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I was happily surprised to find it not raining when I woke up on the morning of August 12th, 2006. I rode my bike into the centre of Oslo to run a bunch of errands and then went back to my site to freshen up before heading down for the final evening of Øyafestivalen.
I had perused the concert schedule for tips on the evening’s entertainment, but though the program held a remarkable amount of info it was all in Norwegian. I had considered not going down until later in the day until I noticed that a band scheduled to play at 3pm called KILLL included a member of a Norwegian band I really, really dug called Jaga Jazzist. “What the heck,” thought I.
Oh, the rewards I would reap for making that decision!
KILLL was two guitars, a bass, and the drummer (and main dude) from Jaga Jazzist, and each guy had a significant amount of electronics going on as well, stacked up as they each were with rack-mounts full of drum machines and noise effects. The band played composed and freeform black metal with a severe and unstoppable vengeance, and they were playing it just for themselves.
I say that because KILLL played their set from behind a backdrop. That’s right, the band was behind a huge backdrop (that was full of those diamond-shaped patterns that bug out your eyes and look like they’re moving) that prevented the audience from seeing any of the musicians. Unfortunately (I thought) there were cameramen behind the backdrop shooting the band for the big screen, though they were being very obscure about the camera shots, and the stage was drenched in opaque dry ice the whole time.
Finally, after 40 minutes(!), right on a huge break (these guys were really tight) the backdrop fell all at once and the band roared into the crowds faces, and the audience went totally, utterly ballistic. Oh my goodness, it was such an amazing release to be a part of – I’ll never forget it..
After KILLL’s set I sat on the grass in a slight state of shock, and I was zoned out enough to not notice that the roadies were busily loading appliances onto the stage for the next act.
I remember wondering if it had been a mistake to come to this fest instead of seeing more of rural Norway. After all, instead of cycling up the west coast of the country, on a whim I had put my bike on a train after seeing a poster advertising Beck, Yoko Ono, Morrissey and others at this festival in Oslo. Don’t get me wrong, I’d been having a great time, but the next act took any question from my mind. Hurra Torpedo was one of the most joyous musical experiences I’ve ever had. Easily in the top five, likely top three.
As the MC began to introduce Hurra Torpedo I stood up and surveyed the stage. In the centre of the stage where the drums traditionally stood were three or four kitchen stoves and a deep freezer. On stage right there was another stove holding a big, aluminium pot of some sort and a large speaker cabinet. Stage left had yet another stove and a double-stack of speaker cabinets.
Three men came onstage to huge response, each wearing identical blue Adidas track suits (I believe Hurra Torpedo predate The Beastie Boys, and apparently the band has always dressed this way) with their butts half to three quarters hanging out. The um, let’s call him ‘drummer’ – who incidentally was also a tv star and had recently been voted Sexiest Man In Norway – took his place behind all the appliances and picked up a big steel rod, while two guitarists took their places on either side of him, standing on top of their own (amplified) stoves.
And then – believe it or don’t – they played really, really good rock music, the two guitarists jumping up and down on their stoves while the drummer opened and closed the deep freezer to mimic a bass drum and used his other arm to beat the heck out of his own stoves to cover the snare and cymbal parts. Try to picture that!
Sure, it was novelty, but it was more than that – it truly rocked. For the second tune one of the guitarists and the drummer each held four-foot long serrated metal bars in obvious phallic fashion, and while the other guitarist sang and played they created a remarkably cool and consistent rhythm section by having simulated sex with their appliances. One of the guys was simultaneously spanking his own hanging-out butt (which was also mic-ed). It was as funny as it was silly; as musical as it was creative.
The band did a lot of talking between songs (that I, of course, could not understand) and people were laughing their heads off. I asked a guy beside me what was going on and he told me that despite the fact that Hurra Torpedo were Norwegian, part of their shtick was to pretend to be from Sweden and to speak with very poor, obviously fake Swedish accents. I can’t imagine how much more I would have liked them if I could only get the jokes!
The answer would be ‘none’. It was impossible for me to like Hurra Torpedo any more. They already had 100% of me.
Then they played a cover of Britney Spears’ Toxic and jammed it out for twenty minutes or so with the whole audience singing along. Gosh, it was so awesome.
The guy I had been talking to seemed to know a lot about the band so I asked him what he knew about Black Debbath, an amazing heavy metal band who had blown me away the previous day. Their set had been so over-the-top that I couldn’t tell if they were a parody or the real deal.
“It’s the same guys,” he told me, pointing towards the stage. My jaw hit the floor.
“What?!?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed with a smile. “These guys are part of a collective that makes up thirteen different bands.” Holy moley. “One time they held an entire festival with just their thirteen bands playing.”
I think that might just be the coolest thing I’d ever heard about a band. I mean Hurra Torpedo was so good, and Black Debbath had blown me away so much I had shelled out a fortune for one of their CD’s; would I love all these bands? Probably.
Hurra Torpedo played a bunch more original songs and it never got old. Aside from a consistent high compositional quality, each tune had something unique going on and I loved it all. During one song the drummer ground a hand-held blender into his stove making just the coolest sound; they were so damn creative.
Late in the set I was able to call one of the songs from just the first half-bar; “Omigod, they’re playing When Doves Cry,” and sure enough they did – start to finish – and it was beautiful, even with the cheesy lyric alterations that changed the chorus to When Stoves Cry and included a couple of mild zingers like “Maybe I’m just like that freezer, too cold…”. It turned out the Prince song was just the first half of a major one-two punch because they followed up with the song that made them famous in Norway (so I was quickly told), Total Eclipse Of The Heart, by Bonnie Tyler. Their version is easily findable on youtube, and it’s well worth watching.
By the end of the set all the appliances had been completely destroyed, and the last sound the band made was when the drummer miraculously lifted an enormous train wheel over his head and smashed it down onto his entire appliance setup, thereby eliminating any possibility of an encore. I mean that wheel looked like it must have weighed 200lbs! Then, with their butts still hanging out, all three of them a little bit bloodied and a whole lot sweaty, Hurra Torpedo left the stage and I could only stare blankly in their wake, utterly agog at the spectacle.
When I finally pulled my senses together I hit the smallest stage of the festival to see Kieran Hebden (a British electronic dude), and Steve Reid (an old-school jazz drummer). It was just the two of them onstage and the whole set was improvised, and like everything else I had experienced at Øya it was truly excellent. And again there was a big crowd. It was so encouraging to see a fifteen-year-old kid (not to mention hundreds of them) grooving to completely experimental freeform jazz/electronica that was completely devoid of any discernible dance beat. It was also inspiring to see how much Steve Reid was clearly enjoying playing this new music. That old dude had played with lots of legends along the way and he was eyes-rolled-back into it the whole time. It was awesome.
I hopped offsite for some reasonably priced food and made it back just in time for the beginning of Yoko Ono’s set. When I first saw this festival advertised I remember wondering what kind of audience Yelping Yoko run might run up against (by the way, I am a fan of Yoko’s music), but after hearing so much experimental stuff in the previous few days I figured the Øya audience would be right up her alley.
Well, it turns out they know their shinola around here.
Yoko seemed nervous and unsure of herself, and in between reading lyrics from a booklet she held in her hand she let out her very disjointed and seemingly out-of-place signature howls, and the audience for the most part didn’t seem to be buying it. At one point she went to her props table (oh yeah – she had a table full of Dada-esque items that she could choose from) and put on a black hood and held her arms out menacingly. She quickly took that off and picked up a doll swathed up to look like a baby, parading it twice around the stage. Finally she put on a white leather jacket smeared in blood, and just like that she was done with the props table.
Her last song (after only forty minutes) was Give Peace A Chance, and she milked it for all she could, despite leading the crowd in singalongs that came in on the wrong bars, leaving the musicians to frantically make up time. When she was done she left stage, coming back to tell us, “When we say ‘give peace a chance’ it’s not just words, it can be real!
“So just say ‘Peace’ and it will be.”
Okay Yoko.
Beck came on next to close out the festival and played a standard rock show which was a bit of a letdown after the weekend of crazy new music I’d been hearing. It was still a fun concert, featuring a really neat gag that had four puppeteers operating marionettes representing each of the band members, and these marionettes lip-synched all the parts for the whole show live onstage. And the very best part was that the puppets were the only thing that appeared on the big screen for the whole show. The puppets even had a little big screen behind them, with little cutouts of puppeteers operating the puppets for their little show, if you see what I mean.
Gosh, how I loved Beck for that puppet shtick. It was so great.
As was Øyafestivalen in general. In fact, Øya Fest was such an unbelievably kickin’ festival I’m shocked that I haven’t returned.
Yet.
Todd Man Out 