Múm
The Lighthouse FamilyEven in this modern world of mobile phones, broadband internet and men on the moon, the Icelandic people retain a strong belief in the Alfur; the mystical elves that cohabit their land, and cause the mischief that they can't explain. Road planners even redirect motorways around supposed alfur sites, so as not to enrage them. Whatever your thoughts on such superstitions are, this is a fascinating belief, and one that is made all the more understandable by the mystical, beautiful music of one Icelandic band, Múm.
After two organic electronica albums which have firmly placed them at the top of the pile of what has (temporarily, let us hope) been dubbed folktronica, along with the distinguished likes of Four Tet, Manitoba and Dntel, Múm are set to shoot into the stratosphere with their friends, the Alfur.
Their forthcoming album, Summer Make Good is the result of seven weeks of recording in an isolated lighthouse on the furthest shores of Iceland.
'We like to find places and go away for a while. Go to different places to create,' says Gunni (Gunnar Orn Tynes, a bloke by the way).
'Yeah, in the 16th century,' deadpans Kristín. 'One night around this area, 150 people died in the sea, in the morning when the people came to the shore there were 47 bodies lying on the shore. It's a dangerous sea place.'
Oh, and did I mention that their music has become extremely dark and violent? 'Well, it's just an aspect of going to these places and getting into these extreme situations,' Gunni shyly explains.
Indeed, their website tells of nights lost on the treacherous Icelandic seas, and last minute rescues by friendly and drunk fishermen.
The sound of the new album certainly reflects such sea-borne adventures. Besides the sounds of crashing waves and creaking wood that permeate the record, the music evokes loneliness, aggression and the unpredictable movement of the waters.
'This one is our loneliest album,' Kristín points out, 'I see it as more of a night-time album.'
It is also their most 'live' sounding album. it's ironic that, at the beginning of their career, they were touted as the electronic band for indie fans, but they now sound like the indie band for electronica fans.
'It's not a coincidence,' says Gunni, 'but it's definitely something which is connected to this album. After writing the music, arranging it and working on it, we did a tour before doing the final recordings. I think that helped a lot with the music. And we recorded to tape this time, before using Protools.'
They are taking this new live sound out on a European tour soon, coming to Britain in late-April. In their hometown Reykjavik, they play concerts in swimming pools, using military sub-aquatic speakers, so that you can only hear the music with your ears in the water.
'Sound travels quicker through water than air,' says Kristín, 'the sound is very clear, but the bass is not too good. We'd like to do this in other countries, but we can't take the speaker out of the country.'
Underwater or not, their live performances promise to be exciting affairs, with the band fleshing themselves out from three to six, and the usual assortment of exotic instruments on stage. Given the intensely dramatic music contained on their latest disc, Múm will rock Britain like never before. You'd be stupid to miss it.
Fact of the day: in order to maintain the purity of the language, there is a special Icelandic committee who devise new words to describe concepts that would otherwise be barbarisms. Thus the word telephone becomes sími and computer becomes tölva. perhaps the word múm will become the official icelandic word for electronica?
'Ha ha! Who knows?' Laughs Gunni.
Well, it would certainly befit their musical achievements.
After two organic electronica albums which have firmly placed them at the top of the pile of what has (temporarily, let us hope) been dubbed folktronica, along with the distinguished likes of Four Tet, Manitoba and Dntel, Múm are set to shoot into the stratosphere with their friends, the Alfur.
Their forthcoming album, Summer Make Good is the result of seven weeks of recording in an isolated lighthouse on the furthest shores of Iceland.
'We like to find places and go away for a while. Go to different places to create,' says Gunni (Gunnar Orn Tynes, a bloke by the way).
'Yeah, in the 16th century,' deadpans Kristín. 'One night around this area, 150 people died in the sea, in the morning when the people came to the shore there were 47 bodies lying on the shore. It's a dangerous sea place.'
Oh, and did I mention that their music has become extremely dark and violent? 'Well, it's just an aspect of going to these places and getting into these extreme situations,' Gunni shyly explains.
Indeed, their website tells of nights lost on the treacherous Icelandic seas, and last minute rescues by friendly and drunk fishermen.
The sound of the new album certainly reflects such sea-borne adventures. Besides the sounds of crashing waves and creaking wood that permeate the record, the music evokes loneliness, aggression and the unpredictable movement of the waters.
'This one is our loneliest album,' Kristín points out, 'I see it as more of a night-time album.'
It is also their most 'live' sounding album. it's ironic that, at the beginning of their career, they were touted as the electronic band for indie fans, but they now sound like the indie band for electronica fans.
'It's not a coincidence,' says Gunni, 'but it's definitely something which is connected to this album. After writing the music, arranging it and working on it, we did a tour before doing the final recordings. I think that helped a lot with the music. And we recorded to tape this time, before using Protools.'
They are taking this new live sound out on a European tour soon, coming to Britain in late-April. In their hometown Reykjavik, they play concerts in swimming pools, using military sub-aquatic speakers, so that you can only hear the music with your ears in the water.
'Sound travels quicker through water than air,' says Kristín, 'the sound is very clear, but the bass is not too good. We'd like to do this in other countries, but we can't take the speaker out of the country.'
Underwater or not, their live performances promise to be exciting affairs, with the band fleshing themselves out from three to six, and the usual assortment of exotic instruments on stage. Given the intensely dramatic music contained on their latest disc, Múm will rock Britain like never before. You'd be stupid to miss it.
Fact of the day: in order to maintain the purity of the language, there is a special Icelandic committee who devise new words to describe concepts that would otherwise be barbarisms. Thus the word telephone becomes sími and computer becomes tölva. perhaps the word múm will become the official icelandic word for electronica?
'Ha ha! Who knows?' Laughs Gunni.
Well, it would certainly befit their musical achievements.
