Published August 4, 2010
Am I the only one not entertained by this stupid gypsy-folk shtick? This ridiculous bullshit pretty much writes itself and should by no means consider itself music, but if it’s comedy you’re looking for, and you find yourself entertained by adequately-rhymed tales of slapstick debauchery, not wearing underwear, amnesiacs, bad dancers and extremely fat people, then look no further. You may also find yourself entertained by the hideous liner art; the fact that the artwork manages to be dumber and more unbearable than the lyrics is a feat of no small accomplishment.
But that’s the thing: the tight traditionalism of the song craft and smooth, grandpa-friendly production tells a tale other than that of anarchic comedians. I think Ljótu Hálfvitarnir secretly long for nothing more than to be a pop band, filling dancehalls full of loving revellers singing along to every word, and, sure enough, there’s a catchy hook or two in every other song, but the lameness deftly conspires to bury it all under a mound of prepubescent ‘humour’.
BL: They may be idiots, but that’s no excuse.
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