Moshing In Stykkishólmur: Visiting Metal Festival Sátan’s Sophomore Iteration

Sátan’s second year brings more heavy metal to Snæfellsnes

As the seventh issue of Grapevine goes to print, I hop in a car and head out to Snæfellsnes. I’ve missed the first four acts of the Sátan festival, and I’m determined to see some of the first night. The fledgling metal festival is on its second iteration this year in Stykkishólmur, and is organised by legend of the scene, Gísli Sigmundsson.

“A moment of silence for all who died in the Cod Wars… So many fish.”

After stopping no less than four times for sheep crossings, I drive into town with windows down, guessing that I’ll just be able to hear the festival rather than routing to the venue (I was right). Metalheads have replaced basketball players in Stykkishólmur’s sports centre, and I’m in the pit within minutes for Brain Police. I’m with a group of festival delegates and one laughs, saying, “I bet Reykjavík just sounds like cover bands tonight!”

Sororicide, photo by Sigvaldi Ástríðarson

The crowd is buzzing for the final act of the night: Gísli’s band Sororicide is resurrected for one night only for their final show ever. Everyone’s joyously thrashing, and this is my first mosh of the festival. I emerge from the venue sweaty, happy, and a little bruised.

Metal is for everyone

Sátan is a multifaceted festival, boasting an off-venue conference programme with everything from a guitar clinic with the wildly talented Þráinn Árni Baldvinsson to a keynote speech from beloved metalhead (and former president of Iceland) Guðni Th. Jóhannesson.

The conference veers topical, exploring the question of whether it is okay for metal bands to use Old Norse symbols or stories in their craft. “If you’re trying to get more Spotify plays, that’s just tacky,” declares Snæbjörn Ragnarsson of Skálmöld on the matter. Skálmöld are pioneers here, as Snæbjörn crafts lyrics based on the Icelandic sagas, using Old Norse poetic structure.

Guðni Th. Jóhannesson, photo by Karl Ágúst Guðmundsson

Author and medieval philologist, Teresa Njarðvík, argues that as long as a band knows exactly what they’re using and what it means, the use of these is okay. Though, at one point, Teresa has to tell an audience member that their tattoo (taken from runic writing done by Snæbjörn for Skálmöld) “regrettably has spelling errors.”

Former president Guðni Th. takes the stage as the keynote speaker for the last discussion on the Friday schedule. “Why is it considered strange or weird that a person in a position of power has an interest in heavy metal?” he asks. He presents the argument that metal groups like Skálmöld are doing invaluable work to pique younger generations’ interest in the sagas, and this should be celebrated and continued.

In the pit

The festival itself was saturated with so many good moments that it’s difficult to include them all. “A moment of silence for all who died in the Cod Wars,” said Liverpool-based death metal ensemble Carcass at one point. “So many fish,” they clarify.

But my highlight of the festival is undeniably hardcore punk legends Discharge. The musicians, most of whom have been active in the group since 1977, chant, “Fuck the police,” “Fuck Donald Trump,” and, “Fight the system, fight back.” The crowd noticeably shifts younger by 20, if not 30, years. Friends from Andrými, young punks in No Borders shirts, and this year’s Músíktilraunir winners, make up the front rows. At least three people are in the air crowd-surfing at all times. I’m thrust upward at one point, and sail across the delightful mayhem.

I’m newer to metal, and given this is my first time at a metal festival, I took to asking some of the surrounding metal veterans for observations on their scene. Martin Kvam, a record label manager from Norway, tells me, “Whether we’re working the stage or the floor, everyone’s friends.” This proves to be true; I watch metalheads excited to see security guards, seemingly knowing each other from previous fests, teenagers from Stykkishólmur selling merch headbanging along with the crowd, and a group dramatically embrace after a harsh session of moshing against each other.

And the entire town is there for the final show of the festival, Skálmöld. The beloved metal/Icelandic traditional group takes the stage, and everyone around me sings along. I see two with locked arms over each other’s shoulders, screaming every word. I think back to a quote from a panel discussion where someone said, “We have no respect for genre, which is why Iceland doesn’t sound like anyone else.” This is true: Skálmöld and everyone else have shown that successful experimentation is in action at Sátan this year.

As Skálmöld’s set winds to a close, I leave fulfilled, heart thumping, and crank the volume on other new genre-bending Icelandic music as I drive into the midnight sun.

Huge thanks to Sátan and Iceland Music for getting us into the pit, and Go Car Rental for the wheels.