Jockey Slut magazine May 2002

Article by Neil Davenport.



Mother's Day

Mum's the word. Icelandic quartet múm, that is, whose new album "Finally we are no one" lands this month's much-coveted Most Ironically-Titled Set. Which makes Iceland the new France, right? Course it does! Chimp.

Icelandic quartet múm make some of the most beautiful, if strangely-titled, music on the planet. But, says Neil Davenport, they have more interest in the manifold joys of cycling than constructing breathtaking electronica. "It's better than driving cars, unless it's raining." They point out...

Electronic music and transportation have often been compatible bedfellows. Whether it's Kraftwerk's "Trans-Europe Express", Primal Scream's "Kowalski" or, er, Gazza Numan's "Cars", many have tried to evoke travel with motorik rhythms and analogues that sound like gears changing. Icelandic quartet múm, are keen transport enthusiasts, too, creating panoramic pieces that capture long-distance train journeys or creaky ships on sea. But múm's preferred vehicle is something far humbler-the push bike.

"I'd definitely encourage bike riding,"declares Gunnar Örn Tynes, "it's better than driving cars. Or at least it is in places like Denmark or Holland where it's flat." "They're not very good for long distances though," counters Örvar Smárason, "and especially if it rains."

Múm's other two cyclist supporters, 20-year-old twin sisters and students Kristín and Gyda Valtýsdóttir, reveal that they all even go biking together. But comparisons with Kraftwerk's "Tour de France" period or The Style Council circa "My ever Changing Moods" are quickly brushed aside. "We don't cycle as fast as they did in that video," says Örvar. "We don't do it to cultivate an image and we don't wear those clothes. They're awful. They look like a freaky combination of a skin diving suit and a shell suit. And we don't wear helmets either. They ruin your hair."
"But when you're cycling with a personal stereo on,"says Gunnar brightly,"somehow you ear music in a different way. It evokes more feeling."

The same could be said about múm and their delectable second album "Finally we are no one". Intricately weaving accordions , melodicas and Glockenspiels amongst ice-crunching electronics and tin can rattling riddims, they've fashioned a more emotionally enganging form of electronica. It's a beautifully serene display of rich melodicism and rustic melancholy that twinkles and chimes with as much otherworldly magic as Iceland's lunar-like landscape. And yes, this warm and breezy organitronica would be an ideal accompaniement while cycling down country lanes.

"This album came together straight away," says Gunnar. "It's both more electronic and more organic." As Örvar points out, múm have always insisted on uniting the two, but their formative years were spent listening to something else altogether: their parents prog rock albums, the soundtrack to "Mean Streets" and old school hardcore. "I was already Djing old school hardcore at a youth centre in Reykjavik," says Gunnar, "and playing in various guitar bands. But I started listening to electronic music like Aphex Twin more and more. From there I bought an Amiga computer and started fiddling around with that."
Örvar, meanwhile, began to make music when he needed tunes for a computer gane he was programming on BASIC. For Kristín and Gyda, they were classically trained to play piano and cello from an early age. Örvar and Gunnar first spotted the twins in a rubbish Pixies covers band and, a year later, performing music at a local theatre. After that múm were formed and an inaugural release "Stefnumót Kafbátan" a split 10-inch single with the charmingly monikered Spunk, revealed a band of astonishing talent. It convinced Thule Music to finance and release múm's debut album, "Yesterday was dramatic, today is ok", in March 2000.

Sparser, slightly harder sounding than its successor, it's recurring woodpecker beats gripping the imagination of pastoral tech fans, it had recognizable precedents-the atmosphere of early Aphex Twin, the glitchy clicks of Autechre-though it's sadness was unique. Quite simply, it was the most startling debut in years.
"It's really fun when you get a good reaction," says Gunnar," but it's great when you hear that it's being liked by old people, by my grandmother's friends or a physics professor at Reykjavik University. That's when it becomes exciting." By the time their remix album "Please Smile my noise bleed", came out in November 2001, the band were often mentioned in the same exalted breath as Boards of Canada and To Rococo Rot. Not bad for a band who reckoned their music was merely "something to do the ironing to". "I think our ironing days are over," says Örvar, flatly. "I've never been that much into ironing anyway."
"There's an element of functionalism about our music," says Kristín. "It's background reading music. Some records stop you from focusing on the book, but I think our music assists it nicely."

Hunched around pints of lager in The Kitchen Bar in London's Waterloo, the quartet come across as charming and cheery. The twin's elementary English, and their barely audible whisperings, makes communication difficult but their darting eyes and smirking smiles speak an inclusive, humorous language. The two lads, meanwhile, offer laconic anecdotes, self-deprecating wit and, in Gunnar's words, a "passive-aggressive" manner. But Örvar could definitely impress Liam Gallagher. Asked how he'd describe his girlfriend Kristín, he thinks long and hard before saying, "She has a nice ass."
"Wheeeeeyyyyyyyy," shouts a delighted Kristín, sounding like an Icelandic Sara Cox. Given their mixture of politeness and playful lustiness, it's not surprising they connected with Belle & Sebastian, the Scottish indie-folk band who lyrically appear reverential as well as randy (Kristín and Gyda pose on the cover of B&S' album "Fold you hands child, you walk like a peasant").
"We met at their Bowlie Weekender festival," says Gyda, "and they were helping us out with some gigs in Glasgow and London too. We got on with them and it just went from there."

Gunnar says they've always found B&S' music touching and "Finally we are no one" echoes indie-folk's hushed gentleness, albeit electronically, and the twin's burbling vocals on recent single "Green grass of tunnel" only accentuates that kind of fey sweetness. But despite a British fan base that also consists of Mogwai and Jarvis Cocker, múm have no desire to move to London or Glasgow. Instead Örvar and Kristín relocated to Berlin. "Berlin is good for cycling,"says Örvar, returning to the band's favourite theme. "You can bike on the side walks because they have really huge sidewalks. And to be honest, I'd rather live somewhere that has really huge sidewalks."



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