Niceland

A quick stroll through downtown Reykjavik is all you need to understand why the birth rate is so high in Iceland (at 2.4 kids, it’s the highest in Europe) and why the music scene is so absurdly prodigious: There’s absolutely nothing else to do.

I got back last night from three days at Iceland Airwaves, a music festival that was the most fun I’ve had in a while. I attended the festival with two friends and came back with at least four new ones. We hopped from venue to venue – including a church, an art museum, a basement, and one hideous ski chalet-ish bar where the floor was higher in the front than in the back – seeing bands until past two in the morning. Then we hit the after parties until four or five.

For me, what was so unusual about this festival was the mixing between the artists and the press – so much so that one of the buses to the Blue Lagoon party (more on that in a minute) was for “Artists and Press.” Probably because I deal with artists who are much more famous than the ones who played in Iceland, I’m used to attempts to keep me as far away as possible from artists unless I’m doing an interview or a specific piece. But here the artists weren’t only on our bus – they were on the streets and they were at the after parties (in the case of the Kaiser Chiefs, DJ’ing the parties), and there was no VIP room. By the end of the festival I was on hugging terms with more than a few of my favorites.

And the Blue Lagoon party: This is the festival’s infamous hangover party, held about 1 p.m. Saturday in a geothermal pool. Much as I dreaded putting on a bathing suit – especially in front of skinny indie rockers and their equally tiny hangers on – I knew I’d be missing out if I skipped it. And I would have -- it was hilarious: Aforesaid skinny indie rockers cavorting in the water with white silica mud masks on their faces, drinking (blue) vodka drinks. (Indie rockers are hardly known for their well-scrubbed appearances, so a running joke among my friends was that we were safe in the knowledge that the musicians had had a bath at least once this weekend. Maybe you had to be there.) For the record, the time we were allotted in the water – about 90 minutes, max – thankfully was not enough for the party to degenerate into a frat party in the water. But the artist and press bus smelled like puke on the way home, not that that stopped one Swedish reporter and his friend from drinking seven cans of Viking on the 45 minute trip back to downtown Reykjavik. Ugh.

I was sad to see the festival end, but not that sad – frankly, I’m too old to stay up that late for more than three nights, and I actually used earplugs once or twice because it was that loud. (Lest I sound that old, I should point out that earplugs were bought for me by 23-year-old Canadian reporter. Then again, I should point out that 23-year-old Canadian reporter decided not to meet up on the last night with an Icelandic girl he’d met the day before because “then I’ll be up until eight in the morning.” Hello, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at 23 – and then promptly brag to all your friends about it?)

Other people clearly had no problem carrying on drinking – I have a picture of a group at the airport who had at least 20 empty bottles of beer at their table. And on the plane on the way home, someone started doing somersaults in the aisle.

It was great to go, but it’s good to be home.