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po123any.com searche Bitchyslut Save n Save Damon Albarn – provided a leisurely atmosphere in which to forget the fear of almost seeing God. The wickedly expensive pint that they serve there proved to only make me appreciate ‘London Prices’. The two young chaps happily humping against the bar only made me appreciate the subtleties of our no-eye-contact capital.
Later, the one British act on the bill, 100% Dynamite, fell totally flat on their faces at Nasa. They hardly managed to rouse the crowd into dancing at the “party” that the square peg of an emcee threatened. The poor DJing hardly helped matters, as they played an unfamiliar and self-indulgent set that never had a chance in hell of sparking the attentions of the locals. You’d be better off taking notes on how to empty a lively room in record time.
The ominously cloudy sky that evening not only lent to a lack of Aurora Borealis tomfoolery that evening but also to a decidedly moist morning the following day. This is more like it. The blazing sunshine and slight winds had baffled and disoriented me up until now but this constant and torrential rain is exactly what I had been expecting. Perfect.
What to do in such weather but stroll around this bounteous city? So off I trotted. Upon exiting one shop deep in the centre I was faced with a vision of ultra-pink. In the middle of the pavement was a young lady in a shocking pink bomber jacket and an even more shockingly short skirt that garnished some shoes in a more garish shade of ankle breaking. Wearing sunglasses that failed to dwarf her personality, she stood clutching a white lace parasol in one pink satin-gloved hand and a cigarette in the other. Obviously, inquiries were duly made.
Raz: “Excuse me… what are you doing?”
Pink Girl: “I am the Icelandic Eurovision Song Contest entry”
Raz: “In which year exactly?”
Pink Girl: “Come to my book launch tonight.”
Raz: “OK.”
She handed me the ticket. It read: “Silvia Night – International Superstar”. If there was ever an invite that warranted further investigation, it was most certainly this one. Upon arrival, suited and booted, it was pleasing to see that the beer was handily labelled ‘lager’ and so I handily labelled the mojitos ‘death’. It was always going to be one of those evenings.
After waiting in a cramped upstairs balcony bar with – I was reliably informed – every last one of Iceland’s broadcasting luminaries for almost three hours, Silvia Night turned up more than just fashionably late. Carried in on a throne by men wider than they were tall, Miss Night was resplendent in a gold and black ensemble. Almost unrecognisable from earlier in the day, she stayed seated while celebrities such as the Sugarcubes’ Einar Orn recited her poetry. Oh, how she laughed.
“Wham! Bam! Lick my ham!
Whoom! Boom! Shake my cahoon!
Shimmer! Glimmer! I am the winner!
Hoosie! Smoosie! And this is my bootie!”
After just a matter of minutes she was up and making her away round the room, a parody of herself, everyone and everything that went before her. Why the hell didn’t the UK think of putting Ali G into Eurovision? This is surely genius. After she kissed the air surrounding each of my chops, she looked me straight in the eye, stroking my jaw with her golden talons.
Raz: “You look so amazing. I love you.”
Silvia Night: “Do you know what Madonna wrote as the foreword for my book?”
Raz: “MySpace me? I love you?”
Silvia Night: “My boyfriend is just over there. Look.”
Raz: “OK.”
Shot down, aeons before I could even get into a blaze for some glory, I trundled back down the hill vowing to make sure that, somehow, she must win Eurovision. It is the only way. I stopped off at Kaffi Brennslan for another pint of “ng” before going back to see some more bands.
Little did I know that Stórsveit Nix Noltes were going to blow my socks right off with their stunningly complex Balkan folk-influenced rhythms and harmonies. The Icelanders got the locals off their feet and dancing in front of the stage in a way that 100% Dynamite failed in dismally the previous night. Despite some core members being absent tonight, SNN proved to be the highlight of the Rite Of Spring festival.
The last night saw a blues band rattle along within their own means and a meandering Scottish-South American hybrid in Salsa Celtica. The latter served to only remind me that Brazil would win the World Cup this summer after Wayne Rooney’s gammy foot scuppered any little chance we ever had of winning the blasted thing.
On a brighter note, my last night was spent in the company of a Miss Reykjavik finalist and Miss Iceland hopeful who explained, with various pointed fingers and shaken behinds, that ‘Raz’ means ‘arse’ in Icelandic. Who would’ve thought it?
Source:
Article in Drowned in Sound 2006
articles/829792
