Two hours drive from Brighton to Wasing. Two hours back. I’m not specifically a fan of Sigur Ros but Lou had tickets. Bat For Lashes was supporting and I bought a few of her CDs back when I fancied someone who liked her music. We frequently expand our music tastes because of our sex drive. I have loads of odd musical choices from people I fancied or had brief shenanigans with.
Sigur Ros was burnt onto a CD after Twelfth Night by Viola as we drove to London from Yorkshire after Sprite came down for the season. I had a laptop with CD burner and a vast catalogue of torrented music. Passengers would burn CDs. That might have been fifteen years ago? More? We were all doing it back then and we were young and maybe even a bit cool. I didn’t have shenanigans with Viola, just to make note. That was in my monk phase so I didn’t really see her or anyone else in that light. It took years for the lights to come back on. That Twelfth Night was a happy job for me and led to many lovely things.
Viola had just left RADA at the time, and went and got absurdly and deservedly famous a few years later. Back then we were all muddling along and having fun and being immediate. Much as we all still are, but she can do it with more money now, I guess, and more clout, but it’s harder for her to travel by bus. She gave me a good introduction to Sigur Ros through that mix CD. Some other weird stuff. Joanna Newsom… It was memorable. As we came into the 2am city they started a ten minute song. Some Icelandic guy singing in falsetto while everyone plays electric guitar with a cello bow. It was the one where he squeals “Tea-a-woooooooo” about fifty times like a satisfied owl.
A lot of the time Sigur Ros aren’t singing words at all. They’re making noises. It’s either high concept or pretentious depending on who you talk to. Emotive phonemes with no semantic meaning. Gobblydegook. They aren’t the first to sing nonsense phonemes of course. Gaelic folk with all the hi-dee-ibbly-gobbly-do, bibbly-abbly-goy. Blues with Rubber Biscuit. Even Leftfield in the nineties with their suspicious Djum Djim “Afro Left” lyrics where they tried to pass off getting stuck in “enga bungo” three times as “an unspecified African language” instead of bad improv. But Sigur Ros have given their gibberish a name. Hopelandic they call it, or von Lenska. Why the hell not? Makes it sound official.
So we drove to Wasing, and for the evening we were among hundreds of people as the guest of Josh, David Cameron’s cute hippy cousin who has thrown his estate open to the masses because the i-ching told him to. I went to a festival there in 2020. Not many people got to do that, but he somehow pulled it off in exchange for too many highly strung security guards causing more problems than they were solving. God we were all so neurotic. It was a wonderful festival though. And I enjoyed the concert offering tonight.
Bat for Lashes (Natasha according to Lou as she’s on the Brighton scene or was) turned out to be grounded and experimental and straightforward. She was playing with movement and meaning. I liked her. A clear set with frank addresses between tracks. Sigur Ros were timed with the sunset and played up a huge bright full moon with their mystic and unearthly crooning. You wouldn’t play their stuff at a game of musical chairs, but they set an atmosphere well enough to have made themselves rich from licensing stuff for telly. I’m happy they still tour, but I guess it’s a good way of being paid to see the world. We had a lovely concert. Better than sitting home watching Netflix, lying in a field while these curious arty musicians displayed their skill.
Sunday evening. Took a while to get back to Brighton though and it’s a schoolnight. Back to the random tomorrow early. For now though, one more night in earshot of the roaring sea. I’m off to sink into the swell.
AlBarclay 