|
|
|
Ilosaarirock - Joensuu, Finland/G! Festival – Gota, The Faroes |
|
Words: Joe Shooman
|
We can tell that it’s going to be something special when – by dint, mostly, of being so late that we very nearly miss the flight altogether – we’re upgraded to business class all the way to Helsinki. We’ve never travelled anything more than cattle class before, so the seats are heavenly in their comfort, although we do keep looking over our shoulders in case someone kicks us out. Luckily, they don’t, so by the time we arrive in Joensuu, a small logging town forty miles from the Russian border, we’re full of champagne and excitement. Mostly champagne.
We’re here for Ilosaarirock, a genuinely community-run festival that is now in its thirty-sixth year. Entirely staffed by nigh-on-2000 volunteers, the beauty of its location is matched only by a progressive booking policy and the vast amount of alcohol consumed. What differs from your UK fests is the fact that although we spend three days surrounded by baying bear-men, pissed out their bonces on local beer and Longkero (a gin and grapefruit concoction), there’s not a hint of trouble. The bands are great, too, from the quite magnificent PMMP – the Finnish t.A.T.u, kinda, but way cooler – to the noisy: Kakka Hatta 77, Sonata Arctica. People are swimming to dub and reggae – literally: the likes of Marina Gasolina, Kemurru and Anthony B are astonished to see that half their audience is splashing about in the lake next to the stage.
As experiences go, it’s a wonderful one – as the whole weekend proves to be; the people are welcoming and the weather is, for the vast majority of the time, scratching around the 85F mark. Sadly, all too soon it’s time to leave the land of a thousand lakes behind, and after one last, melancholic sauna, we self-flagellate with the birch twigs of real life and fly home for a few days’ rest. Only a few days, mind, cause sooner than we’d like we’re up in the middle of the night again to get on a train to a plane to Gota. Yeah, exactly. It’s a tiny town in the Faroes, about 200 miles north of the northern tip of Scotland and roughly equidistant between Iceland and Norway. Given that the capital of the Faroe Islands, Torshavn, only has about 12,000 inhabitants, it’s no surprise that Gota itself has a population of about 1400 – and no hotels. What is surprising is that once a year the G! Festival takes place and 8,000 people descend here, to camp anywhere they can find, or with a bit of luck, stay – as we do – with friends old and new. We’re almost embarrassed to accept the hospitality, but accept it we do, in the same spirit as we accept the incongruous sight of Natasha Bedingfield performing alongside the likes of local heroes Budam (a sex-obsessed Sixties jazz/swing/freakbeat genius-lover), Eivor Palsdottir (purveyor of folk, huge in Iceland, and possessing an incredible range with which she often lets loose), Teitur’s singer-songwriter class and SiC’s thrashy roar. In part, we’re at G! cause we can’t get enough of our new favourite band, the magnificent Dr. Spock. We cheated, cause they’re from Reykjavik, but anyone who remembers Dr. And The Crippens will fucking love what they do. Oh, did we mention that G!’s main stage is on the beach and people are paddling in the freezing sea? There’s also a dance tent where the likes of Lucy Hill and DJ Nettie are ripping it up.
The Faroes are, we discover, a Danish protectorate, something that divides opinion almost exactly down the middle. Some are pushing hard for independence (Bjork wrote a song about it, ‘Declare Independence’ on her new album) whilst some are happy that they have the best of both worlds. Most people here are trilingual – Faroese (like Icelandic, one of the oldest surviving Norse/Viking languages), Danish and English are spoken, as is the international language of, well, getting fucked. The beer flows steady so our recollection of some of the bands are a little blurry. At one stage we find ourselves watching some kind of mystical re-enactment of ghosts and graveyards being found on the festival site, which would be disconcerting anyway, but it’s 1am, the sun’s still up and it’s entirely in Faroese so the effect is all the more powerful on our tiny Welsh brains. Still, it’s better than Young Dubliners, who close the main stage with their dunderheaded Celtic punk. Everyone loves them, of course, cause they’re in party mood and they’re not cynical old fuckers like we are. On the walk back to our lodgings – staying with the local electrician, no less – we stop, look out over Gota fjord and contemplate infinity. Rarely do these moments present themselves, and for a brief second all is silent; the cliffs shimmer with power and the expanse of the sea laps and laughs at our mortality. Whatever happens, says the landscape, I will outlast you all. And it is sad, because no doubt that in ten years the Faroes will be as European as anywhere else. One can only hope we learn more from the hospitality, creativity and openness than the piss and rubbish and diseases which we’re bound to infect this special place. A seabird caws about our heads and the thought is shattered; the piquancy of the thought, however, is beautiful, and it stays with us as we fly home, cattle class. |
|
|
|
Current Issue |
To subscribe to Plan B, click here |
Plan B is currently considering work experience placements in London. To apply, send a CV and a short explanation of why you'd like to work at Plan B, plus the dates you're available. Email Frances if you're interested. |
|
|
Advert |
 |
|
Mailing List |
|
...for exclusive competitions, special offers, up-to-date news, playlists, and information about Plan B-related events.
|
|
|
