The young Kristiansand band Honningbarna received a 400,000 NOK “Grant for Ideas” this Friday, for them to use on developing their music and professional carreer. Barely tipping 18 years of age, the six boys were more than thrilled to receive the money and have already decided how to spend it — on album, launch and touring.

The punk rockers with viola were made their mark earlier this year, when the Hove Festival took them on a mini-tour launching their programme, and of course to the festival lineup itself, and when they were named Urørt of the Week by the national radio channel NRK P3. Competing with three other acts from the southern region, Frida Ånnevik, Kjetil Grande and Salvador Sanchez, Honningbarna were announced winners in front of an enthusiatic crowd of 450 at Kick in Kristiansand just before midnight on Friday.

You can catch Honningbarna the following places in the near future:

03 Sep: Oslo, NOR - GranittRock
04 Sep: Trondheim, NORWAY -
09 Sep: Bergen, NORWAY - Phonofestivalen
28 Oct: Kristiansand, NOR - Kick

Honningbarna on mySpace

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Friday the festival  puts on a metal vintage market, to support orphans in Bergen. And after receiving tasty metal memorabilia, the early 90s cassette tape collection donated by Enslaved’s Ivar Bjørnson particularly, an auction is now put in place too. Up for grabs are:

- A decorative audio cassette frame with several original cassettes
Including un-opened original-US cassette version of Burzum Det som en gang var (Necropolis Records), Advance-tape of Emperors first release, Embryonic demo advance (the band that turned into Emperor after some time), Thou Shalt Suffer Into the Woods of Belial demo (one step up from Embryonic; this became Emperor), Mayhem Pure Fucking Armageddon demo, Amputation demo (what became Immortal after this release), Enslaved recordings from early 90s, including recordings of Slayer tribute Jesus Saves 1995, and many more goodies and surprises…
Donated by Ivar Bjørnson (Enslaved)

- Iron Maiden El Dorado CD promo 7″-sleeve,
donated by Asbjørn and Totto (PYRO radio show)

- Electra Custom electric guitar,
donated by Kai «Colt Kane» Lie (The Batallion, ex-Borknagar)

- Signed cymbals,
donated by Cato Bekkevold (Enslaved)

- Audrey Horne picture
with Toschie’s caricature drawings, donated by Toschie (Audrey Horne)

All the money raised will be donated to a project in Bergen called “Kom nærmere” (“Come Closer”). This is a group consisting of children that are or have been in orphanage care. The group is established to provide organizational and financial framework for the theatre/musical activities directed at disadvantaged children and young people in Bergen and the surrounding area.

More info can be found here, and the festival still welcomes donations at lopper@holeinthesky.no

The auction will be on Friday at USF Verftet, Sardinen. Time: TBA

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A new dancy hip hop track from Lars Vaular released now, this time produced by Anand Chetty, mixed by Yngve Sæthre. And what is it, a love song ending in a Carlos Santana-solo? More or less. Go to Lars’ website and flick through Grand People’s electronic booklet whilst listening to it, trying to figure out what the metaphor for square and circle stands for.

“En Eneste” by Lars Vaular - listen here

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And suddenly another Øya was left to memory. Possibly over-all the worst of all 5 Øya’s I had previously been to. Far too many disappointing shows, way too many pitchfork bands, headliners that never really took off…. almost no decent smaller shows…. copious amounts of rain… toilet shortages… acres and acres of identical looking people walking off their hangovers with fake tan and silly sunglasses…. the few precious highlights and the kilometers wasted ploughing through mud and puke and a million other undesirables.

Today my summation will be short. Basically because this wasted shell of a man was too frail and exhausted to manage more than 45 minutes at the festival before crawling back to Garage, heading for the office, shutting the blinds, putting on Plateaux of Mirror and snatching 45 minutes of sleep before starting to band host THE BLOW.

The bands I did manage to see were CCTV and POW POW.

I heard Shaun’s voice resonating off the distant barriers off to the left…. that lovely sharp echo that just distorts reality and makes most things sound ethereal and alluring. A roomy but decent crowd had made the journey out early to catch the show, illuminated by the most wonderful sunlight… something the festival had been dearly lacking. The concert itself was as I expected it to be. Poppy, trance-y, Spiritualized/Happy Mondays/XTRMNTR-esque songs played to a grateful crowd who were just waking up and this was just the sort of show to put some fire up their arses in a nice gradual manner.

After the final song disappeared from our hearing the ridiculously happy chords of Pow Pow came belting out from yonder. I trudged over ridiculously blase and not really in the frame of mind to give anything a chance. A multitude of clones stood watching in stripey black/white shirts, yellow or white framed sunglasses, jean shorts, poofy hair and the smell of youth. This was probably the sort of band that deserved a bit of a listen but I was too far gone in my exhaustion to even consider giving them a chance. Thomas is one hell of a drummer, that I will say. But no.. the cheery early 20’s tunes were not conducive with the mind of an aging cynic who has been pushed through the sieve a few too many times and needs to start reading more books instead of spending time standing up in fields with mud and noise.

The early afternoon sun guided my path to the exit. Past the crowds hastening their pace to reach Pow Pow… through the gates and onto the roads where nobody familiar would approach me and the tram promised safe return.

A festival that has held so many musical memories for me over the past years (Boredoms, MBV, JAMC…) somehow seemed to come unstuck.. the new hipster bands all sounded alike.. the shows were average at best… the choices of headliners lent more to a penchance for monetary gains rather than overall experience/legacy. Of course booking Iggy was a great step in the right direction, and the festival cannot be blamed for the exhaustion levels of the pensioners, but apart from that and the Pavement reunion there were very few essential bookings or things to covet in your calender and count the seconds down… perhaps that comes with getting older and having seen so many bands before, but I still get goosebumps when I get to watch a legendary band.. otherwise I would just flat out stop going to shows… there is something to be said that there is an over-abundance of bands these days.. and picking out the good ones amongst a huge cesspit of shit is becoming more and more difficult. I would have liked to have seen some more risks taken, some more eclectic bands booked.. but money talks and the ongoing search for immortality seems to be surrendered in the hard facts and spreadsheets of an office computer.

RIP

Photos: Fredrik Klingenberg

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After seriously considering against going to Øya today, based on a long week of late shifts and far too much aural exposure, my mind faltered and I made my way there squelching through the crowds on my daily round.

I ran into some friends who were heading to go see John Olav Nilsson & Gjengen. A fairly decent crowd anxiously awaited, young girls screeching at the top of their lungs as the band came on, then almost fainting when the dude himself walked out all cocksure and nobby with his long black coat and HAIR. I left after 2 songs. That sort of music says nothing to me. I don’t want to learn all the words. I don’t want to stand there shouting out choruses, I don’t want 15 year old voices penetrating my skull, I don’t want to see raging homosexual Swedish men twisting their hips and blowing kisses towards the stage. Not at this stage in my life, not ever.

La Roux was the next artist to receive my scorn as I waded through the 4 inch deep mud through chaos fields of idiots who don’t move to let you pass and seem to always step into your way regardless of their initial directional decisions. I hate festivals sometimes. There’s just too many drunk people in a small area with absolutely no respite. No rest. No calm. Nothing to elevate you beyond the backdrop of bands you don’t really want to listen to while waiting for bands you do. The artist area on the other side of the river is just ass kissers and snobs… rarely a good penny to be found. The food is overpriced. The lines for the toilets make me thankful to be a man… Obviously its not all negative, or else you just wouldn’t bother going… but a lot of the time it ends up being frightfully much work for precious little reward.

(A passing friend of mine just shouted out “This year blows”). I have to agree.

The Wolves Like Us show felt like a sauna. Head to toe full of expectant people crammed into the tiny tent while the annoying goatbleating of La Roux found it’s way in between songs, much to my annoyance. The band themselves delivered a good show with lots of energy despite the 110 degree heat and the lack of a decent PA. Lars’ voice became drowned out despite his best attempts at blowing his lungs out. A good show nonetheless.

Four songs later I decided to pop over to see 1349. They were late. My toes began to curl. Obviously there were huge problems with the wireless bass rig. Two technicians scrambled around while a roadie stood tuning and testing both the guitars while soloing like fucking satriani…. that age old thing of roadies who just live for the thrill of those 5 seconds when they can shred in front of a crowd before heading back to the dark places to tune guitars and search for strings and batteries whenever they are shouted at. Poor bugger gave it his all…

1349 started. The sound was abysmal. No clarity. No mid. Only high end and some fartsounding bass drum. After all the hassle with the bass rig they may as well have not bothered.. you could almost never hear him. Towards the middle of the show, after a lot of HORNS and growling the sound became slightly better but seemed to switch to only high end. The concert itself was average. I’m sure a lot of the people there loved every second of it but I just find Black Metal like this kinda one-note. There are no great variations, no real dynamics, it just sounded like a constant barrage which ends up just scrambling your brain and leaving nothing of worth lingering in there…

On the way home I happened upon Major Lazer who had a woman dancing on stage and a singer who played out some sort of argument with flying jumps and faux slapping… when suddenly Ace of Base came on the stereo, not a cover, THE SONG, and the band just stood there waving their hands dancing to the music. Some hippie chicks with neon headbands stood at the waters edge loving every moment of it, entranced in fairy dances and visions of apples. I closed my eyes and prayed for death.

Death didn’t come. But a tram back to town did.

Photos: Jørn Veberg

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It is Friday the 13th and the metal bands come out to play in the rain. Yes, the rain returns — in intervals so intense that it soaks you within minutes, the festival grounds are suddenly covered in mud and a people curse their choice of footwear. The third day promises newcomers, a highly anticipated festival comeback and a hefty dose of corpse paint.

Obliteration: Old school’s back for summer

The rain has created a small lake in front of Obliteration when they walk on stage to a sparse and soggy crowd; the opening spot on the stage furthest from the entrance is not a dream for any band. It is a hard job, but someone’s gotta do it. Obliteration is Norway’s new hope in the death metal Olympics: Young, talented and with an excellent taste in old school death metal. Remember when death metal sounded gritty and raw and not overproduced, overtriggered and dull? Obliteration take us back to when Death reigned the metal world and Entombed created a small revolution with Left Hand Path. Still, the young men from Kolbotn are not cheap copycats, they stir in some bad-ass doom and a tiny bit of evil crust punk.
“Hey, thanks to… no one for showing up” is the greeting from singer/guitarist Sindre. It is said with a sarcastic smile and he has my sympathies. This early in the afternoon even the metal heads are standing far away from the stage with their arms crossed. Sindre fires up the feedback: “We are Obliteration and I am going to get so wasted tonight”. And then, death metal happens. It shouldn’t be allowed to be this tight when you are that young. Every band member has technical skills well above average and they work like a perfect machine.

The variation, oh the variation. What makes 80 % of death metal gigs duller than math class is that constant blast beats and growling gets really old after about three songs, even if you like the band and have listened to their album. Obliteration use a lot less blast beats, their drummer evokes anything from crust punk to thrash as he constantly changes it up. Sure, the extreme and fast parts are there, but they never last longer than about a minute. One of my favorite death metal tricks is that transition between the grinding speed and that slow, head banging, guitar-howling groove. Listen to Celtic Frost and you know what I mean. Speaking of the Swiss, Obliteration includes my favorite old school effect: The OUGH. If you don’t know the OUGH, you haven’t lived. It is the filler, the introduction, the whole nine yards. A short, primal vocal push from the stomach.

The gig is at its best when they play songs from their latest record, Necropsalms. There is a reason why this record has been embraced by metal heads and punks alike, it is a tightly run ship of epic old school with long heavy tracks of pure pleasure. When they are played live they work as teasers, the long intros build that hope of death metal explosion that always comes crashing in at the right hour. With the great sound Øya provides you can hear the changes in the death metal vocal, from banshee howl to the deep growl.

As the last distortion dies out I need a sound break and some sugar. As Øya cannot satisfy my need for sweets, I exit the festival grounds. On the way out I meet the most charming thief of the day. As I pass the giant rack of umbrellas near the exit (you are not allowed to bring umbrellas inside, they are apparently lethal) a short, stylish denim girl strikes up a conversation. She asks me why I don’t have an umbrella, I counter with the benefits of the rain poncho. She smiles and says: “You know, you can just take an umbrella you like on the way out. I got lots at home, but this pink one was so cute I had to have it”. As she vanishes I wonder if another girl will cry herself to sleep over her missing pink umbrella tonight.

Purified in Blood: Thicker than water

High on cookies I return to get a good spot in front of the stage when Purified in Blood enters. Beards and hair have grown on a few members since I last saw them, the organ has been added and the metal has started to weigh heavier than the hardcore. The first time I saw Purified was almost six years ago in a tiny concrete bunker in Kongsberg. It was the first time I observed the synchronized hardcore dancing of the West Coast mosh crew. I was both surprised and amused. Back then Purified sounded more like a Norwegian Earth Crisis light, playing sharp metallic hardcore with a pretty clear straight edge and vegan message.

As time went by and members grew up and changed the perspective started to shift. Living in a tiny hardcore box had its problems and when the band broke up a few years ago they needed time to reconsider where they wanted to go. Purified reborn is quite different from the old version, but the shift is tactical, professional and wholesome. The only hardcore elements left are the dual vocal style, the confrontational singers and the clear communication with the fans. Music-wise we are now talking about a well-oiled metal machine with more guitar solos, more stage antics and generally more of an epic feeling.

When they walk on stage I realize how much I have missed them. Few bands give so much back to their fans as Purified do. On stage they are confident and as people they are considerate, grateful and dedicated. It doesn’t take many songs before vocalist Hallgeir is out in the audience, hugging friends, high-fiving little girls who have come to behold the spectacle. I will comfort old fans that didn’t make it to show right now: The new material is extremely strong. “Death Priest” and “Under den svarte himmel”, the singles from the new album, were stand out tracks live.

Purified jumps straight into the metal current of our times like their friends in Kvelertak. They make the metal a little more accessible, write longer songs with great instrumental parts and act more like the headliner band they really are. The metal clichés are already present: Guitar solo with the foot up on the monitor, synchronized head banging… the audience swallows it raw.

The show closes with a slightly cheesy band introduction, but we can bear with it as it shows how tightly knit this family is. Hallgeir pulls his father out on stage and you can feel the love as the bearded older man and the heavily tattooed son hug in front of thousands of cheering fans. The organist, who usually works with autumn melancholy man Thomas Dybdahl, needs a shot of metal confidence but I am sure he will get there with more touring under his belt.

1349: The black metal alibi

La Roux brings the electro dance to the party people while I rest my feet to get ready for 1349. The indoor stage (Klubben) is probably the only place you could put up a black metal gig in the sunny, happy  Øya site. Smoke machines are reloaded; the lights are turned further down and in the back corpse paint applied. Yes, 1349 are still doing the classic corpse paint. In a time where several black metal bands move away from the aesthetics and focus more on music, some old school enthusiasts still want to keep it grim. Leather accessories and spikes are a given and the word accessible doesn’t even begin to touch anyone’s lips.

Because 1349 (named after the year the Black Plague came to Bergen) is pure, grim, extreme black metal. At Øya I suspect they are booked as the alibi, something exotic to thrill foreign journalists and try to prove that it’s not only mainstream artists that play the festival. While there are other current black metal bands that actually take the genre further, I respect both the band for agreeing to play enemy territory and the festival for taking the chance.

A smart friend once said that black metal is not really live music. It should be enjoyed at home on your stereo, not on a stage where horrible drum sound and badly set guitar amps make the music blend into a noisy soup of pain and overdrive. Only bands that have slower, melodic parts and less hyperblasts can pull it off. Melody is not the first thing you think about when you see 1349, two thirds of the set is a constant barrage of triggered double basspedals that drown out everything.

Sure, the visuals are fun for a few songs. Synchronized head banging looks pretty neat and the members are technically proficient. The backdrop and the lighting give off a pretty grim effect that fits the band’s image. Still, hearing guitars is slightly more fun than just seeing them. Getting good stage sound for 1349 is probably a challenge. After about 15 minutes the novelty passes and I get impatient. The songs blend into each other and the only communication between shrieks is the annunciation of the titles. Only when the band pull out “Serpentine Sibilance” does the mood pick up a little.

1349 can sound pretty good on record, but in a live setting the audio assault makes it impossible to enjoy the individual songs. I leave Klubben feeling fairly disappointed.

To sum up the entire festival I am once again pleased at how professional Øya is compared to every other festival I have been to. The food is better, the bands always enter stage on time and the variation in music is broader than anywhere else. I am positively surprised that punk/hardcore bands like Fucked Up and Thrash Talk actually managed to connect to the audience from the large stages they played on. I am proud that Norway can spawn bands as professional and original as Your Headlights Are On and The Megaphonic Thrift. Last but not least I am applauding the organizers for making sure that so few of the shows collided. For us music junkies it is a pleasure to go from show to show all day without missing anything vital.

Photos: Jørn Veberg

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Thursday was coming on strong with sunshine, almost mocking the day before. Rubber boots were stashed, ironic t-shirts were donned and only the most die-hard scenesters kept their wool garments on. Theme-wise the day was going to stretch from Christian to heathen with a little bit of punk rock sellout and danceable tribal indie to spice it up.

Social Suicide: Breaking through my wall of prejudice

I am literally running to catch the start of Social Suicide’s set as the promoters had changed the schedule without me noticing. Worry builds as I zig-zag through the maze of people already present at this early hour, there is a good chance I won’t be able to squeeze into the stage area. Camp Indie is a tent stage built with the good intentions of showcasing new and exciting Norwegian bands, but it has been a source of journalist headache from the first day of the festival. The tent is too small for all the interested parties that gather there and Norwegians, bereft of cue culture, just huddle near the entrance even though the area in front of the stage has lots of room. Where are bulldozers when you need them?

The first chord strikes as I squeeze into the tent and wait for the scary sounds of distortion to scare away the frail indie crowd. The people inside are refreshingly diverse: You have the mandatory metalcore kids with their tacky tribals, you have the aging music journalist who is sightseeing in the world of dangerous music with an uncertain drunken smile and you have the rest of us: The curious, slightly withdrawn types. Don’t get me wrong, the kind of music Social Suicide play is within my general sphere of interest. There are other factors that make me slightly withdrawn.

First of all there is the gigantic Jesus tattoo on the shoulder of the singer. Personal religious feelings are alright by me, but I tend to get a feeling of distaste if there is a chance of preaching, especially under a punk/hardcore banner. I read an interview with Social Suicide where they made some pretty strong statements about Jesus being the world’s best dad and the driving force behind the band. This could easily turn holy.

Secondly, when the mainstream press call something hardcore, it usually isn’t. Musical journalists skip the history lesson before their smack this label on a band. To me hardcore punk is not only a style of music more passionate, political, critical and angry than regular music, it is also an ideology signaling do-it-yourself attitudes and a general distaste for the mainstream.

Am I prejudiced? Very much so. Let me now tell the tale of how Social Suicide turned it around.
Social Suicide starts fast and hard and quickly notice that the Camp Indie stage is a challenge. First of all, 99 % of the people in the tent have not attended a show where audience participation is an important part of the show. The music the band plays opens up for moving closer to the stage and actually interacting. As they hear the shouting and the heavy distortion the crowd draws back a little. The singer tries to provoke some reaction, but it is a tough crowd even though most of the people seem to be enjoying themselves.

It might be time for some musical references: JR Ewing is important to mention, the vocal style, the change of rhythm and the fast guitar riffs are similar to the sadly defunct post-hardcore institution. Social Suicide add a little bit of modern metalcore to the mix, they are young and have probably grown up with newer bands associated with the more metal sounding scene of American hardcore. I daresay the Bergen boys have listened to quite a bit of Refused too.

The sound of a perfectly set guitar amp cranking out difficult technical riffs start to melt my heart. These fellows really know how to write melodies, if I was a big shot American CEO I would be reaching for my bag of dollars pretty quickly. If Social Suicide aims for broad exposure, they are already halfway there. The songs are varied and have just enough breakdowns to make it nice and heavy. It stands out in the jungle of dull bands trying to regurgitate Victory Records or Revelation. It sounds fresh.

The singer is intense and active. He obviously has a lot of training in voice control and power. It is almost like he doesn’t need the microphone to get through to the people. Climbing, jumping, rolling on the floor, he is high and low while the rest of the band give it their all. It is easy to admire the energy of determined youth and it is contagious. I have a lot of respect for hard working bands.
And Jesus? He stayed on the tattoo and did not make any appearance in person or in spoken word. Anti-religious hardcore elitist 0 - Social Suicide 1.

Waiting for Wardruna to get their ancient relics in place I catch Against Me! on one of the larger stages and I try to hate them for selling out to Sire Records, Butch Vig and embarrassing songs like “I was a teenage anarchist”. It turns out to be hard to hate them. With the passion of a dozen men they make even the new songs sound fresh and passionate. I sing “Pints of Guinness makes you strong” till my voice hurts. Damn, this is not the day to stay angry and difficult.

Wardruna: Mmmmmm pagan drone

Question: Who do you book if you wanna get hippies, the metal crowd, folk music enthusiasts and stoners in the same room? No, not Tool. You opt for Wardruna. I was quite surprised when I saw them on the bill; my thoughts were that the band is neither especially trendy nor appealing to the average music consumer. Turns out that I was wrong. The venue fills up faster than you can say pagan and the excitement factor is evident in all the people around me. So what are we dealing with here? Gaahl (of Gorgoroth and various metal documentaries fame) and Kvitrafn front a modern folk music troupe that blends the ambient drone of the Macbook with the sounds of animal bones, medieval chants, fiddle and rune drums. Sounds odd? Yeah, it is.

Wardruna goes for the acoustic solution in the live setting if you discounted the mentioned Macbook hidden strategically behind two gigantic ancient drums. Repetitive percussion, beautiful soaring primal chants, Hardanger fiddle and animal horns zone in and out of the musical landscape and create a meditational feeling. The lights and the backdrop are part of the Wardruna package, the line between tastefully done and Viking kitch is very narrow tonight. I end up placing them in the first category, when it comes to pagan copies Wardruna seems to be close to the real deal.

The different climaxes have me holding my breath as I try to pick up all the fine details. The band is amazingly tight considering that Kvitrafn has to keep the beat with sticks on a wooden log (can you say primitive?). Gaahl is in control of the right side of the stage, looking out over the audience with his trademark icy stare. If you have seen interviews with the man you know what I am talking about, that man can stare down an angry polar bear, mark my words. He whispers in what I presume to be Old Norse, sometimes slightly growling, other times ever so soft. On some tracks it borders on cheesy and threatens to break the spell of the music, but most of the times he knows how to restrain himself.

The lyrics can be a little hard to grasp, I must have overslept when we had heathen language history. Luckily one of my concert companions knows her pagan history and ancient languages and informs me that the band just chanted: “Praise the moose”. I go: “Oh”. Sounds like a sensible thing to praise.

It is an audible feast if you are a drone enthusiast or a nature freak. I am a little bit of both. Since so many of the instruments are home made out of natural ingredients, the sound naturally (pun intended) takes you out into the Viking landscape. It is both hypnotizing and epic at the same time.

The different drums keep the beat and most of the melodies come from the throats of the members. With five different male voices and two female singers the variations are endless.

Wardruna slowly drones out and we snap out of it, probably with a stupid grin on our faces. The whole experience carries a heathen magical twang and I get a strong urge to see them again.

I stumble along to the next big thing: Yeasayer. Apart from a power outage in song 3, it is an ethnic dance party from the first beautiful tone. I dance, even though I NEVER dance, this says something about how good they are. The Americans have been here 7 times and every time they come back we love them more. Their vocal harmonies against the setting sun are almost too good to be true.

Pavement close down Thursday with their”sure, whatever, maybe one more song”-style, but grin way too much to maintain an image of not really caring. Behind those lazy eyes you can see that Stephen Malkmus loves the attention and the rest of the band soak up the rock star vibe and crank out hit after hit. The sarcastic remarks help spread the good feeling and I am thinking this is one of the more successful reunions of our time. Thursday finally fades out with the jangly, slacker guitar sound of the 90’s.

Photos: Jørn Veberg

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Lindstrøm & Christabelle

Feeling slightly stronger and more accepting of life I headed back to the throngs and hipsters dispersed over a smattering of ruins, “beer street” and various stages. Instinct told me that the sensible thing to do was start the affair off with a cold over-priced plastic cup of stale beer. Bingo. First off I waddled over to the main stage to witness 14 earth shatteringly boring moments of Broken Bells. Before I lay into the state of music emanating from Pitchfork sources over the past year, and make deep rabbit trails into the incessant annoyance at how the “THE” bands of the early 2000’s (The Strokes, The Kills, The …..) have suddenly turned into a fascination with using two words that don’t necessarily match (Neon Indian, Major Lazer, Frozen Dick) and usually involve an animal or the world crystal, I will just clear the air and say that Broken Bells is worthy of nothing but a serious bout of gout.

After wrenching myself from the hysteria of their Valium drones I headed over to Sjøsiden to give Against Me! a listen. Flat out honesty: They were actually good. This from a guy who has never actively listened to a single song by them, can’t stand this type of music nor has any interest in ever listening to it again… but from a live-performance aspect they were definitely delivering what their fans were after. The slightly lean crowd seemed enraptured in the secretive, monosyllabic presence of the singer. No inter-song banter… almost nothing more than a TAKK or THIS IS FOR THE PUNKS… no jokes… no witty American candyfloss rubbish, just heart-on-your-sleeve music played well and appreciated by those gathered.

Next on the list I headed over to try on some Norwegian culture, in the genocide-inflicting images of Gaahl and his current outfit, Wardruna. Stood atop a stage, clothed in black, shimmering backdrop and archaic percussion were a merry bunch of misery evangelists wrapping their outlandish growls and chants in the sort of imagery that would suit a Dead Can Dance concert, only that DCD actually have bucket loads of talent and the vocal power of an arch-angel. The theory was perhaps well-placed, the outcome seemed lacklustre and contrived.

Against my better judgement I headed down towards Vika to understand why a gargantuan crowd had assembled to watch Miike Snow. I shall not feign knowledge and pretend I saw enough to truly write a review, but after heading to within 40 meters of the stage and catching a glimpse of very Swedish looking dudes exaggerating their keyboard movements and looking soooo straight out of an H&M catalogue and the freshly haircutted 18 year olds bopping around while nervously checking each other out, I realized I was too old for this and hastily retreated to the darkness of a tree to wail at my own prejudices.

What happened next will probably go down as being the highlight of the Øya festival for me. After deciding against walking all the way over to the benches behind the main-stage I thought I would pop into the tent again to watch Nachtmystium. A band I had only listened to barely on myspace and had no real context or knowledge of. They entered the stage after a long intro and threw themselves headlong into 45 minutes of black-metal bliss. Punky, raw, dynamic metal played well, with conviction, and a singer who acted neither arrogant or insecure but just said it like it was. Even after the third song when the head of his Marshall Amp blew he just joked, changed it and regrouped. The band kept my attention the whole time. Absolute highlight and a nice surprise for a jaded old bastard.

I avoided checking out LCD Sound System since they were fucking boring at Roskilde.

The Black Angels seemed limp and out of their depth. I watched half a song and left.

The less said about Yeasayer the better. Absolute wankery. (footnote: I neither like or appreciate bands like Fleet Foxes, etc.)

Needless to say I did not go and see Cumshots. I don’t want to get into this.

Lindstrøm and Cristabelle could have been something special but the music rang out as one-dimensional and really did nothing but fill up the space as my attention was drawn to the disco ball on the ceiling so pretty and blue… I think I stared at it for a little too long.

Then came Pavement.

Unfortunately all the groundwork that the aforementioned bands had struggled against weather/time/energy to purvey all fell to dust as the last lingering remnants of Øya Thursday nail-gunned to memory was the pregnant orca wailings of a severely disturbed Icelandic ponce dug so deep into his own ego that he doesn’t take the time or energy to step back and realize that his nasal gasps only serve the purpose of tipping suicide patients over the edge, or relieving drunkards of their buzz.

Suffice to say, the movement of wankery and image-conscious nerds was rescued temporarily by a sweltering grand showing by The Lionheart Brothers at Garage. Their concert was concise, practiced, fluid and rapturous. A fitting end to a day of few highlights and many disappointments.

Photo: Fredrik Klingenberg

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Oslo, Norway 11th August 2010

It’s raining. More than your average mandatory festival drizzle. This is Slayer-intro rain, the punishment of a vengeful God. It is impossible to find your friends as everyone is draped in ponchos, lost in hoods. We all look like the camo version of the Sunn O))) fan club. I would be lying if I said buckets of rain are fun, but we prevail. After all, we are here for the music.

Kenneth Ishak and the Freedom Machines: He should shine on his own

If there is one artist who is underappreciated by the Norwegian mainstream it is Kenneth Ishak; from 1997 he has been cranking out wonderful power pop records as the main engine behind Beezewax. That clean, sweet voice on top of gritty tube-amp sound spells summer every time. From the more simple, guitar driven records of the late 90s, Ishak has started including more elements in his music, making way to additional piano and the occasional string and brass section.

As he enters the stage at Øya it is obvious that he has taken it one step further. The Freedom Machines have two drummers, a guest singer, violin, backup guitars and electric piano. I can’t say I like the trend of these huge live bands. Not only is it hard to balance out all the elements in a live setting, there is also a rather large risk of the key melodies and song structures getting lost in a horny lust for the big band jam. I spend the first three songs of the set annoyed at this. The main man is not doing himself a favor here. This day I feel like his core qualities are lost behind all the members that contribute unnecessary sound. When the violin sounds squeaky and out of tune my heart sinks even more.

Kenneth has a smooth stage charm and one of the cleanest voices in Norway, and he shines better alone with his acoustic guitar or as a member of a power trio. His strengths are his guitar melodies and his ability to crank up the tempo on the power pop and join the league of the Posies or maybe Pavement. I am getting a little worried than Kenneth is sailing towards the mainstream radio vortex where there is no escape.

Modest like he is, Kenneth moves to give way to guest singer Thea Glenton Raknes known from Norma Sass and collaborations with Monzano and Little Hands of Asphalt. Sure, she has a very bright voice, but it doesn’t necesarily help Kenneth’s show. Not only does she drown in the big band, her backup vocals become just an afterword to main vocal line.

Luckily, it gets better. Just as my lonely longing for Beezewax starts to mount the band pulls some faster numbers out of the hat. Tension is relieved and I can sign the document saying that Kenneth has still got it. This might be pure guesswork from my side, but judging from his ability to find those perfect jangly power chords I would guess Kenneth grew up with some proper 90s emo bands like The Promise Ring, Sunny Day Real Estate or early Get Up Kids.

While the dreamy-eyed women up front might like the slow pop numbers it is the dip back into the 90s that makes my heart beat for the Freedom Machines. Me and the dreamers meet in the middle when he plays the radio single “You lived in a world of your own”. Live, the song is a lot more powerful than on the airwaves; the chorus is simple and catchy and you want to follow Kenneth down to the train station he sings about and just jump on a random train.

To sum it up Kenneth pulls it off after an uneven start. Too many members with too many instruments can’t hide the fact that mister Ishak is a strong songwriter with a head constantly full of good melodies. I leave the show hoping for more acoustic solo shows and a small band reduction.

Ingrid Olava: Mainstream radio yawn

Maybe Ingrid Olava should be passed by in silence? Maybe all publicity is good publicity and by writing this I will actually give her more fuel for the fire of dull piano pop. The main staged is packed, which only shows how simple the taste of the audience is. Just standing there for a few minutes gives me a sour taste in my mouth. It is too picture-perfect, it is tailored for a Showtime TV drama or coma scene in a third rate hospital series. Normally I am polite enough to at least stand there and listen to half the concert, but today I just can’t. It is just too hollow. The only good thing about this type of music is that it will be forgotten in about a year.

For the rest of the day the internationals pick up the pace. Fucked Up takes the show down to the audience with the longest microphone cable in history. The wet Norwegian audience is both surprised and thrilled to be able to high five a singer that is suddenly right in their face. Everyone, myself included, want to marry Gaslight Anthem singer Brian Fallon as he charms a couple of thousand people with his boyish good looks and strong, personal lyrics.

The rain never stops, but as the music gets better and better I start to care less. When food stands offer vegan curry and friends are plentiful I can give the thumbs up for the first day of Øya.

Torgny

Serena-Maneesh

Photos: Fredrik Klingenberg

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