (Kråkesølv, Donkeyboy, Juliette Lewis, Ost & Kjex)
Idyllic, historical, hilly, and a pier somewhat trampled by rich Oslo’ites as it is, Tønsberg seems to source many of Norway’s most known musicians, as well as a small group of kids whose tickled love of Nineties indie rock and festival communion amalgamated into what we know now as the Slottsfjell Festival. Tønsberg might be an awful place for anyone who wants to show the finger to corporations or mainstream culture but it’s an undeniably happy place to play, as I recently discovered. No burning churches, no hatred, no suburban lawns, no superstar trips, and no, as Lester Bangs would put it, “drummer informing you at Thursday’s rehearsal that he’s just gotta play with this ‘Smoke on the Water’ copy band Friday night instead of with you at CBGB’s because he says he desperately needs the money even though he lives with his parents in Westchester”. A friend of mine joked Swedish act Veronica Maggio, who played Tønsberg again this year, symbolizes the quintessential Tønsberg artist. I took this to great scrutiny. Blonde, hot, ditzy, mild, unharmful, overly gleeful, and plain warm like home. She embodies all those who watch TV2, an educated middle class who know Motown soul, but at the same time think that the TV2 Sporten presenters are witty. Camaraderie is in the air amongst the Tønsburgers, and for good reason.
So I, hedonist-foreigner-cum-journalist, could not contain an allergic reaction to the idea of a picture perfect Tønsberg. How could it happen on Friday? Grey residues of rain clouds from the Thursday I avoided, after Kråkesølv I’m realizing I’m desperately in need of social- or self-medication before the crowds do my head in, queues, the general swamps of mud and giggling teenagers. Kråkesølv are yet another one of these up-and-coming bands that make me feel more old than young. My opinions of the band have not only tended to completely differ from ecstatic reviews of their record, but they don’t strike me as anything new, save for the fact they sing in dialect. It’s a good performance absolutely, especially the vocal harmonies which set them apart from your average Sonic Youth wannabe band, they’re young and bright. But musically, terribly uninteresting. Donkeyboy next, is a kind of bland on bland. “Ambitions” is a clever song, I’ll admit, as is the video for it, but once their hits escape I’m drowning into puffy sound festival abstraction. As far as “retro pop” or “disco hooks” goes beside, I think Montée would fair far better. It also suddenly occurs to me a great majority of people attending this festival attend not to be enlightened about new bands or because they’re music enthusiasts, but simply because it’s summer, it’s an excuse to get wasted, and it’s just “what you do in Norway in the summers”. Direct quote. Of the many people I’ve surveyed as to whom they’re excited to see, the reaction has been shocking. Anywhere from a shrug of the shoulder to, “OH MY GOD. K E L I SSSSSSS.”. Which makes me think the festival consists of people who want just the festival experience, and music foregrounds it — and people who may hate the festival experience, but motivated to drudge through it to see a band they love.
Shining’s performance on Friday save the entire day. Vandad confirms.
Watch the entirety of Juliette Lewis, the highlight for my girlfriends. I’m choosing my words carefully now, as to not offend all those in favor of chick-rock, or chicks that may, or may not rock — and shall withhold comments or critical ponderings on female rock authenticity, suffice to say, my friends thoroughly enjoyed the concert, and she seemed pro at sleazin’ up the crowd. But a few summers ago, seeing her at the start of her career, already supporting Motorhead and Foo Fighters — I recall a conversation about how suspect it is when an ex-groupie latches onto her boyfriend’s band at Warp Tour and suddenly gets the “right” people involved, then writing “punk” songs (or having them written for you) then plastering this PR campaign of how “CHICKS RULE”. Anyway. Natural Born Killers was a good movie.
By the time Clutch are on, the periodic drizzle has turned into full-blown rain. Mud slides, raincoats flap about, and my gang of girls and I are lured by the idea of free food, beers and warmth in the guest area. I get a text asking me to cover Ost & Kjex late that night, so I lubricate myself with more alcohol and suck on a pipe in preperation. With a few hours to kill, we march through the gates of a club or house I hear someone call Gamle Biblioteket, a place with absolutely no vibe whatsoever. At some point — which I barely recall — we stumble into a half-empty room with two DJs pumping out music. Must have realized Ost & Kjex were soon on, and quickly headed into town, across a bridge apparently, to the club stage Kastellnatt.
I’m not really into disco, but I like to dance. Which is like saying, I like to shake my booty but I don’t like to clap. Ost & Kjex invariably invoke a recipe to spell us rampant products of the night, dark smoky room, strobe lights and funkadelic beats. Trio of black soul singers (Tracey’s Gospel Choir) as backup, but they’re more like props, humming and oohing only every now and then. With the state I’m in, static beats turn into ambience, and I’m only mindlessly swaying to and fro. I attempt photography and Ost & Kjex end up looking something like this, enough said:
When we arrive back at the campsite, to our horror we discover we’d pitched our tent smack dab in the center of the campsite’s unified par-TAY. Into the wee hours of the night we’re engulfed by drunk, horny 16 year old boys and girls squatting and pissing around our tent or making-out whilst listening to a bassy soundtrack of… absolute crap. Jens Stoltenberg, I too oppose underage drinking, good night.
Tonne Two: Saturday (Altaar, Kvelertak, Frøy Aagre, Karpe Diem, Enslaved, Teenage Fanclub)
Backstage lounge area early Saturday morning, 9am, is a sorry sight. Stale beer stinks. I crawl into a ponce artist shower, rid myself of grass and potential dreadlocks. I never used to be a morning person but these days nothing keeps me from switching on past nine. Already, I’m genuinely questioning what this festival nonsense is all about. And what the hell I’m tenting for. 9am backstage is calm — rid of irritants, rid of those all-too colorful cucumbers (one Swede and his host of young friends earlier had glanced at my pass and brashly asked, SO. You, yea you. What do you do? What are you doing here? I say I’m writing for a magazine. Who, anyone we know? Anyone big? Probably not. Discover they’re DJs for the Heineken party. A secret party, in fact. On the Brygga (pier). And if I namedrop this DJ’s particular name, to the doorman, I might get in.)………… rid of corporate fucking DJs, rid of the irritating guards and volunteers who look too young to buy cigarettes — usually a she — who’re for the first time “in charge” of something — and lay down powertrips like they probably do glitter eyeshadow on a Friday nite.
Do my mid-festival zen meditation (3 pints of water, 1 fizzy coke and a bowl of soup) and begin my day with Altaar. I’ve seen them a few times before so their set is familiar. A very (very) Earth-like doom intro, and waves of pedal noise which doesn’t translate super well on a early afternoon festival stage. The band is more outstanding when it’s rhythmic, bass-driven, as if heading towards a concrete song. I prefer those interludes, like the one I saw them play at Rockefeller a few weeks ago. Senseless, aimless noise can get a little uninspiring. Regardless, the performance as a whole is perfectly timed, serene and dark, a perfect setting overlooking the city on a medieval hill — and gets me excited for stuff to come.
Kverlertak next. From a distance, the first thing that occurs to me is that they are almost as good as seeing Converge, ten years ago. (No surprise to hear they’ve recently been produced by Kurt Ballou.) I’ve seen Converge about a dozen times back in the days, at CBGB’s, in my friend’s basement, shitty hole in the wall. But as I approach the stage, get reeel close, the sheer energy and tightness of this band win me over, and I’m floored. The backdrop, from the album’s artwork by John Baizley of Baroness, to the great sound. They are much, much tighter than the times I’ve seen before; dare I say a top performance of the festival so far. I haven’t listened to this kind of music in a while, the last band of a 00’s generation punk/metalcore band to blow me away were The Bronx. Some great bluesy riffs that though you’ve heard it before, are somewhat timeless. The songwriting occasionally reminding me of Bon Scott-AC/DC era tricks (see song: “Mjød”), I love it, plain energising.
In an absolutely anti-climax, I see saxophonist Frøy Aagre. She’s doing some kinda jazz improv thing. I don’t know anything about anything about jazz improv, but she ain’t Charlie Parker and the flowers and hippie feminist vibe has “kulturåd kissass-$$$$-faktura-musician-$$$” written all over it. Yawn. Moving on…
Sun suddenly comes out glowering over main stage, a piercing light putting everyone in that Utopian festival good mood. I’m a little embarrassed to admit I’m excited about Karpe Diem, but I’ve got a chav side of me empathizing with the pulsating, cheering crowd. It’s not just the weather. I enjoy Karpe Diem for the same reason my guy friends enjoy the other stage’s American artist, Lissie. We don’t give a shit about the music or what they’re singing about — how they sing is just dammmmmmnn sexy!
Cheesy impaling goth theatrics or epic, so-called “post-metal” hour later, I’m overcome with bias at the Enslaved show. What geeks. Need more beer.
Øystein Meyer DJ’ing in the guest area, which is already packed, and a guy who only plays 45s. Vibeing!
Mew next. As the festival headliners (not, gasp, Teenage Fanclub!) the Kongescene property is ram-packed. It’s nearly impossible to find a spot without bumping or being crashed into (have had entire beers literally dumped down my back a few times already) — and hard to get a handle of the heavily layered sound. Nod along to the few songs I know, but boredom overtakes. Retreat to good ol’ Vestfold hospitality.
As the festival closes, and crowds seamlessly move out from location to location, probably reflecting more the good organization of the festival than the fact our brain capacity is of sheep — suddenly, I’m having déjà vu seeing everybody around me stoned and drunk and shifting around. Then unraveling painful facts from the night before. I remember now I was so fucked up one point wandering out into the smog of a dance floor, and thought I was in some kind local New Wave oboo jooba yet surrounded by relatively normal people, and it was 4am, and drifted out to the streets to a kind Czech hippie couple selling Indian prathas stuffed with olives, leek and feta for cheap. They’re handrolled and delicious and I gobble one up just after bitching out a drunk blonde who complained that “55 kroners is too much” — well then, I said, go to Narvesen and buy yourself a fucking pølse or, two packs of gum!! My déjà vu returns this Saturday, walking home past the same stand, buying the delicious prathas again and a horde of drunk idiots practically falling into these lovely couples’ food booth (not that I have any festival food selling-angst) yell, “I want (spring rolls), give me some goddamn spring rolls” and I scream, these aren’t fucking spring rolls you dumb cunts.
But my shining memory from this festival, is my Numero Uno concert, “the biggest band you’ve never heard of”: Teenage Fanclub at a non-main stage and quickly passing within less then an hour set. NO encore!!?? The world just ain’t fair… The presence of this band for the organizers of Slottsfjell is also symbolic as I’m told, the height of their visions for who they’ve always wanted. They’re amongst Tønsbergers as a cult favorite and for good reason. The music encapsulates all the purity and treachery of youth and love and teenage heartbreak spellbindingly with teenest tiniest hooks and simple riffs ignited into magical pop songs which erupt even within the hardened hardest lovers, that deep emotion we’d pretend had long ago dissipated in a letter. Recipes they’ve perfected ten, fifteen years ago keeping all us grown adults and children within alike drooling and absofuckinglutely captivated by their show.
We later see the band come thru the Artists’ party and plant themselves at the entrance, shaking hands with people — saying hi to people as they walk in like a meet and greet at a wedding (what hip Oslo band would do the same, we wonder), and it’s them, curious to talk to us, measly commoners. Those of us in the fanclub that’d nearly gizzed themselves during the show from sheer ecstasy and a revived faith in why we love unbeatable, good songwriting and why the nineties just aint like the shit today revel in this. In the toilet queue, from the corner of my eye I see Norman Blake coming down the stairs and expect him to walk by. Instead he stands right behind me. I’m slightly starstruck, nod over, “You doing alright, mate?” He eagerly seizes this opportunity to talk and my friend and I suddenly find myself pulling a legend into an elongated conversation about why, women’s bodies, no I said bladders, “Oh, bladders!”– are smaller than men’s. Norman remains ultra friendly expounding on our ridiculous random observation which I self-consciously realize is the only thing a pair of hash heads could come up with. Eventually I nudge him over towards the bushes, pointing out he’s the only member of the opposite sex waiting in the queue. He politely excuses himself, walks out the door and I’m jumping up and down screaming, I JUST TOLD NORMAN BLAKE TO PISS IN THE BUSHES!!!!
The End.
Photos: Jørn Veberg (Kråkesølv and crowd) and Ann Sung-an Lee
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