Ice #5 : Lagasmidur

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Iceland #5 : Lagasmidur

The ballroom of the Hotel Borg in downtown Reykjavik
is buzzing at 4:45 pm. Dori, master of the Blues Ice Festival,
takes me backstage to the performers lounge. Here I am first
introduced to Andreu, "the Koko Taylor of Icelandic blues,"
a blonde beauty with don´t-you-ever-bullshit-me-baby
blue eyes. She is having a beer with the much-revered local
guitar hero, Gudmundur Petursson, a lanky fellow with long
ringlets of red hair. Dori pans his hand across the whole of
the lounge, says, "This is for you, Duck Long from Canada.
You are velkominn anytime in the festival to relax, smoke,
drink, jam, make friends..." I look around at the leather sofas,
refrigerators stocked deep with long brown bottles, guitar cases
stacked on the tables, cigarettes. It's good to be welcomed.

Next thing I know I am being shuffled into a photo of Blues Ice
performers taken for the Frettabladid newspaper. Next it´s a
radio interview, and then we´re drawn into the ballroom by
the lovely hostess and emcee, Brynhildur. She captures the
attention of the crowd of media and festival friends and
announces the beginning of the Blues Ice Festival´s Media
Cocktail party. There is a lot of excitement in the air.

It is 5:00 p.m. on this Tuesday afternoon in sunny Reykjavik
and the crowd enthusiastically welcomes Andreu to the stage
along with a four-piece backing band of local bluesboys. There
is something primal about a woman singing the blues. She
does a slow-burning number, whispering low and sultry into
the microphone at first, then cutting loose with a gnawing
growl that makes everyone sit a little more straight up. "Blues
ain´t nothin´ but a good woman feelin´ bad!" and oh my, she´s
got the solar plexus scoop of it, the open-throated wail of a
woman who knows what hurt is, and we´ve got gold-leaf paint
falling like God´s most expensive confetti from heaven.

Hey tall son, I am in schnapping schnapps in Reykjavik and
the blues is alive and well here! Andreu has four or five of the
photographers popping their flashes in her face as she throws
her hair back for the final howl, a floating necklace of flung
perspiration sailing through the air as she shakes it blonde
in seven directions at once. This feverish cut is being fed live
over national radio to promote the festival, and I have to think
that the Hotel Borg will be crowded if anyone was listening.

The band does an instrumental shuffle with plenty of biting
guitar exchanges, and then it´s time for the Canadian, fresh
from a visit to the backstage lounge for a quick Camel and a
little sip of a special blue liquer made especially for the occasion.
Dori takes the microphone again. "From Canada, we are lucky
to have him, lagasmidur, velkominn Duck Long." I love the
way he says my name. I am using Dori´s Gibson hollow body,
plugged in with volume and reverb, and I say, "Takk, takk,"
as I sit down at the microphones. I begin picking on a big fat
E-chord, watching my breath go all the way down into my
abdomen, watching it come all the way up again out the mouth.
I do one of mine called Road You Call Me Now, a comfort-food
song if ever there was one...

"I´m gonna travel this old country long as the angels allow..."

It's a song I'll sing all my life, one in which I feel at home. While
the applause continues, Dori gives me the universal circle signal
meaning "Do another." I choose Iceland Blues, hoping they´ll
understand the spirit of its humour...

"Let´s stay under the covers, long as it stays dark...won´t have
to eat no sheep´s balls or chew no buried shark."

A few chuckles. I´m done. I made it through. "Takk, takk, bless."

I ask Disa later what lagasmidur means, the word Dori threw
out there in the introduction. "It means melody carpenter,"
she explains. I laugh. "I thought I was a songmadur," I say
as the crowd noise rises again for the next performance. We
stay to hear another two songs, then the press party ends and
we´re out on the waterfront, white geese overhead. Disa takes
my photo standing under the Hotel Borg awning, the Borg being
Iceland's oldest, most legendary hotel. There´s a police car
parked nearby guarding the cables leading out to the radio truck.
I nod to the officers, hoping none of them recognize me from
wanted posters of illegal aliens, haha. I am kidding, of course,
as people here are so welcoming and friendly, interested to know
if I am enjoying my visit, quick to bridge from Icelandic to English
for my sake, especially after I show them how adept I am at
murdering their native tongue.

DL