Satans Found At By:Larm In Oslo

Various venues

Oslo, Norway

on Feb 20 2009

Aaron Brophy (CHARTattack)

02/23/2009 11:07am

My second day at Oslo, Norway's By:Larm Festival started in a dingy basement club called The Garage, where I was served chili, rice (3.5/5) and pints of Frydenlund (4/5) by some dudes who looked like they were in Mastodon.

It's not that uncommon a look. Scandinavian men fall into distinct categories looks-wise: a) vikings; b) Olli Jokinen of the Phoenix Coyotes; c) clean cut 'n' sissy like Jens Lekman; or d) extreme snowboarders.

The free stuff was courtesy of the Oyafestivalen and Music Export Norway-sponsored afternoon showcase that featured Tommy Tokyo & Starving For My Gravy, Norma Sass and The New Wine.

I arrived just in time to wait out an interminably long soundcheck and see The New Wine (3.5/5) again. I caught them on my first night here and wasn't all that impressed. I got it more the second time around.

I initially compared The New Wine to The New Deal and an act I couldn't remember. In my whimsy, I said Hot Chip. That was wrong, and I meant to say The Rapture — who I hate. But I don't hate The New Wine, so I'm taking that comparison back and I'm just gonna stick with "sounds a little like Phoenix."

I poked my head into Gamla to see if there was anything going on at the Lipa Export Showcase, but there were no bands on stage, so I went back to my hotel to wait until 8 p.m. for the fest's full programming to kick into gear.

Now's probably a good time to explain the comedy of errors that is my relationship to time. I don't wear a watch. It's a bit of a hippie "I'm not constrained by time, maaan" conceit. Thing is, when you're at a festival a continent away from home, you kind of need to know what time it is. As such, I had fished out an old Timex watch I'd been given as a present to wear around.

Unfortunately, the battery died the second I touched it. No probs, I'd just use the clock on my cellphone to tell time. Except I didn't realize I don't have roaming on my plan and therefore had no service... and no way to tell time with it.

I used the clock on the phone in my hotel room for the first half-day until I realized it was fucked up and an hour-and-ten-minutes ahead, so I settled on using the digital clock embedded in my TV to figure out my starting time, hit the clubs and then let the ordered efficiency of festival programming guide my path.

The clock on the TV said it was almost 20:00 (or 8 p.m.), so it was go time.

My first stop was at Rockefeller to check out the moppy-haired kids in Manatee Racket (3/5). They wore T-shirts that were too big for them, played adorably conventional indie pop-rock and the singer did his best to sommersault and heave himself around the stage in dramatic fashion. It worked wonders on the pockets of teen girls near the front of the stage, but there wasn't a lot of substance behind the mild theatrics.

Denmark's Beta Satan (3/5) were up next in the Rockefeller Annex. I was looking forward to both the first official appearance of Satan as well as the band I had labelled "hipster rock" in my advance notes. It turned out the Betas were pretty conventional, though, and there wasn't much to offer beyond their guitarist's ongoing technical misadventures and amusing song titles like "Party On The Death Star" and "Pray The Gay Away."

Things didn't start much better with The Micropops (3.5/5) back at John Dee. The band were definitely on the Stars/Beautiful South boy-girl vocalizing axis, which had promise. But the start of their set was pure snoozeville. Their true quality didn't start to shine until they picked up the tempo three or four songs in and they started a bit of a dance party on stage. I kind of liked the 'Pops at that point, so I figured I better leave while they still had the balance shifted from negative to positive.

They definitely fared better than Matias Tellez (1/5) back in the Rockefeller main room. I've got it down in my notes that I saw him, and I have hazy recollections of him on stage... I think... but I must have just breezed through there because I literally remembered nothing of his set. I'm pretty sure I've had a few memory-sapping concussions in my day, but I'm blaming Tellez for this one.

The communion with the devil continued with Finland's I Was A Teenage Satan Worshipper (3.5/5) at the Rockefeller Annex stage. I had high hopes for these guys going in. My advance notes had them pegged as a little like My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult and, yeah, there was definitely a healthy dose of Wax Trax-spirited industrio-electro dance rock. But the cruel reality was I'm probably two generations behind and they're on a more Shiny Toy Guns tip. I think they did a song about how techno sucks, and another one about being an outsider in high school. I can't fault their worldview, but I don't see days of wine and roses in their future.

Pony The Pirate (3.5/5) were pretty much the biggest deal back at the Rockefeller main room. The place was suddenly super-rammed for Norway's answer to Arcade Fire. There was lots of gang singing and the intensity was there, but lead singer Ole Adland wore a hoodie on stage, and that doesn't quite match the theatrical outfits that dandy Win Butler busts out. None of the women stepped up to match that special warbling dynamic that Regine Chassagne brings to the Fire, either.

Tired of getting jostled, I booked it back to John Dee to see Swedish singer/songwriter Joel Alme (4/5). I went in with no expectations, but he was a revelation; a taller, straighter Hawksley Workman-like crooner who was visibly charming the doe-eyed women at the front of the stage. His music was a touch more sophisticated pop than the more avant/indie/electro spirit of most of the fest bands, which perhaps explains the middling attendance for his showcase, but his future's a bright one nonetheless.

It was time to find The Villa to see The Wong Boys, a band I had pegged as "ridiculous electro" in my advance notes.

I had seen The Villa when I got lost the day before, but I sure couldn't find it when I was looking for it. I instead ended up at Revolver to "see" Svarte Greiner (1/5), though it might have been Manhattan Skyline in a tiny and packed room. Whoever was playing was sitting down, making it impossible to see them, and what they were playing was basically an endless loop that sounded like "wwwwwwkkkkwkkerrrreeekkeeeeeeewwwwwooooooorrrrrr." I figured I'd have eight hours of that courtesy of 777 jet engines on my homewardbound trip on Sunday, so I quickly made my way out and resolved to find Villa... which turned out to be 50 metres away.

I made my way into the tiny basement venue to see about 30 people going absolutely, fundamentally batshit nutty to two of the wackest looking electro rappers ever. You'd probably never be able to pick the skinnier of The Wong Boys (4.5/5) out of a police lineup, but main man Frank Ziyanak was an irresistible character. Think a honky Mr. T in a purple dress shirt minus the gold necklaces. Their whole set appeared to be a weird reverse Peaches send-up, but it was also amazing.

On top of that, I think I found my Scandanavian Engrish hit in "Git Ur Fuk On." It's basically DJ Assault reimagining "Fuck The Pain Away" as turned into a party anthem done by a dude. If you're at a party where this song can't get things going, the party is wrong.

It was time to figure out what the massive double-tent courtyard thingee that housed the Dagbladet Teltet and Dagbladet Teltet Annex stage was exactly.

The sprawling creation was basically festival ground zero all weekend, and I arrived just in time to see John Olav Nilsen & Gjengen (3/5) hit the Annex stage. Nilsen's apparently carved out a bit of a niche as the local everyman with his workman-like rock. I have no idea if that was true or not because he sang entirely in Bergen. Regardless of the language barrier, he and his band at least seemed up on their E Street Band-era Boss albums, so hopefully they're genuine about it.

Next up on the other stage was the much-anticipated Jenny Wilson (4/5). The advance festival hype called her Lykke Li's more sophisticated big sister. I'd say "Sweden's Feist" is a bit simpler. Her band were spot-on. In fact, I'd have never figured I'd be able to tolerate more than one song in a set with flute in it, but there it was all over the place.

Wilson cut a striking figure on stage, too. She looked like Chrissie Hynde in a shimmery dress that could have been pulled out of Stevie Nicks' closet. As adept as her savvy earth mom set was, I suspected Wilson is someone better appreciated on record for the subtle nuances that don't come across playing in a giant beer tent. It's worth investigating.

I went to see Fjorden Baby! (3/5) back at the Annex stage. For what it's worth, I had them pegged as "the only thing approaching black music" in my advance notes. That was wrong. Although I think there was an Asian guy on keys, the lead singer bounded around in a baggy KLF shirt pretending he was Bez from the Happy Mondays and was a dead giveaway that these babies were weaned heavily on Madchester dance rock.

The thing about that is that history hasn't been all that kind to most of that music and most of the bands from that scene. Sure, the first Stone Roses record survives, but does anyone still listen to The Mock Turtles? Exactly.

And so I packed it up for night two and headed back to my hotel.