On a Friday night, in the heart of Reykjavík, you’d be hard pressed to find a venue that better embodies the raw sexual magnetism that a good rock show exudes, than Gamli Gaukurinn. The tension that trickles in the air of this dark, smoke-filled venue is unavoidable. Anticipating the evening concert the salmon runs of people rush up the stairs and head straight for the snare drum-adorned bar. These good people have good cause for drinking deep and raising high held toasts because after tonight’s gig, The Vintage Caravan will be rolling through Europe on a three week concert tour. Their fans are eager to celebrate this milestone with them and so a feast of menacing decibel levels and cataclysmic roaring of the PA system is in store.
A thick substance of sludge-metal surges out of the massive speakers, and the concert starts. The opening act of the evening, ONI, have raised the curtain to charge the audience up for the coming onslaught of The Vintage – and within a few moments, every single being within the walls of Gamli Gaukurinn is on their feet, feeling the presence of these sack-heavy eastern Icelandic rockers. The lead-loaded drumming, flowing riffs, guttural vocals and gut-bursting bass lines drive the crowd into the night, and the heat intensifies with every note.
Smoke, sweat, alcohol and deep conversations fill the intermission, until The Vintage Caravan takes the stage and a series of events unravel that can only be described with one word: Rock!
“Everybody feeling sexy!?” Óskar Logi, frontman of The Vintage Caravan, yells with powerful applause from the sweat-drenched audience.
The memorialization of the evening erupts with the face melting song, “Craving“, where every carcass within the lava-pit at stage front bursts with anticipation as the rolling landslide of Guðjón‘s punctual percussion leads them into an hour long frenzy.
The chemistry that these musical brothers in arms share shines through their solid performance, and the psychoactive rock that glides around the room with every note tells a convincing story that each audience member interprets with unequal grace. While Óskar rips the sound barrier apart with thundering axe shredding, the bass-juggernaut Alex controls the crowd like a puppet master with every motion and gaze. The mayhem increases and the devil horns rip through the tension filled air as each song leads the audience through the imagination of The Vintage Caravan.
After an incredible reception, The Vintage need little persuasion to keep the show in flames, and the encores are even more intense. When the band counts down to the final song of the night, “Let’s get it on“, a wave of hair swirling engulfs the crowd as pearls of sweat glisten in the light of powerful multicolored spotlights. Resounding applause bids our heroes’ farewell, as they launch into a successful stage dive; all the while Óskar sears the tone on his stringed, thin necked sweetheart.
Jón Atli Magnússon
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