FRONTLINE/WORLD . ICELAND - The Future of Sound . Reporter's Notebook: World Music's Global Reach
By Marco Werman
Centuries ago, gypsies took Indian ragas, which originally were played on sitars, along with them to the Balkans. There they played these ragas on brass at punk rock speed and made wildly popular wedding music.
Slaves took pentatonic West African kora music and turned it into the blues. The blues funneled back to the rest of the world to become the Rolling Stones and also an Argentine rock-rap outfit, Todos Tus Muertos.
Celtic airs were transformed by cowboys into country-western ballads. Shania Twain, someone I consider an alleged C&W star, has just recorded a Bollywood CD for the Indian subcontinent.
Slaves took pentatonic West African Kora music and turned it into the blues. |
Musical tour buses of various sorts have been traveling in this way for hundreds of years. Some forms of music never break out of a narrow niche. I've found it especially intriguing, over the years, to search out the sounds that have been touched only slightly by the global process of adaptation.
In the late 1980s, I had the odd experience of moving from West Africa to northern New York State. I did a mental double take when I realized how similar the mountain fiddlers in the Adirondacks seemed to the lute players in the court of the Morgho Naba in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. Both the fiddlers and lute players are equally immune to the touch of modernity.
Wherever I go to report on music, whether it's Brazil or Brooklyn, I listen to both. I listen to the artists who carry a roots torch. And I listen to those who successfully modernize music.
All over the world, I've gone in search of the best new music made by artists who relish living in the global village. These musicians are keenly aware of their roots, environment and history, and they don't copy the well-marketed Anglo-American pop sound.
That explains, more or less, why I went to Iceland, a place I'd never been to before.
From the air, the island appears uninhabited and entirely impervious to cultural osmosis -- which is partly why the whole notion of this country becoming a hotbed of international pop seems so surprising. People who have been to Iceland often compare the sensation with landing on the moon.
My Icelandair flight from Boston arrived at Keflavik airport around 6 a.m. Moonlight reflected off the ripples of the Atlantic Ocean. We touched down between tiny runway lights. Treeless land and large expanses of rock spread out on all sides.
Even before September 11 and since the fall of the Soviet Union, many Icelanders have wondered why the base is still part of their landscape. Center and left politicians in Iceland recently have curried popular favor by calling for closure of the Keflavik base and ending the 1951 treaty.
It may be hard at first to understand the relevance of this history to Icelandic music. Here, though, is one connection. When I asked a few of the musicians what they thought about the base, most of them simply shrugged. Many used a variant of the Fifth Amendment I've often heard invoked by young musicians: "My music isn't political." But last year in Austin, Texas, at the South by Southwest music conference (SXSW), I interviewed a raucous hip-hop rock band from Iceland called Quarashi. They broke in a big way onto the American scene after SXSW, taking part in the madness of the Warped Tour. Their number "Stick 'Em Up" spits with venom about the base at Keflavik.
I bomb the mic like a fascist, Mussolini comin' through with no remorse, from the dark you won't see me. Rise up from the sea like a Godzilla straight up through your mind with my armor-plated drilla.Perhaps the anti-American military symbolism is hard to read at first, but this anonymous fan at a Quarashi message board understood it: "This song is the best sing (sic) ever," he wrote. "Kick that Yankee arse!" Quarashi's drummer and main songwriter, Solvi Blondal, a tightly wound blond guy with electric blue eyes, explained to me, "We don't want this army, the American army -- or any army -- in this country."
That comment came back to me as I tried to make out what part of Keflavik was the airport and what part the air base. But eventually I stopped craning my neck and fogging up the bus window, settling in for the hour-long ride from the orange floodlights of Keflavik through the inky Icelandic morning to my hotel.
What makes the music distinctly Icelandic, though, is a symbiotic relationship with the cold, the long nights and the island's moonlike geography. The modern world provides ways of girding against Iceland's inhospitable environs. There's always the option of going out for the ubiquitous doner kebab at the busy late-night Turkish fast-food joints in Reykjavik or for a beer in one of the city's warm pubs. Public desire for diversion from the bare surroundings and sub-Arctic isolation has been a key to the success of Iceland's two main bodies of art -- its pop music and its stories.
Icelandic music has a symbiotic relationship with the cold, the long nights, and the island's moonlike geography. |
The Sagas were supposedly recited around fires during long, frigid nights (presumably accompanied by strong and abundant spirits). These tales were Iceland's first pop entertainment. Many of them are set in Norway, like one of my favorites, the Saga of the Faeroe Islanders. In it, a wise, respected leader is harassed by the Norwegian king. But instead of submitting to the king, the wise man leaves with others to find freedom in -- where else? -- Iceland.
The view out my window gave me the trippy feeling of floating above the rocky crust of the island through icy air and aurora borealis. |
Iceland's young musicians have something of tabula rasa on which to work because there's not much of an instrumental tradition. Roots music is limited mostly to vocal music based on the verses in the Sagas, in which the sounds inchoate, breaking, even pained. The main characteristic of all these cold styles is that there is not a lot going on, either rhythmically or in terms of range.
Much of the year, Iceland's natural rhythm lies in a cryogenic state. And though stillness may bring quiet to the music, it's not always calm. In the sounds of Iceland's pop artists, who tread through the stillness, there are also moments when they evoke something akin to a primal scream.
The album is decorated with a pattern of brainwaves. This was the concept behind the graphics, as explained in the liner notes: "Magnus Blondal Jóhannsson, the pioneer composer of electronic music in Iceland, was kind enough to let Kitchen Motors perform a brain scan on him while listening to the music contained on this CD. While most people would find the sterile hospital environment unnerving, Magnus drifted into a completely relaxed alpha state."
This kind of Icelandic avant-pop will not be heard any time soon on the average American's CD player. But such a limitation doesn't deter the thousands of young musicians and music fans in Iceland from diving into the unknown.
"There is a willingness to try new things in Icelandic music," Jóhann said. That's supported in part by a belief among some of the Icelandic public that trying new things is in itself virtuous.
Sometimes there's an overabundance of such virtue. On the last night of the Iceland Airwaves festival, for example, over yells of Icelandic ravers, Kristin Bjork, one of the key players at Kitchen Motors, told me excitedly about a sonic artist she had seen perform in a recital at the Institute for Contemporary Art in London. His piece involved a dictaphone, and at the end of it, the man fell off the stage. No one was sure whether it was an accident or intentional. "It was brilliant," Bjork reported.
Kitchen Motors supports the most offbeat artists it can find, pairing them with unlikely collaborators -- a stark contrast to the American music industry, which, if you go by the Grammy Awards, seems to honor the least offbeat.
Not having any real musical roots icons like a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan or a Woody Guthrie or a Salif Keita, Iceland is creating its own roots music now.
This was a strangely reassuring thought to have upon leaving Iceland. I'd discovered a paradoxically ultramodern tradition of ultracool indigenous sounds. Any notion I'd harbored that Iceland's music had developed in a vacuum was jettisoned by this trip. Iceland has been connected to the rest of the world for a long while.
That means that the modernity in Icelandic music is both foreign and familiar. It sounds almost exactly the way you might expect: cold, but warm.
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