Lionel Richie Love Will Find A Way Extended Version

[Adele Strecker]

Whenyou arrive at the ya Festival, it's about the music. And there was plenty of it: I travelled to Oslo in August for the fifth annual event, which had a lineup eclectic enough to please headbangers, indie sad-sacks, children (kids' music faves Knutsen & Ludvigsen performed), old folks, and Pipettes fans. Still, some of the most memorable moments occurred off-grounds: A Lionel Richie-blasting night club ("Dancing on the Ceiling", of course), dive-bombing birds, a prawn brunch on a fjord cruise, plenty of Jgermeister with an enigmatic "tour guide" who kissed a friend's hand and moments later told our posse he planned to rob us. (Jokingly, we thought.) All that, and repeatedly being mistaken for the Fall's bassist, who's also tall, and at the time at least, was also sporting a shaggy red beard.

There were bands to interview and places to be, but I let Oslo drag me around by the scruff of my neck. It's one of the world's most expensive cities, so the trip's tenor was dictated by an attempt to part with as few kroner as possible. I never ate in a proper restaurant and instead became all too familiar with the huge suspended ketchup and mustard dispensers hanging like cow udders in takeaway joints. That, and the fact that corn comes on just about everything.

But, price tag aside, if you fly into Oslo take the Flytoget airport express train. The trek from the airport to Oslo Central Station is weirdly perfect: sound-proof car, bent-wood seats, news updates on a crystalline flat screen, blurred countryside, conductor's slight 1-800 intonation, chilled rain. I wished I owned an iPod, so I could play William Basinski's * Silent Night * and overdose on pretty melancholia.

The first day, fresh from the Flytoget, I set up my laptop at the Opera Hotel, a comfortable space with a bountiful free brunch located in downtown Oslo. I was buzzed on the idea of seeing as many bands as possible, and shunned my girlfriend's idea of a post-flight nap. Jet lag proved stronger than indie rock, though, so I ended up falling asleep with a festival schedule over my face. Forty-five minutes later, only sorta refreshed from half-assed shuteye, we took a walk.

The night before the outdoor festival, a number of groups played in clubs scattered throughout Oslo. I'd hoped to catch Sereena Maneesh perform a live soundtrack to Guy Maddin's * Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary * , but it started too soon after our arrival-- it's the sorta thing that should be happening around midnight, right? Regardless, we decided to catch the White Birch at Internasjonalen bar's outdoor stage alongside Youngstorget, a vegetable-market-ready city square.

The official map was a bit dicey, so I stopped someone on the street and asked for directions: In a weird sort of luck, it was a local promoter, Vegard Strmsodd, who took us to Teddy's Softbar for a beer and directed us to some of the best falafel I've had in ages (french fries and, well, corn wrapped in the pita). He also recommended Kim Hiorthoy at Robinet, but the electro-artist had already powered down his laptop by the time we arrived.

We did make it to the White Birch. When they formed in 1996, the group named itself after that excellent 1994 Codeine album with the snowy birch tree on the cover. Sonically? Strip away Codeine's Slinty heaviness, use a bit more carefully modulated falsetto, and layer gorgeous piano dust in the background, and you're moving in the right direction. Main songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Ola Flottum has another "nighttime music" solo project, Portrait of David, which he said, "makes White Birch sound like punk rock."

Moments of the new White Birch album, * Come up for Air * , nail a perfect "Fox in the Snow" on downers vibe. In the past, certain flourishes had reminded me of Coldplay, but seeing them live axed that notion: The music's both epic and painfully alone and watching them perform outdoors to a rapt, drunken bar crowd proved remarkably ideal. It's not music for stadiums, but turns out Band of Horses were also in attendance at Internasjonalen, treated Flottum to tons of drinks, and have invited them on a tour of the States-- so who knows?

A poster-boy for bedhead, Flottum looked a lot like the National's Matt Berninger, and so he felt weirdly familiar. He was dressed in black except for his red guitar and brown shoes; that final detail, a crack in the uniform, felt poignant. The brief set included lovely moments, especially when Susanna Wallumrod from Susanna and the Magical Orchestra joined the five-piece in a rendition of "New Kingdom", * Come Up * 's lonesome, die-for-heaven closer. They opened with the absolutely heartbreaking "Storm Broken Tree", which bleeds an icy sadness via Flottum's aching falsetto (live, his face looked anguished, gasping) and lyrics about "the smell of those last leaves."

One song they didn't do was "Seer Believer", an "attempt at a pop song." The haunting video for for the tune, which has received a bit of play on Norwegian television, compiles video and film clips from Flottum's birth until his 33rd year (he's now 34). Manipulating the footage with lip synchronization (the production company filmed small children singing along to the song) Flottum serenades us over the years. It's pretty, but even he admitted it's "kind of freaky." (To make it freakier, I suggested they do a sequel, capturing years 34 to 68.)

The most surprising stars of Club Night, though, were the New Violators [below], led by vocalist Per Borten. My girlfriend described Borten as a "Vanilla/Morrissey hybrid"; later, when he sang "learn to love my misery" during a three-part harmony, we realized her description was more than visual. I spoke to Borten a couple of days later and he said Morrissey isn't an influence: "He's a wonderful singer, but I don't own any Morrissey albums. I could say that my biggest vocal influence is Alan Vega and our sound is influenced by Gary Numan, but you know, everyone would say that these days. Probably, if you mix "Born to Run", "Love Will Tear Us Apart", and "Let's Dance" by David Bowie you're somewhere close."

Sporting a blonde pompadour and dressed in scandalously tight white jeans, white t-shirt, and cubed eye-wear, Borten isn't just the charismatic frontman: He writes every note of the New Violator's infectiously ripe anthems. I was equally impressed with multi-tasking, progressive-rock keyboardist Hkon Marius Pettersen's back-up vocals and bassist Gjermund Landr's Michael Anthony-style driving and crying. Borten was all over the place: He sang with a finger in his ear so he could hear better, waved his arms around like he was falling into a trance or a swoon. I was told time and time again over the weekend that Norwegians don't dance, but that night, people went ape shit.

The Trondheim quintet, comprised of three bands that broke up last year, has only been together a few months but already possess an incredibly distinct sound. The 28-year-old Borten isn't unknown: He previously sang and played guitar in Cadillac, a group infamous for its loud live sets and chugging through songs like "Pigfucker". "This pop music has always been a part of me," Borten told me. "I was 12 years old and listening to the Cure, but to be honest, I don't think I had the balls to do it before now. People familiar with Cadillac might think it's fake, but it's not...the day that I fake music is the day that I kill myself."

Borten shares his name with his grandfather, the Norwegian prime minister (1965-1971) who died at 91 last January and is fondly remembered for, among other things, mowing his lawn in his underwear while Queen Elizabeth was visiting his farm. That rebellious, well-bred lineage adds a great detail to the New Violators back story, but really, this group's good enough that Borten should easily sidestep grandpa's shadow.

Medieval Park doesn't resemble anything as grandiose as its name: The flat, grassy, sorta muddy space includes a small pond, scattered Sunn 0)))-ready ruins, expensive beer, and tons of oddly perfect looking teens. It's pretty, but within clear view of the highway-- a sort of urban post-industrial idyll.

There were three stages at the festival: Main (Enga), Middle (Sjosiden), and Small (Vika). Enga had a huge screen to the right of it that was often focused on Morrissey's left eye, a cute girl or guy in the crowd, Mark E. Smith's shoulder, or someone passed out against a rock. There were also plenty of video game booths, an area that screened films/videos, DIY DJ stuff, and a food court on wheels. At one point, a number of streakers passed through.

From the press area, you had a clear view of the stage, as well as a reedy pond inlet where drunk guys would piss. Ikea was a big sponsor. It provided slanted cardboard boxes for people to sit/lean against and a few showrooms (as in the ya International area) with price tags still attached. The Pipettes did an acoustic set at the official Ikea stand, which had me curious about future sponsorship and product tie-ins, but not curious enough to ask anyone about it.

There were certain bands I wanted to catch just because of their name. For example, the Cumshots, a great choice as an opener. Later, a member of Enslaved joked to me that he wanted to catch them as well, but "came too late." Their hard rock/metal libretto suits the moniker: A sample lyric from "Punchdrunk on Death"? "Your pussy is a graveyard/ And I'm dying to get in." Got it? A couple of years ago the Cumshots were joined onstage by copulating activists from Fuck for Forest, a Norwegian-born/Berlin-based environmental organization whose members have sex to save the rain forest. I'm serious. There were plenty of heavy riffs, but as far as I could tell from my vantage, no fucking.

Later on that same gigantic stage Liars did an admirable job, getting across * Drum's Not Dead * 's tripped, midnight Kraut-sock at a sunny 4 p.m. Frontman Angus Andrew [above] clothed himself more conservatively than at the Pitchfork Festival-- AC/DC instead of cross-dressing meth addict. Earlier, I'd found an especially jovial Andrew backstage with equally good-natured bandmates stoked about the Knife's upcoming set ("They're very mysterious, aren't they...") and more than a bit shocked by Johnny Marr joining Modest Mouse ("Isn't that crazy?"). Julian Gross and I talked black metal; Aaron Hemphill filled me in on his interest in John Wiese. I'd always been curious whether or not * They Were Wrong, So We Drowned * 's witch themes inspired a darker following, so I asked.

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