The PA and Personal A

With Airwaves in yesterdays memory, we thought we should post this account/review of the event:

Icelandairwaves: Gaukur á StönG: 21.oct 2005 <<<

The last time I saw Einar örn, it was 1992. Still with the Sugarcubes and opening the night for U2, he stood in front of 65,000 aghast Americans ranting and raving in some unspeakable tongue while wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the one-word slogan, “Fuck.”

Although Friday night he was cloaked in a rather fatherly looking rugby shirt and a pair of khakis, 13 years haven’t done much to dim the fire of Iceland’s godfather of punk rock.

Fronting his new outfit, Ghostigital, Einar örn not only blew out the venue’s speakers with his grinding, menacing electro assault, but he was actually forced from the stage when the soundman cut his sound. “You expect three things when you come to a show,” a visibly pissed Einar örn snarled to the crowd after the plug was pulled. “One, that we (Einar örn and knob-twiddling partner Bibbi Curver) show up; two, that the rest of the band shows up; and three, that you’re given a sound system that works.”

Einar örn only got two of his wishes Friday night at Gaukur á Stöng. But still, there was enough mayhem before the fireworks to drive home the point (like a dentist’s drill to the temple, if you will) that the old man still has the ability to incite a crowd to the heights of madness when he wants to. From the very first song, the packed room took on the frightening aura of a pep rally in the underworld.

Industrial grind ripped straight from Aphex Twin, bass sounds that shook the marrow of your bones, saxophones that bellowed ike fog horns, guitars that took to your ears like whirling machete blades. And above it all the grimacing visage of Einar örn, our captain on this party barge to hell. Combined with the strobe-lit lightshow, it was an epileptic’s worst nightmare. In fact, the only sweetness bleeding off the
stage was the sight of Einar örn’s baseball cap- wearing son bleating away on a coronet. And come to think of it, that was kind of creepy, too.

But as Ghostigital rallied the troops for teeth grinding finale, Not Clean, the speakers finally gave way. A crackle. A pop. And then awkward silence. Not exactly the way you’d want to end such a hair-raising set, but then again, the only other fitting conclusion would’ve been to torch the place.

BART BLASENGAME for
www.grapevine.is