Looking back at Grapeviners’ stand-out festival moments
It all seems to blur into one, probably due to the drinking. In order to attend the festival as an underage visitor, some creative — however dubious — ways were implemented to loophole the venues’ age restrictions. Outfits were meticulously planned weeks in advance, trying to optimise the clothing so it could withstand the crushing November temps and the inside humidity, while at the same time looking chic. I remember the Art Museum’s tarp roof almost blowing over during a particularly angry storm in 2012; carrying Grísalappalísa’s Gunnar Ragnarsson in a sweaty crowdsurf at Gamla Bíó; and every FM Belfast show ending with a massive explosion of confetti which I duly stuffed into my pockets as a keepsake. Man, did we have fun. JB
In 2005, the Grapevine decided it was a good idea to publish daily reports during Iceland Airwaves, reviewing every show. To make this work we enlisted the help of (mostly) American music journalists in return for a bunk, brunch and booze. We stayed at concerts through the night, wrote into the morning and then went out partying.
Somehow, in the middle of this, I managed to convince my current partner to kiss me for the first time during a GusGus show at Nasa. We’re still together and have three kids.
When the festival ended, we were all worn out but felt obliged to get smashed one more time at the Grapevine offices. Booze: plenty. Food: Icelandic hotdogs. The Condé Nast writer — a five-foot, marathon-running vegan — bet some of us, including me, the Rolling Stone guy, the Details Mag (RIP) guy, and the NME lady, that she could down seven hotdogs with everything. If she could, we’d all get tattoos of her choice. I can’t remember what would happen if she lost, because she didn’t. Long story short, me and five other people have the word “Blaðamaður” tattooed somewhere on us. A tattoo, which for me at least, brings back memories of the greatest and most consequential weekend of my life. Also, the music WAS great. JTS
My very first time at Iceland Airwaves was well past the festival’s prime, they say, but I still had a lot of fun. I remember going to Airwaves and thinking how civilised it is. Hear me out: prior to IA, what I called a music festival involved sleeping in a tent in 30-degree heat only to be awakened by a [insert random name] band soundchecking and drinking beer to sober up in the morning.
Compared to my previous festival experiences, Iceland Airwaves is a cute city festival. I love walking between the downtown venues, doing that once-a-year venture to the church, or walking up Laugavegur with a beer in my hand without drawing any attention. Over the years, I’ve discovered some new bands I liked, weird stuff from the Faroes or Greenland I would probably not learn about any other way. Oh, and last year, I found what the Bombay Bicycle Club frontman looks like — a memory I’d like to erase. Aren’t all of us a bit past our prime? IZ
Being asked to name an Airwaves highlight brought up a slideshow of vivid memories. Fresh-faced, note-perfect indie hopefuls Retro Stefson taking the stage at Tunglið in 2008. Screaming drag-punk band Æla tearing the roof off Grand Rokk. A transcendental 24/7-era Gus Gus show at Nasa. Getting a front-row seat for Zola Jesus who reached out and literally touched my face as she sang a high note; the jolt of some unknowable energetic transference taking place. Getting through an existential hangover with the healing sounds of JFDR, even in a soulless hotel lobby off-venue. Nico Muhly’s spine-tingling ensemble rendition of “The Only Tune” at IÐNÓ. FM Belfast’s Ívar Pétur crowdsurfing out of Kaffibarinn, down Bergstaðastræti, then back in again. Airwaves used to be fucking wild. JR
Get in the festival spirit or take a stroll down memory lane. Follow along with the Grapevine’s Iceland Airwaves coverage.
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