Mannfólkið breytist í slím is a festival staying loyal to one small Icelandic city

Like a still from an Addison Rae music video, snow-dusted fjords tower over unsuspecting travellers at the mercy of such a landscape – population 20,000. For those seeking leisure in spellbinding nature tourism, the casual visitor can whale-watch, or drive 30 minutes to their very own waterfall sighting. A willingness to embrace the UNESCO-recognised swimming pool culture is welcome, as is a detour to a charming folk art museum located in the oldest section of town.

The never-ending midnight sun lingers, making blackout curtains and eye masks rather essential for re-energising. You can comfortably walk all of downtown in little to no time. Past the frowned upon puffin souvenir shops, seagulls patrol the waterfront. Fishing boats sit idle beside specialty cafe hotspots like Kaffistofan. It is difficult, at first glance, to fathom this becoming a secondary epicentre for Iceland’s eclectic music offerings.

It's common knowledge that Reykjavík dominates industry talk outside its territorial confines. It’s where fanatics of Icelandic music, like myself, retrace the footsteps of The Sugarcubes by browsing records at Smekkleysa (Bad Taste), celebrating its 40th birthday this year. Not all have the luxury of a guided tour from ex-Sugarcubes drummer Sigtryggur “Siggi” Baldursson, however. A bustling locale in Kaffibarinn reveals Damon Albarn mythology, as does Prikið, the nucleus of a forever flourishing rap scene dominated by artists such as Saint Pete.

Nearly every layer of the country’s music infrastructure stems from Reykjavík – funding bodies, labels, management companies and export office all orbit the capital, helping transform it into one of Europe’s great overachievers. Beyond Sigur Rós and Laufey, Iceland Airwaves, responsible for breaking acts like Black Midi, plays a huge part in buzzy international conversation. Yet, Iceland’s musical underground seems less tied to geography than community – a word that crops up in practically every interaction over the course of this July weekender.

Across town, at a gathering in Akureyri hosted by Iceland Music, discussion of famous exports with senior advisor Signý Leifsdóttir quickly moves towards sustainability models attempting to keep up the pace with aforementioned big names. Following COVID, much of the country’s fragmented mechanics was reimagined under one umbrella organisation, with a new music law formally recognising the medium as something worth protecting. “It’s supposed to support the whole music scene, not just industry, but all aspects of the ecosystem,” she explains. Despite this milestone, a challenge remains in the nurturing of talent who outgrow the initial DIY stage. As exemplified in a festival showcase like Iceland Airwaves, the nation is effective at nurturing internationally appreciated musicians, but often those with accelerating careers abandon ship. “One of our main objectives is to keep the catch at home,” says Signý. “Actually keep that knowledge, those jobs, and all of that money within Iceland.”

It must be noted that this exchange of information takes place at Slímstöðin, the dockyard rehearsal space of MBS – an Akureyri-based record label and arts collective. Doom metal playing on a loudspeaker, surrounded by vinyl releases and cassette tapes produced by the label itself, the accomodating group of cultural activists provide the connective tissue between bedroom practice spaces, local audiences, and international markets. Preserving a close-knit, collaborative spirit that gave rise to Iceland’s alternative scenes in the first place, MBS’ very own festival of the same name – Mannfólkið breytist í slím – functions more as a grassroots incubator than a showcase chasing export-ready acts. Above anything, it is resistant to convention.

“Maybe it’s a bad business plan,” jokes Jón Haukur Unnarsson of its unorthodox no admission fee model. A forerunner since the inception of MBS in 2010, Jón stresses that the aim is not to make money. “Just teaching people, they should ask, ‘Okay, what’s our compensation?’ It’s a good role model, showing people you can make music here and that you should be paid to play in that city. We spend a lot of money paying artists, that’s by far the biggest expense we have.”

Vaccines’ bassist Árni Hjörvar, who also works with Iceland Music, speaks highly of MBS: “Especially as a musician, I think it opens up a nice dialogue. A lot of grassroots-y things have started coming up, there’s a ton of them that are quite similar in scope. But [MBS] has got that absolute focus on locality, normally these festivals are basically just the Reykjavík scene transplanting to somewhere else for a weekend.”

Over the course of my Akureyri trip, I'm treated to fish jerky and MBS-branded natural wine. An excursion to Hauganes, where steaming geothermal pools overlook the freezing North Atlantic in stunning scenes that beat the Forest Lagoon spa treatment. Part guided city tour, part EDM gig, festival alum Pitenz delivers dub and breakbeat on a public bus. Nobody seems concerned by the crackling difficulties of a portable sound system, or the pram rider who hops on just as the Akureyri electro act swears in reverb. It feels unmistakably Icelandic, as does a brief presentation of masked Akureyri multihyphenate Drengurinn fengurinn.

It takes several attempts to press the MBS team on the origins of their name, translated loosely as the peculiar “Humankind Turns to Slime”. Eventually I succeed by way of outdoor chit-chat with Ingi Jóhann Friðjónsson, another leading face also juggling guitar duties on stage. Referring to a political party conference he attended in his teens, “There was this man at one party that was preaching that the humankind will turn to slime. That everything was merging together and getting messy and gooey and confusing. It just stuck with us, you watch or read the news and everything is getting so slimey.”

Alongside a loyal group of collaborators, including Jón on drums, Ingi performs on home turf for Þorsteinn Kári: a "foggy indie artist" from Djúpadalur farm in the Eyjafjörður fjord, who has released two solo albums with MBS. “The vibe’s always been great. It’s a little bit like a family reunion. We applied for a long-term contract that was denied, it was a little bit of a setback, but we always work with what we got.”

Perhaps its only real operational setback, the festival never occupies the same location twice. This year’s site, housed inside a remote industrial storage building, sits somewhere between community centre and artists squat. Its quaint transformation – commissioned graffiti works, psych projections, fairy lights, and hand-painted poster decorations – lends a cosy quality. Perfect for the toddlers of festival friends running around in their heavy-duty earmuffs, ahead of a death metal set, no less. MBS’ first dedicated safe space stands quiet, away from stage noise, while welfare volunteers in hi-vis orange vests roam the grounds.

MBS organiser Aldís Dagmar guides me around, proudly pointing towards newly repurposed pallets designed exclusively as seating areas, heightened platforms for short attendees, and even a beer stand after audiences kept leaving drinks dangerously close to the stage in previous editions. Every screw, every piece of timber, is borrowed and reused, made possible by trusted local businesses lending materials, equipment, and porta-potties.

There’s a big Icelandic metal scene in Akureyri, whether young or old, male or female, MBS does not discriminate. As observed by metalheads in Gene Simmons face paint, fresh-faced “new groove” band Basilisk make an assured debut performance on Thursday night. Though their individual roots span across the country, the group of lads arrive fully formed in Akureyri with fiery stage presence and hard-hitting gusto for the glory days of a Linkin Park set. Later, Sólför channel Alice Cooper and classic arena glam rock for the mums, meanwhile Urðun, reminiscent of Old School Death Metal, appease the headbanging dads with a guttural, unruly mosh spectacle. MBS’ appetite for musical cross-pollination results in quite the invitation through Columbia’s Conjunto Media Luna. Announcing “cumbia for the first time in Akureyri”, Iván Medellín intertwines your typical live accordion with syncopated 2/4 Tecnocumbia rhythms.

Crawling with local news reporters, Aldís acknowledges MBS’ increasing attention, but is wary of becoming too big. She briefly mentions Iceland’s most famous resident Björk, sneaking in unnoticed with her entourage during last year’s hosting. “We don’t want to pack people in like sardines. When you have a tighter space, you need less of a crowd to make it feel homely. Not bigger and better, but more easy, more comfortable. Trying not to grow too tall, but to have thicker branches, more flowers,” she says, comparing the festival to a bonsai tree. Rooted in its surroundings, but also hospitable with hot dogs to any colourful characters that may see fit. “We want to have all of our voices heard, but at the end of the day, somebody has to make a decision or nothing happens.” The festival’s guiding motto, according to the team, is “less work, more fun”.

A long-time coming, on Friday, visual artist and festival patron Hekla Björt Helgadóttir presents MBS’ first video installation: a dreamlike display of burning fruit and black sand soundtracked by Siglufjörður-based Greek sound explorer Venus Volcanism. Ancient Icelandic poetry subsequently dissolves into ambient electronics during Venus’ incense-filled set. Whatever serenity remains in this liturgical new age performance evaporates when CYBER take the stage. An offshoot of all-female rap collective Reykjavíkurdætur, their internet-age, Omegle satire and relentless tongue-in-cheek verve throws any decorum left out the window. It’s a precedented hit with the young adult crowd, and I, for one, am delighted to throw my hands in the air at the sight of a splits, screaming “I’m a porn-, porn-, pornstar!” At MBS, they are just as irresistible as the bubblegum trap collab with rapper Alvia Islandia I discovered way back in 2017.

Krassoff continues this sadly short-lived streak of experimental, female-led Reykjavík talent with another standout display of alter-ego theatrics. Rhinestones shimmer across the black vest of interdisciplinary performance artist Kristína Rannveig Jóhannsdóttir, reading “Father Figure” in the first of many political statements exploring self-discovery and bodily autonomy through a queer, feminist lens in a growing red-pilled, anti-woke Iceland. Alongside a drummer and dancers, her show highlights expressive facial acting, tight choreography, and waving Iceland/LGBTQ+ pride flags. On what is becoming a rising symbol of nationalism, “The Icelandic flag cannot be used as an opposite of queerness,” Kristína says. “It's good to be queer and it's good to be female compared to elsewhere, but we're not there. We don't have equality... Everything I do is really personal. I'm really putting my heart and soul out there.”

Capping the night is Reykjavík’s ronja, who is gearing up to play Björk's one-day Echolalia rave in August. She approaches her glitch electronica set with spontaneity, nothing appears rehearsed. Her zippy mates from local grassroots collective Spider Network share the stage. Maximalist and intense, yet glorious and satisfying to many a noise lover, at several points it seems like the venue’s speakers may not survive ronja’s sheer freestylings. Comparing the two cities, “You can strike up collaboration with anyone at any point,” ronja tells me. “There’s not so much genre distinction. Even if international attention never comes, they’re content with the underground. If I keep doing this until I die, where I’m just playing with friends and doing these little DIY shows, I die happy.”

Saturday’s lineup champions East Iceland grunge outfit Chögma, commanding the crowd with snarling vocals, plus trio LiteFun, offering relief of the heavy stuff with carefree Europop refracted through a current youth trend in preferring a nonchalant performance style through playback. Quintet BKPM, who describe themselves as “Talking Heads if you left them in the fridge for three months” unleash a medley of post-punk, Krautrock jams dedicated to Palestine and autistic audience members, in jest, of course.

When asked about playing Akureyri for the first time, the band point to Reykjavík’s shrinking venue landscape as the biggest obstacle facing young artists. “All the cool venues are going bankrupt,” vocalist and bassist Jón Logi Pálma laments. “We just want to keep making music and not have to worry about surviving.” Akureyri may be smaller in size, but it’s strolling by new builds like LEYNI – an arty bar with room in the back for small concerts – that instills a confidence in the future of such community-led operations.

As I make my extended journey home, stretched across bus rides and layover flights, a week later, MBS remains in my consciousness. For all the debate surrounding Iceland’s world-famous musical exports, its more fascinating strengths lie within the lesser known like Akureyri, where valuable collectives continue to nurture their homegrown produce, one borrowed pallet at a time.