Peek-a-boo, we see Yelle

Photos by Andrew Parks

While this post marks the end of our photo set overview of the Airwaves festival, we still have a number of stories to share, including last week’s Top 5 performances and a thorough Icelandic music package that’ll run in the third digital issue of self-titled later this year. For now, here are some of the last sets we’ll remember from one of the most rewarding fests self-titled’s ever witnessed.

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Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

We’ll get more into Crystal Castles‘ Airwaves meltdown later this week, in an exposé that just might make you rethink their whole ‘punk as fuck’ ethos—a meticulously-controlled image that’s been spread through major SPIN and NME features as of late.

For now, though, self-titled would like to share photographic evidence of Alice Glass in heat, a few songs before she tossed Tunglid’s house drum kit into an over-capacity crowd that ate up her every move. Alice Rotten antics aside, the venue’s staff wasn’t too amused. Considering the 8-bit-chomping, oh-so-dangerous duo was flown here all the way from Canada, it was unfortunate to see them disrespect the fest with a series of (staged?) temper tantrums. Yeah, we dig their music; the band’s post-apocalyptic debut is a wonderful catchy and caustic concoction, a promising taste of things to come … if they don’t self-destruct first. Or is that simply what they want us to think? Hmmm …

Oh, by the way: sorry for the ghost-in-a-machine look of these photos, but that’s what happens when a band insists on shutting all stage lights off and telling photographers—festival-issued pass or not—to essentially go fuck themselves.

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Ólafur Arnalds goes looking for the leprechaun at the end of Iceland’s famous ‘Golden Waterfall’

Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

If you’re from a major city and have never been to Reyjkavík before, finding yourself lost at 1 a.m. on a weeknight is both disorienting and a bit scary. Namely because the place is so quiet, with just one 24-hour store shilling 7-Eleven-esque fare and a ridiculous amount of lubricant. (Seriously; the 10-11 spot—way to be original with the name, guys—in the middle of the downtown area has a healthy assortment right by the register instead of, say, candy or packs of gum.)

As we found out on Friday, the reason for the unsettling silence is Iceland’s work-hard-and-party-harder policies, which reminds self-titled of the slories we’ve heard about Tokyo, a place that also appears reserved at the office and home … until Friday hits. While all Icelandic bars and clubs must be closed by 1 a.m. during the week, they’re open until 6 on the weekend. Which basically means a balls-to-the-wall vibe of broken glass, everywhere, people pissing in the streets like they just don’t care. And mating. There’s lots of mating.

To give you an idea of the contrast between Icelandic natives at night and the peaceful facade they project during the day, our summary of Friday shots is heavy on the crowd photos, with a nice counterpoint of Ólafur Arnalds taking us out into the locales you’d hit while on the country’s popular “Golden Circle” tour.

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Photos by Andrew Parks

It’s all coming back to us …

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A local Reyjkavík store sticks it to the country’s prime/finance ministers

Photos by Andrew Parks

So we’re finally out of the frozen tundra/Lord of the Rings fantasia that is Iceland and ready to share a stack of coverage from Airwaves ‘08. Since almost every interview we scheduled turned from a one-hour affair to (A) an afternoon exploring the outskirts of Reykjavík or (B) an entire midnight-to-6 evening crawling the bars and clubs of the city’s Brennivín-fueled beating heart, we’re saving our extensive Iceland package for the third issue of self-titled, out sometime this winter. For now, expect a string of photo sets, band profiles and reviews over the next couple days, beginning with a daily rundown of candid and live photos from the fest—everything from CSS to Crystal Castles to the astounding amount of local acts that blew us away better than South by Southwest has in years. What can we say; we wish you could have been there, but since you weren’t, here’s the next best thing …

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Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

The snow—mounds of fluffy, sticky white stuff that gave our camera a serious case of lock jaw—was only the half of it. From the first squiggly synth line to the last strike-a-pose strut of vocalist Daníel Ágúst Haraldsson, GusGus‘ live trio set was easily one of the most electrifying dance music performances self-titled’s ever seen. Yeah, it was a little heavy on the gay-house tip, and while there’s nothing wrong with that, such a subgenre can, and did, sound a little over the top. Which was the point, really. Ágúst looks and acts like a soulful version of Rufus Wainwright—pouting, preening and prancing while belting out jilted lover lyrics that sting like a couple slaps to the face. Don’t believe us, though. Study the shots below and make sure you see these guys the next time they’re in your town …

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Text/Photos by Andrew Parks

According to Ben Frost, the producer of their freshly-minted LP (The Blood), “Reyjkavík’s the real deal. They remind me a lot of At the Drive-In.”

An At the Drive-In reference on the first day of Iceland’s Airwaves music festival, as we’re fading fast from a red eye flight that left no time for napping or a proper meal? Um, we’re so there.

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