You push your way into a bar. It’s over crowded and probably close to a fire code violation, but the place is so small if a fire started, everyone could get out by shrugging the walls down.
Standing at the door to the toilet, a strange, bearded fellow asks if he can cut in line. When you ask if there’s an emergency brewing, he points out he’s the singer, going on next. You decide to let him go first.
You can’t stand in the way of rock, yo.
Once the music starts, the band plays a strange kind of post-punk surfer rock while a machine belches theatrical smoke into the air and two female dancers writhe about on the floor in bizarre, lurching motions. Behind them, some strange shock-gore film plays.
After the madness of the show, you head out into the night and stumble across the most popular restaurant in Iceland: a 70-year old hotdog stand in the middle of downtown Reykjavik. You figure if it’s good enough for Bill Clinton, it’s good enough for you.
Turns out it’s fucking amazing.
