I was nine hours ahead in time zones, 48 hours behind in sleep, and three drinks into my night in Aarhus, Denmark, when I finally found myself at a show where no one understood the language. It was Ikscheltaschel‘s slot at the Spot music festival, and the Danish hiphop act known for inventing an impenetrable lingo was using the universal language of hand signals to get some hands in the air. It was probably the most abstract moment of a bizarre trip to Denmark for a two-day, 100-plus–band, 10-venue marathon in mid-June. Suddenly things were so weird, they almost flipped back to normality. Normal like being the only U.S. journalist invited to attend a Scandinavian music festival wasn’t such an odd thing. Normal like calling the hotel operator to figure out the room doors opened out wasn’t an act of sheer jetlag stupidity. Normal like seeing Danish dancehall band Bikstok Røgsystem—a group that includes Danish exports Junior Senior‘s producer—crack weed jokes in a language where the only phrases I know are for “pancake” and “I have a headache” (doesn’t mean I didn’t get the references).
Great music has a way of erasing regional and linguistic borders, and if there’s one thing the 11-year-strong Spot festival can teach outsiders, it’s that Scandinavia is producing killer sounds in multiple tongues. (I also learned that Danish beer is way too expensive, that walking home from a club at 4:00 a.m. in near daylight is fucking weird, and that the ’80s revival virus isn’t limited to American and British acts. See the hugely popular Spleen United—who, with the exception of their very ’90s flaunting of heroin chic, are the Danish answer to Depeche Mode. They supposedly even recorded in the same studio that produced Music for the Masses.)
Kristian Riis was one of my hosts through this array of everything from electronica to emogazer to Icelandic folk. He’s the guitarist for Denmark’s most popular band, Nephew (the weekend after Spot, Nephew headlined over Snoop Dogg and Avril Lavigne). Riis wants to share the wealth, though, so he also works for Music Export Denmark, one of many music-boosting government agencies. (The importance the Danish government places on the arts is beyond commendable. But then again, the country’s tax rate is insane.) Henrick Tuxen and John Fogde are writers at Denmark’s Rolling Stone of sorts, Gaffa. I credit Tuxen for introducing me to Norway’s Skambankt, a supercharged, Turbonegro-sounding punk outfit (minus the, well, outfits) who reportedly are overtly political, but I don’t speak Norwegian. Fogde is to blame for my falling for Mew—one of the best acts I saw all weekend. Imagine a boy who sings like a girl fronting a band who sound like Sigur Rós gone grandiose, monumental rock. I could definitely see them making international headlines in the future (following in the footsteps of those other Danes, the Raveonettes. A little Danish trivia: The guy in the Raveonettes used to play in a grunge band that once toured with 7 Year Bitch). Mew already have a few connections in their favor: The London-based band is managed by Alan McGee, Danish supermodel Helena Christensen took their press photos, and J. Mascis adds vocals to a couple of their tracks. Live, their music swelled like a church choir releasing spiritual fireworks, and they were simply the grandest sounding band I heard all weekend.
Mew also were the only Spot band whose music made its way onto playlists at the parties and bars I hit. Even with all the Danish pride in effect, turntables were stacked with more American music than you could shake a Killers 7-inch at. So I didn’t feel so terrible going craziest for a Swedish Spot band—Dungen. Playing to a club the size of Chop Suey, Dungen made their best effort at reviving the flute solo in a rock arena, plunging into dusted ’60s/’70s psychedelic pop with aplomb. It didn’t matter that all their lyrics are in Swedish. They performed a stunning set, and were one of two Pitchfork-approved acts on the Spot roster. (The other: celestial 10-piece electro-minimalists Efterklang.)
And I have to mention the 10-piece industrial alt-rock act the Bleeder Group, who were as catchy as they were numerous. Or Chloroform, a trio dressed in neon hazard suits whose music challenged funk, electro jazz, and garage with incredibly spastic time changes. (Their singer, John Erik Kaada, has recorded with Mike Patton.)
And finally there was Hatesphere, a Danish thrash band who have toured with Morbid Angel—and whose drummer was kind enough to transport me to the airport in his minivan at the ungodly (and very un-metal) hour of 7:30 a.m. at the close of the 72-hour dash. After such a staggering weekend of Scandinavian music, silence has never sounded so sad—but then again, sleep has never felt so necessary—and my only nonmusical souvenir from the trip, a bag of Danish salty black licorice, is the best meal I’ve consumed since.