#47 Benni Hemm Hemm

It wasn’t that late. There was a bit of wind, but it wasn’t too cold. Everything seemed to be calm. It was a good fact to lean on that Icelanders aren’t screamers. They seven of them, accompanied by a ukulele, trumpets, maracas, and a trombone, didn’t come to play fanfare. They came to bid us good night.

Benni Hemm Hemm’s horns have never led an army. They’re like a soft mattress. They started off in the middle of an enclosed plaza, letting out a full, rich sound. It was as if they were playing in a small box whose lid had been taken off, letting the music pour over and into the open city.

They were wise and excited at the same time. This is usually the case for bands that have more musicians than an English rock festival. Three quarters of the band members seemed to come out of nowhere, as if they had just hopped out of work, slipped out of their kitchen, or taken a pause from their round of Mastermind. These guys are a force, these part-time indie boys, which possesses freshness and a capacity to marvel and amuse in a way that’s become more rare as time passes.

Take a look at the guy with the misshapen parka and ukulele in hand. Look at the way he steps with youthful glee, advancing in crab-like form towards the camera. Shoot a glance towards the walk-on with the maracas rolling on the ground. Listen to the foreign tongue. We understand nothing except that what they’re saying is soft, tranquil, and the perfect suite for such a beautiful evening.

Thanks to Matt Evans for the translation