White Lies' Icelandic saga
"There is nothing to do here except drinking and fucking. So then … this is what we do," explained an Icelandic ex-girlfriend of one of our managers. On Friday October 17 we flew to Reykjavik's Iceland Airwaves festival to find out. And play a show, of course. We had been promised both nymphs and nymphets, so we boarded the plane at Heathrow curious as to who, or what, we might find on our travels.
Iceland, unlike a lot of Europe, has a soul formed by folklore rather than history. Before coming here, we had been told stories of the nymphs and other mythical creatures that many residents believe live alongside them in underground caves and geysers. During our stay I found there was something magical but disarming about conversing with the blond-bearded locals and smiling Aryan women in broken English and knowing that they could far easier translate ancient Viking texts. When our plane touched down at Keflavík in the late afternoon sun, I was overwhelmed by the scenery. This is how Turner would paint Limbo. Ice-blue sea crashing in tempestuous foamed waves against volcanic black rocks. Rough, bleak and romantic terrain stretching as far as the eye could see. A red-and-white checked building with some purpose in the field of aviation reminded me of the Tin-Tin comic Explorers on the Moon. We entered the outskirts of Reykjavik by coach passing flatpack architecture and an abundance of nothingness. Stunningly beautiful nothingness. We weren't in the mood to hunt for bands but found one setting up in the corner of an inconspicuous bar. Part of me really hoped they were an Icelandic black metal band. My heart sunk a little when they started playing rhythm and blues. We bought two drinks each at 700 Icelandic krona apiece (about £3.50). According to locals, the price would have been double a few months ago. Our coin felt heavy, which is rare for a Brit in Europe. White Lies hadn't played a show in two weeks and there was an electric excitement and anticipation binding us together as a gang, like robbers before a heist. The IDNO venue is perfect: a theatre-cum-music-hall situated with chandeliers, panelled walls and a beautifully decorated high ceiling. A spiral staircase led to an upstairs room that we were not meant to find. A stack of demonic looking children's dolls were slumped by an old pram, some almost with their heads off. Slightly unnerved, we left. Our show was fantastic. Being a new and relatively unknown band playing in a city like this, with such a small population, is an experience you don't forget. We earned every drop of sweat and tears in our performance and any icy hearts from curious audience members were thawed after thirty seconds of our opening number. It feels so satisfying to see the first spark inside somebody's eyes, watching a band they weren't sure they would like. On our walk back to the hotel after a perfect night, one of the hundreds of blonde girls heading into town leaned out a window and shouted "England fuck". Whatever that meant, it was the first hint of any post-economic xenophobia we had felt. We left her to continue her night of drinking and fucking, while we felt proud to have found much more to do in Iceland than that. Next stop Toronto.