From Iceland — A Midsummer Night's Boogie

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GAS

I have to note that going to a Trentemöller concert is a special event for me. Arriving at Tunglið, I pondered if it would be a challenge to remain completely unbiased in my review. The night before I had witnessed a bulletproof performance by the Danish DJ at Kaffibarinn, something which undoubtedly increased my admiration for the disc-jogging prodigy substantially. To my surprise, I soon found out that the night would prove more of an ordeal than a treat. The doormen at Tunglið started off by giving me and my companion the finger when we said we were with the Grapevine. To our luck, one of the promoters glimpsed at us and immediately rectified that mistake. Once I entered the crowded and immensely sweaty dance-floor, packed with e-popping, pink-tank-top-wearing hooligans stuck in ’92, the additional sound system brought in for the event blew me away and made a genuine club atmosphere.
Trentemöller is not hard to describe but his jogging structure is dazzling, and his enigmatic shifts between tunes are top-notch and offer a unique chance to lose yourself on the dance-floor. His mind-blowing dynamic had all my attention until I found a gooey dash of liquid drip down my shoulder. I gave the unwanted visitor a sniff assuming it was only beer, a common companion to Reykjavík night life, but the smell was heinous and not a bit beer-like.
My head went spinning in the astronomical fright that someone’s special liquid had bombarded me and I decided to have some fresh air. When my thoughts had cooled down the aforementioned doormen wouldn’t under any circumstances let me in again. They told me Grapevine was already in so I had to call up the promoters yet again. Kudos to the doormen at Tunglið, real gentlemen. In a rather bad mood I followed Trentemöller’s last tunes and when I walked home the thought about his fine music being destroyed by the lousy atmosphere and tedious behaviour of the venue’s staff couldn’t escape my mind – a newly laid egg in a bowl of shit.