When the sun starts hinting that it will possibly make an effort to shine in the coming days, every soul that has ever hummed a tune to themselves, or swayed their hips to a beat, feels the calling to return to their rightful place.
To a small village between the mountains. Where the guitar was put into use before the wheel, and the fish was caught singing in the net. Where a microphone was bought before the first road was planned. Thee who first of Icelandic towns received the notorious license to rock.
Bigger than John Lennon, more fun than Saturday Night Live, older than the Olympics and reaches more people than the IRS.
Aldrei fór ég suður.

Not a festival, but a force of nature. The force to unite popstars, punks, hipsters, jocks, the countryside and downtown Reykjavík. The force to forget about the troubles of daily life for a while. The force to raise a spaceship from the swamps of Dagobah. The force to break the chains of views and agendas, to dance in the snow.

To go skiing, to fall skiing, Hoppípolla, to sing a song as loud as you can, to salute the sun with pancakes.
Shake hands with the locals, high five popstars, hug Muggi the harbour manager, and fist bump Birna Rokk-supervisor. A two day musicical feast for free. Thats Aldrei fór ég suður.

For thine is the sing-song, and the shower and hunky dory for ever and ever,
Aldrei.