I rocked up one sunny
April morning to this land of brimstone and fire, having done my usual minimal
amounts of research and planning ahead of time to discover what Iceland had to offer. The only thing that I did actually plan out was a visit to Iceland’s Phallological Museum (penis museum) because why the hell not? So, knowing
the location of that, I booked a hostel around the corner, checked in,
put my face on and headed to the museum that would have Lisa Sparxxx bloody
frothing.
Must say, the museum
has some interesting bits in it, not forgetting of course the (how would you
say? Replicas? Yeah sure, lets go with that), replicas of Iceland’s Olympic
Hockey Teams mutton daggers on display. Whilst walking through the museum with
an 11am pint, I asked the barmaid if there are any cool rock bars in town.
“Well, its not really my scene, but Lemmy’s is around the corner”. Lemmy’s, righto. At this point it was only noon, a bit early to tie one on, even by my
standards but I thought I’d go in, have a quick one to warm up, and then go
venture around for a bit.
I could hear Judas Priest blasting as I walked up to the front door, I opened the gates into
what can only be described as heaven. In a previous life, I think the building
was an old Anglo church, but it’s since been heavily converted into a church of
heavy metal, my kinda mass. The walls are covered from floor to ceiling with blood
red velvet, exposed wooden beams, pinball machines, a fish tank
and of course; Viking Beer on tap. I found a barstool with my name on it, and I
got chatting to these two German fellas that were off their tits. “We’re
waiting for our flight tonight” he mumbled incoherently, “our wives are
away for the weekend in Zurich, so me and Boris here decided to come to
Reykjavik”. Geographically that make about as much sense as some of my
travels, but sure fellas, sounds great. Turns out they were super nice guys
from Munich, we told stories and pounded back a Viking or two listening to
Zeppelin & Maiden. These lads were great fun, until one of them fell off his barstool shortly after our introduction, so they called it an afternoon and headed out. Prost
fellas! I assume you missed your flight, but I hope ya got home alright nonetheless.
Before I got myself
into a similar condition, I settled my tab, asked the bar maid for some
directions around town and made my way out. On another one of my self guided
tours around town, I stumbled across the Icelandic Punk Rock Museum, which is
well worth a flutter. It’s in a disused, converted public bathroom down a dingy
set of stairs. For anyone reading this bollocks outside of Europe, basically
there used to be public bathrooms everywhere, you’d pay .50p or something to
use them and they’re usually grimy at their very best. However, when the city
shut them down, this bloke brought one of them, left the dunnies, sinks, and
everything in it, and just covered the walls in pictures, memorabilia, drum
kits, show flyers, guitars, you name it. He’s done such a great job of telling
the story of Iceland’s Music Scene from as far back as the 1930’s or so. I
heard a rumour they occasionally have gigs down there as well, but judging by
the size of the place, you’d only need to sell 15 tickets to sell out. Still,
more punters than I’ve played to some nights let me tell you!
Back for round 2 at Lem’s.
After a long arvo of walking around town, seeing some sites, drinking coffee,
and having Reindeer Bolognese for dinner (Rudolph isn’t coming this year
kids, sorry). I made my way for showtime at Lem’s. Given that Lem’s itself
is reasonably small, you don’t need a large crowd in there to make it look
good, but this is a Friday night in Reykjavik, party time! It was packed to the
gills. There was a drummer and a DJ, odd combo I know, but hear me out. The DJ
did as all DJ’s do and just rip off actual musicians, which I hate, but old
mate behind the kit was crushing out fills and drumming along to anything the
DJ was spinning. They played all sorts of Icelandic punk & metal bands I
wasn’t familiar with but occasionally slipped in a Ramones or Clash song. The
long blonde hair of every regular in there was flowing almost faster than the pints.
At some point much much later in the evening’s festivities, the DJ stepped
aside and a guitar player got up and really let it rip.
Turns out those two blokes play in a band called The Vintage Caravan, nice
guys, great records if you’re a prog rock nerd. I’m not but I still enjoy the
occasional 12 minutes of Dream Theatre.
I’ve frequented Lem’s heaps of times since
this outing, and it always rips. The name eludes me, but they have a patio out
back where they host a music festival in August during “Iceland’s biggest week
of drinking”. Which I will say that judging by how these guys drink on a
regular basis, I have a feeling I’d be on a weeklong
IV of tea and shortbreads after attending that one. If the band ever got called
for that festival, I’d be keen as though. I’m not afraid.
All up, Lemmy’s rips.
Iceland’s cool as (pun intended). Total must visit!
6/6.
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