After a beautiful Friday that concluded with an unforgettable My Bloody Valentine performance, from the moment we woke up it appeared that the last day of Øya wasn’t gonna be a dry one. Showering off and on pretty much all day long, the concluding Saturday, however, was saved by its variety and its copious amounts of dry ice. And no, I have no idea what that speech bubble says.

We arrived just in time for Dark Meat (above) the Athens, GA-based weirdos who live on a commune like a real rock’n'roll cult. They also rock like a real rock’n'roll band, with 12 bodies on stage including two drummers, a line of brass players and a wild child in a pink flowery dress who shakes her tambourine and she’s in an evangelical choir. Front-man Jim McHugh is a real dude, shaking his long locks like he’s in Lynyrd Skynyrd, while dropping lines about which drug inspired which song. Bergen’s Silje Nes, weren’t quite as animated as the Fat Cat-signed artist instead gave a swooning performance that at first seemed it would end restrained and pretty, though burst into a gorgeous wall of sound without warning.

Yeasayer (above) spent their first couple songs as victims of technical difficulties. Singer Chris Keating couldn’t seem to rid his mic of a pesky delay, leaving him to wander back and forth on the stage using guitarist Anand Wilder’s mic and abandoning his post. Eventually it was resolved and the band could finally loosen up, but their psych-gospel touch didn’t quite have the magic touch I was expecting from them, and their message of futuristic paranoia served as a bit of a downer especially since the sun began to shine for a brief while. Norway’s Ingrid Olava (below) also wasn’t what I was looking for. A stunning voice and a band adept to pull off her intimate sound, however, Olava’s delicate, high drama piano felt out of place outside in an environment filled with people looking for some fun. I don’t doubt she’s amazing in a dark club, however.

Atlanta’s Janelle Monae (above) made the most of her appearance by hiring hands to deliver DIY signs and buttons (thrown out to the crowd like frisbees!) and prepare the audience for something special. And it definitely was special. Though it almost felt more like a publicity stunt than an actual gig, Monae came out like a pint-sized, female James Brown, complete with the pompadour and costume changes, not to mention some serious dance moves and a voice (and mind) that I’m thinking could give her the success of OutKast, who creatively she resembles most. Diddy did well signing her to Bad Boy, because not only does she have the quirky, catchy songs in her, but arguably one of the best performances going today, thanks to a guitarist who looks like Snoop. After discovering Pirate Love (below) a couple weeks prior to the festival, I was excited to check out these trashy goth punks. It turns out, I got a little too excited because their stage presence wasn’t the sort of vicious, high-energy show I thought it would be. Instead, they just snarled a little and looked pretentious in their dashikis. Too bad.

No Age (above) filled in the void Pirate Love left me with, as I expected them to. The L.A. noise makers brought their sense of humour with them too, giving a tongue-in-cheek jab to main stage faux metallers WE, who ran a good ten minutes into their set time. As they said though, it was all about good vibes, and guitarist Randy Randall and Dean Spunt (clad in a rain poncho) brought their all-encompassing punk ruckus with the full energy they always promise live. Randy kept wandering up to the crowd, accepting hugs and pats on the back, while even wearing the cloth bag over his head a fan put on him until it fell off. I wish I could see them three times every month, like I have this past month. I actually didn’t know that the Sonics (below) had reunited until I read their name on the festival posters. It was an exciting thought to see these garage legends revive their feverish rock’n'roll. However, when they walked on stage, I actually gasped and then laughed a little. What everyone fears about reunions came true: the Sonics were no longer the cool hipsters they were 40-plus years ago, and as I should have suspected, are now just ordinary dudes in their 60s trying to fit much older bodies into their ill-fitting leather. That didn’t mean they still couldn’t bring a lot of same energy that filled timeless records like Boom and Here are the Sonics, but I couldn’t help but think these were just a bunch of my uncles reliving their prime at some family reunion. I felt bad for laughing, but I guess when they just can’t reappear almost untouched like My Bloody Valentine or even maintain their cool like the Stones, I have a hard time accepting that this is what people actually want.

We were set to shoot and watch Ingeborg Selnes but all of a sudden Andrea’s photo pass became questionable, because we never actually received a pass that had “FOTO” on it. The funny thing is, it was never an issue at any of the stages up until 8:30 on the Sunday night. Instead, we spent our time and energy correcting the situation, missing out on the Norwegian from Bodø. We did make it in time for Cut Copy (above), who in the past four months have grown into what seems like the biggest band in the world! The crowd gathered at the Sjøsiden stage proved their popularity has certainly reached Norway, and the Aussies didn’t disappoint the masses, getting everyone dancing to their flawless mix of shoegaze, blog house and synth pop, while radiating as much energy from their own bodies, which never seemed to stop moving.

I don’t think I prepared Andrea enough for what is exactly involved in witnessing, let alone shooting a Sunn O))) performance. The first five minutes was basically just a low rumble with the fog machine working overtime, being pushing to its limits as it spat out dry ice like it was fighting a fire. When the ominous bodies finally emerged, lights began to gradually appear and then the rumble grew into chest-caving thunder, while a menacing growl came through the microphone. Not surprisingly, the veteran doomsayers attracted an audience as colossal as the noise booming from the ridiculous set of Sunn-brand amps filling the stage. As we left, we could still see the smoke rising high into the sky, a memory that will forever be embedded into my brain, as the day I saw a relentless force like Sunn O))) leave thousands of mostly unfamiliar Norwegians in complete awe. The only way to end a festival!

I began the day by meeting up with Lindstrøm for an interview. We met at a local coffee shop and sat for a chat in a public square. A very nice fella who smiles a lot, he seems ridiculously humble about his music and his accomplishments, which seems crazy considering how successful and popular he is in his circle.

After that, Andrea and I headed to Medieval Park for what turned out to be an absolutely beautiful day – finally! Thanks to my ongoing confusion over which small stage is which (I can’t seem to memorize their names), we caught L.A. noiseniks HEALTH (above) instead of Brooklyn strobe-gazers A Place To Bury Strangers (below). It turned out to be a happy accident, however, as HEALTH came out with an absurd amount of energy. The three up front were completely spastic, their three bodies convulsing and exploding as they assaulted their guitars and scrambled to scream into their mics. From there they began coldcocking their samplers and jumping around like the instruments were hot potatoes. As discordant as the music was, it’s surprisingly listenable, much like their acclaimed album – maybe even more so live. We did catch some of APTBS in the end. Described as “New York’s loudest band,” my response to such a claim is “No shit!” All the warnings about headliners My Bloody Valentine and their deafening volume need to be given for this trio, too. The fuzzy drone of APTBS was almost completely overwritten by the rumble of their bass, which carried more than halfway across the festival grounds. Personally, I was expecting more strobe lights to truly make me lose my senses, but I suppose seeing them during the day limits their usual visual approach.

Dirty Pretty Things were one of the few UK bands at Øya – a statement, no doubt, of how weak Britain’s rock scene is at the moment. The Libertines offshoot didn’t do their Queen any favours, however, giving an uninspiring set of predictable, paint-by-numbers rock’n'roll that failed to produce anything but sighs from us. A few hundred feet away, Supersilent along with Nils Petter Molvær (below) kept the variety coming with their clicking and cutting improv, which to my ears, never really got off the ground. There’s a place and a time for improvisation and experimentation, like a Ukranian cultural centre or a jazz festival, but at a rock-dominated event, it gets lost in the shuffle and produces a lot of head-scratching. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for the crowd to fizzle out and turn to their beer for stimulation.

Brooklyn’s Telepathe (above) filled in for Barcelona’s El Guincho, who canceled all of his summer dates because of exhaustion. Based on their records, I felt it was a fair trade, as I was blown away by Telepathe’s 12-inch for the Social Registry label last year. On stage, however, it’s a completely different story. I enjoyed what I heard, mostly because there were a bunch of new tracks that sounded great, but they appeared really nervous and as a result, pretty standoffish. The bass was really suffocating, which I didn’t expect, and it took no time to get my ribs ticklish to the point where I couldn’t decide if I was giddy or just feeling ill. Local favourites Thom Hell were up next on the main stage. I didn’t know much about them, but it only took seconds to discover they’re Norway’s answer to Travis. That’s not a knock – their radio-friendly soft rock was very tuneful and I think they’d sell really well everywhere else too. My problem is that at times they played it a little too safe with their songs. Basically, they’re too nice!

The Bug (above) quickly took the good taste out of our mouths with a skanky DJ set for MCs Warrior Queen and Flowdan (from the Roll Deep Crew). One of the day’s unexpected highlights, instead of running through his awesome new album, London Zoo, Kevin Martin acted as “selector” for the tag team MCs, giving them grimy, bass-quaking dancehall cuts to spit over. Flowdan seemed a bit disappointed over the Norwegian energy level, constantly asking for more of it, and even tossing his drink tickets into the crowd to stir up some enthusiasm. Warrior Queen, well, she was bonkers, taking her rhymes and gestures into R-rated territory as she looked for her “hardcore lover.” I wrote about Elephant9 (below) in my column the other day, and just as I expected, they were pretty electric on stage. No surprises, I enjoyed them much more so than Supersilent, which Ståle Storløkken performed in earlier in the day, but mostly because Elephant9 actually seem to go somewhere with their improv. Armed with a couple of organs and a sturdy rhythm section, after a slow build, the trio erupted into all sorts of thrilling proggy tangents.

I know everyone back home really loves Kentucky metalcore punks Coliseum, and if I was just spinning their album I’m sure I would too, but having to endure vocalist Ryan Patterson’s incessant babbling about how there’s no God and how we’re all justing wasting our lives away really put a downer on their refreshingly visceral tuneage. Not that they’d care, but I lost any respect I ever had for them after only 15 minutes (I’ll admit, we chose just to watch them while we ate our nachos). Who wants to hear that negative bullshit on a nice sunny day? Fleet Foxes (below) were ready to go about ten minutes early, but sadly we had to wait for Coliseum to stop their whinging before the furry Seattlers could get going. Once they did, it was transcendental harmonies all the way through their gig. Buzz bands come and go, but these guys actually deserve every ounce of hype they get. They’re skilled musicians, sure, but their harmonizing is absolutely awe-inspiring, and I presume, gave everyone the same goose bumps I had. Almost as good was their banter, which was pretty funny, especially the moments when they tried to start a feud between Norway and Germany, all in good fun.

On at the same time were N*E*R*D, who I am convinced should have given up after their first album tanked – both times. I get that the Neptunes are talented musicians and at times, brilliant producers, but writing songs for themselves, well, they’re terrible. Live, they’re even worse, and I’d go so far as to say they’re nothing more than a stylish Limp Bizkit who hide behind their hip-hop cred. I mean really, trying to get a bunch of Norwegians to yell that they “wanna fuck” because they’re all “horny” just seemed vulgar and pretty lame. As a Canadian, I was a little disappointed that Øya had only one band from Canada on the bill, but if there is one band to see live from our country, it’s certainly Holy Fuck (below), who I’m tipping to win the Polaris Music Prize next month. I can’t really tell you how many times I’ve seen these Torontonians, but it’s up there, and I still have no idea what they’re doing most of the time. Working that 35mm film sequencer alone gets me excited, and the energy they put into tweaking their samplers and unplugging and replugging their gear accordingly is mind-boggling. Plus, drummer Matt Schulz is an animal!

Local cosmic disco maestro diskJokke (above) brought his band for a fleshed out performance of songs from his new, great album, Staying In. It took a while to find their groove, but once they did, they held on and really kept it going until the very end, thanks to a booming sound system and a tropical light show. I was bummed that we couldn’t give Clipse more of our time. It was pretty impressive that the Virginians Malice and Pusha T were given headlining status for the second biggest stage, considering they’re not nearly as popular as their former producers in N*E*R*D, but from what we saw, they had enough of the wandering crowd’s attention to deliver during some down time. It was at this point that the park felt over-capacity. I have a feeling it was just because there weren’t any big names keeping people’s attention, but it really was overwhelming trying to push through the bodies to get from A to B (the “B” being the overflowing portaloos).

For me, the entire trip has been a build up to witnessing the return of My Bloody Valentine. Judging by the ringing that still occupies my ears 14 hours later, didn’t disappoint. Before they came on stage, we noticed the medics handing out earplugs to the fans in the front row, and for good reason: the Valentines are notorious for being arguably the loudest live band ever. Still, I saw a lot of kids in there that had empty ears, and throughout and after the performance I wasn’t surprised when I saw a lot of people rubbing their painful ears. When Kevin (above), Bilinda, Debbie and Colm took their spots, they showed that this reunion is possibly the most justified one yet, looking and sounding better than any of the others, such as the Pixies, Dinosaur Jr and the Police.

They immediately broke into “I Only Said,” which was so unbelievably loud, I could hardly tell what it was. That was the case at first for a bunch of the songs; it took my a couple minutes to decipher which was which, mostly because I was up close to the front. (If you’re going to see this band soon, here’s a hint: stand far back from the stage, not just because it will seriously damage your hearing, but because it’s the only way to really hear the songs.) They played a lot of seminal album Loveless, and only really touched on a couple of songs from Isn’t Anything and their EPs, but really, hearing “Feed Me With Your Kiss,” with its unorthodox breakdowns and seductive chorus was a dream come true. I’m not sure what people were expecting from the band as far as the performance, but they were basically zombies, hardly moving from their spots, with the exception of drummer Colm Ó Cíosóig, who pounded away at his drums behind the glass wall. Bassist Debbie Googe, I swear, didn’t move her feet, and was spellbound by her heaving drone, while Kevin Shields appeared shy, only moving back and forth from his six-amp stack to the mic. Bilinda Butcher (above), meanwhile, appeared catatonic when she sang, judging by the spaced out look on her face on the giant jumbotron; I must say though, she looks prettier than ever and has the nicest collection of Fenders I’ve ever seen!

What it all came down to, though, was the much-talked-about “holocaust section” (above) in closer “You Made Me Realise.” Everything I’ve heard about the calculated burst of noise is true. Once it struck, I felt the ground shake, and for its 14 minutes (they couldn’t do the full 20 minutes because of curfew) we basically just laughed at how punishing and literally deafening what we were experiencing really was. I took my earplugs out for just a few seconds and I seriously believe whoever did not have them in will suffer permanent loss of hearing. It really did feel like we had stuck our heads in a jet engine. That said, it was pretty fucking spectacular! Sadistic on MBV’s part, masochistic on the audience’s part, whatever, this was a real headtrip and the highlight of the festival for me, no question.

Our third day at Øya began with a breakfast sighting of the National’s sixth man, violinist/pianist extraordinaire Padma Newsome. I must say, he has the same taste in scrambled eggs that I do – we both don’t like ours cold and runny. From that point on, we kept seeing him throughout the day, and labeled him “Eggman.”

A need for some rubber boots on what promised to be another wet day held us up, but we arrived just in time to see local act, Roger Græsberg & the Anti-Music Bonanza, who I happened to feature in today’s Click Hear. A ramshackle spectacle, they were completely off the rails, jumping around like a gang of children told they can tear the house apart. The music didn’t suffer, however, as they ripped through their various styles – garage, trash, punk and country. They even drenched some of the crowd in beer – nice. All rock’n'roll should be this visceral. Then we caught the rest of another local act, the Disciplines at the main stage, who had a giant banner behind them that read “Smoking Kills.” No, it’s not some grand statement, but a plug for their recent album. They were “main stage worthy,” with a big, dirty rock’n'roll sound, strong stage presence and some decent hooks, but nothing really stood out for me in comparison to the Anti-Music Bonanza, who were much more memorable. Okkervil River drew an enormous crowd, which I wasn’t really expecting. They sounded lovely as usual, but we didn’t really stick around.

Instead, we decided to give Moddi (above), a Norwegian singer-songwriter a shot. In the program he was compared to Sigur Rós and Radiohead, but I didn’t hear that. I hate to say it, but aside from his distinct looks, he struck me as a talented but not exactly original balladeer, who was adept enough to use more than just an acoustic guitar. I like the accordion, and think if he embraced that as his shtick, he’d stand out a lot more. One act that definitely stood out was Kenge Kenge (below), who according to Øya’s program got some of their earliest love in an Exclaim! review. I’m not an expert in Kenyan music, so Luo is new to me, but when the MC asked “Are you ready for something different?” the enthusiastic crowd certainly got what they wanted. Using an organic sound that has been unrivaled so far in a zone of electricity, the Kenyans lifted the energy level with a surplus of polyrhythmic grooves, while the Appalachian fiddler and flautist delivered the melodies, of course, while shuffling to the beat. It was all smiles from everyone, especially the fervent traditional dancers who made the performance all the more memorable.

Up next were the National (above), one of the most reliable live bands I know. No frills, just a solid, emotional punch delivered through their gloomy textures and carefully considered melodies. Mostly showcasing their latest album, Boxer, the band ran through a set that wasn’t unlike the one I sat through when they recently opened for R.E.M., and yet I was still enthralled. Few rock bands have such commanding yet unassuming presence as these Brooklynites. San Francisco’s the Dodos followed, with their excited use of acoustics, which involves using an array of booming, complex rhythms. As much as I enjoy their latest album, Visiter, this is the second time I have been less than stoked by their consistent playing yet absent stage presence. Dev Hynes, aka Lightspeed Champion (below), seemed surprised by his swelling number of spectators, and gave them a set of adorable rock posturing and a heavier concentration of distortion and feedback, opposed to his much prettier, orchestral album, Falling Off the Lavender Bridge. Nonetheless, it was just as enduring a performance, emphasized by his gift for stage banter, in which he asked if everyone was excited for Sonic Youth, joking about his intentions to leave during his set to catch theirs.

As always, the elder statespeople of the festival circuit, Sonic Youth (above) were completely energized when they came on to the main stage. Thurston Moore had the composure of a teenager, channeling it in the noise-driven, grunge era anthem “100 %”; this was my sixth time seeing SY, and the first hearing Dirty’s timeless single – I’ve gotta say, it was pretty spectacular. (As was hearing “Bull in the Heather,” another near-hit for the band that I rarely hear them play.) With a Daydream Nation-heavy set, the five-piece (including Pavement’s Mark Ibold backing Kim Gordon on bass) were as alive as I’ve ever seen them; Moore and Lee Ranaldo clawed at their guitars, using drumsticks repeatedly to either scratch the fret board, bow it or hammer it like a snare drum. Diplo (below) tried to bring the same unbridled dance party that Girl Talk did the previous night. Although he had asses shaking with his booty-bustin’, A.D.D. mastermix of electro, house, Baile funk, rave and everything in between, including balloons, without the same level of familiarity in his song selections (three-second long snippets of Daft Punk and M.I.A. were ineffective), he couldn’t quite match the overpowering mash-up of Girl Talk.

Tommy Tokyo & Starving For My Gravy (above) were an interesting bunch, led by the mightily bearded Tommy Tokyo, who resembled Jeff Daniels’ scholarly novelist in The Squid & the Whale. Like a mild-mannered Man Man or a folkier Flaming Lips, the eccentric front-man and his Gravy were an entertaining time-filler before the big two headliners made their entrances. Iceland’s Sigur Rós (below) were the first to hit stage, drawing a crowd that seemed far too much for the modest Sjøsiden stage. Beginning with what could very well be their signature tune, “Svefn-g-englar,” the band held photographers to their second song to shoot, leaving little time to run over and catch the much-hyped entrance of Turbonegro. Needless to say, the Hopelandic bunch brought an exquisite light show and sounded immaculate, delivering a gorgeous set that introduced their new taste for acoustic guitars, found on recent album, Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust.

All day it felt a bit like a Turbonegro (below) convention, in large part because of the heavy population of Turbojugend members in their personalized denim, sailor hats and painted faces (best of all was the kiddies – yes, kids in Norway love the Turbonegro!). The fanatacism reminded me a little of Kiss, who are no doubt an influence on the band’s music, make-up and marketing, though I must give Turbonegro the edge, considering how fashionable their fan base is in comparison. The main stage was covered in mystery thanks to a giant white sheet, which glowed with silhouettes as the band took the stage to perform their best album, Apocalypse Dudes. When the makeshift curtain dropped, fireworks exploded, flames spat out and the band launched into “Age of Pamparius” (best known in North America as the theme song to Wild Boyz), which had the crowd singing along to the “whoa, whoa, whoooaaaaa” chorus like it was their national anthem. They were going apeshit for Hank Von Helvete, who looked much more trim, and his gang of glamorously ugly dudes (which included an appearance by Soundtrack of Our Lives’ Ebbot Lundberg in his traditional mumu). It was great seeing Euro Boy, who was recently diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Disease, on stage wailing on the guitar, though it was hard to ignore how gaunt he looked. For many, it was already the festival’s defining moment, though I’ve gotta say I was bummed I didn’t brush up on my Norwegian, since Hank addressed the crowd in his native tongue, meaning I had to miss out on all the great self-deprecating, homoerotic humour.

All photos by Andrea England

Our second official day at Øya began with a tour of Oslo’s Opera House that was preceded by a meet and greet lunch coordinated by the Øya folks. Simply put, the Opera House is one of the most beautiful, innovative buildings I’ve ever seen, let alone visited – 500 million Euros well spent! I’ll save you the details, but check out the website linked above to find out more. It’s amazing.

After, we headed to the festival at Medieval Park, which is situated between the highway and a small lake, on some ancient ruins. An interesting location indeed. Disappointingly, umbrellas were confiscated at the gate, even as the rain began pouring down. They actually seemed sympathetic when they took them from us – it really shows how friendly Norwegians are when the security smiles at you! We made it in time to see Ane Brun, whose wistful Scando folk eased everyone entering the grounds. Maybe such an acoustic set wasn’t ideal for getting everyone revved up, but she certainly sounded lovely.

I was a little surprised at just how early their time slot was scheduled, considering the much-lesser profiles of many bands that followed, but Mogwai (above) quickly changed the atmosphere by premiering a lot of new tracks from forthcoming album, The Hawk is Howling. As well they highlighted the recently celebrated anniversary of Young Team, playing classics like “Yes! I Am A Long Way From Home” and the essential live cut “Mogwai Fear Satan,” with its swirling guitar delays and sneak attack pause halfway through, which made Andrea (my wife) jump even when I prepared her for it. Of course, it rained during the Glaswegians’ set, leading me to believe they brought the weather with them.

Wound-up Welsh lo-fi wonders Los Campesinos! came out like they’d downed a case of Red Bull, rushing from song to song Ramones-style (without the countdown though), their ramshackle mini-orchestra performing with the utmost cuteness and unbridled energy. Quite the opposite was the brooding sweetness of José González (below), who demonstrated that even chatty Norwegian crowds have difficulty respecting his tenderness. A brilliant live guitarist and a voice so sincere and always spot-on to boot, his world famous covers of the Knife’s “Heartbeats” and Massive Attack’s “Teardrop,” as beautiful as they sounded, couldn’t quite penetrate the festival noise blowing through the venue.

A quick stop at the Camp Indie tent, which primarily exposes concertgoers to up and coming Norwegian bands, introduced us to Pilemil (above), a quirky and fun outfit who seem kind of like the younger, synth-obssessed brother of Super Furry Animals. Some interesting ideas with their instruments, but I think they have some work to do on the songwriting. One local band that didn’t need any introduction was Truls & the Trees (below), who, despite being on the smaller stage, attracted a massive crowd and for good reason: Truls’ collective puts I’m From Barcelona and the Polyphonic Spree to shame with their immense membership, which was almost uncountable. There’s something about these multi-bodied groups that brings out the sunny side in songwriting, as they too produced sounds that were strong enough to keep the clouds away, if only for the length of their set.

Two of Norway’s biggest bands hit the main stage in the evening, and I wasn’t that familiar with either of them. Ida Maria (above) I had heard of, but her music hasn’t really made any sort of impact in North America, despite some exposure in the UK. It’s too bad actually, because her rough and rumble rock’n'roll would do really well in Canada and the States, especially with fans of bands like the Sounds or even the Strokes and Metric. Ida has the allure of both an Emily Haines and an Avril Lavigne, demonstrated by the teenage crowd who were jumping along and singing to all of her silly rawk. The fact that she knows how to act in front of the camera and egg on the crowd with feverish chants like “I like you better when you’re naked!” emphasize her playfulness. Kaizer Orchestra (below) on the other hand, I had a lot more trouble with. I must be lost in translation, because to me they just appeared as some Scandinavian curiosity I couldn’t get my head around. Entering the stage like some sort of klezmer death march, banging oil drums to an industrial beat, they quickly exploded into a suit-clad arena-rock giant whose polished funky alt-rock and cheesy dance moves (Andrea described them as “Backstreet Boys meets Stomp“) had the audience in the palm of their hand for the entire hour-plus performance. I’ve never witnessed a front-man as hammy and ridiculous as Janove Ottesen, but he is obviously some sort of rock god over here.

Not quite as popular but much more entertaining by our standards were Keep of Kalessin (above), who finally brought Norway’s infamous black metal scene to life. Though not the scary stuff of lore, these veterans were all about putting on a show for the considerable crowd. Their theatrical side appeared immediately as guitarist Obsidian C. entered for a heavy-duty wanking session to set-up the entrance for sickly looking bassist Wizziac (dude seriously needs to be cast in the Hellraiser remake), as well as the thunderous double bass drum triggers of Vyl. Front-man Thebon came out to lead the show and orchestrate a synchronized headspin between the front three, which not only looked dizzying, but also a lot like three propellers on high-speed.

Girl Talk (above) proved that his party-starting rep has certainly crossed the sea. The smallish stage quickly filled up before Gregg Gillis made his entrance and immediately fans lost their shit. Gillis made sure the Norwegian crowd were feelin’ good, asking them after every few songs if they were feelin’ it, while repeatedly showing his excitement for co-headliners Mayhem (below), who unfortunately for Gillis, began their set 30 minutes into his. If you’ve ever attended one of Gillis’ parties, everything went according to plan: he jumped into the crowd a lot, played the courteous MC, and invited the crowd on stage to dance around him. I keep saying this, but he is the best live show out there, even though he just works from a laptop. Mayhem didn’t disappoint either, if you were looking to fill your underpants that is. The aged black metallers certainly lived up to their controversial reputation as well, entering with pure evil on their minds and on display, thanks to a table covered in a bizarre array of objects that included candles, a pig’s head, a blow-up globe and a baby doll. As punishing as the music is, I couldn’t help but be in awe of this band, largely because of their extremely fucked up history. Sure it’s a completely different band than before – mostly because there have been suicides, murders and so on – but founding member Necrobutcher was on stage, and if there’s a more malevolent front-man than Attila Csihar, then I don’t think I need to go there. (Dude was covered in fish heads.)

I was a little surprised that organizers chose Grinderman (above) as headliners, not because I question Nick Cave’s popularity (the cries of “Nick!” and a packed main stage crowd confirmed that), but because Cave’s Bad Seeds released an album this year, while Grinderman’s eponymous debut was released a year earlier. Nonetheless, Cave and co. brought their seedy, volatile rock’n'roll in full force. The inimitable front-man wandered to and fro his mic stand and organ, multi-tasking again when he strapped on his Telecaster to help bring both the ruckus of “Depth Charge Ethel” and the slithering menace of the band’s title track. His unhinged brand of showmanship was just the prescription Norwegians were jonesin’ for, and they ate up every acknowledgment and word of the prose he spat out over his mic. A hundred or so yards away, Lindstrøm (below) closed out the night on the small stage, putting a cosmic spin into everyone’s dance steps as he brought his spacey disco to lots of dreamy, nodding heads. I know he’s a local favourite, but I just love how someone like Hans Peter Lindstrøm is chosen as the ultimate headliner. He really gave everyone the perfect nightcap to close out the first day.

Road Movie photo by Andrea England

We’ve been in Oslo for a few days now, but today was the first day of Øya festivities. The advertising for this festival around the city is remarkable not because of the ad dollars at work but because of how supportive the city of Oslo is for this event. I don’t normally feel that back in North America.

After registering, we headed out for some dinner (a medium-sized pizza at Dolly Dimple’s for only $40) and then to check out part of “Klubbøya,” the pre-festival night of club gigs featuring some of Norway’s finest talent.

Approximately 25 venues across the city hosted gigs, and considering most (read: all) artists involved were unknown to me, it was really just a matter of taking a chance. Seeing Maribel highlighted in an Øya guide as a cross between Spacemen 3 and Slowdive, well, I felt that would be a good bet. Arriving at the retro designed MONO, which had some stylish artwork honouring Richard Hell and Television and $11 beer on tap, Maribel, it turns out, were delegated to headlining slot, which added another three hours onto the night. Being tired and uninspired by the pricey beer, we decided to give the opening act, which was supposed to be Kira Kira, an Icelandic version of Canada’s Laura Barrett, a shot.

Instead though another line-up change saw Road Movie kick-off the night. The five-piece sans drummer seemed rather fresh, however, they certainly were ambitious and lively. Led by the moderately eccentric Rebekka von Markstein, who name-checked the band’s name (which I’ve come to determine is either a nod to Cormac McCarthy, Badly Drawn Boy or Adorable) by hand on her T-shirt, as well as her twin brother Benjamin on droning yet sparkling (literally) acoustic guitar, in a nutshell Road Movie certainly came across as fans of Neil Halstead and Rachel Goswell, falling somewhere in between the lush folk of early Mojave 3 and the hazy shoegazing of Slowdive. Rebekka’s garb shared more in common with Bat For Lashes, as she donned some face paint and a feather/headband combo, as well as some fake blood, which also managed to find its way onto her brother. The soft droning never got too loud or boring, thanks to Benjamin’s aggressive guitar strumming, and although she would have suited a keytar better, Rebekka’s handheld mini Casio added some quirky textures into the mix. A mesmerizing set, no less, from a band I’d love to hear more of, the highlight, however, had to have been the unforeseen assault with a handful of glitter on one poor chap in front, who spent the rest of the gig wiping it off his entire body. Maybe she just didn’t have the practice of distributing the stuff or maybe he clearly didn’t realize he was smack dab, right in the designated “glitter zone,” either way, it was pretty damn entertaining.

Unfortunately, after Road Movie, we threw in the towel and decided just to head back to our nearby hotel after realizing another two-hour-plus wait wasn’t in us for Maribel. We bumped into Mogwai, reminded them that they still owe me answers to an email interview from a month ago and got some rest for the start of Øya’s official outdoor festival tomorrow.