Whether by virtue of its landscapes, its education system, its isolation or its magical nighttime vistas, Iceland is incapable of producing anything close to a jerk, a malfeasant or an asshole. Each and every person I have ever met in or away from the city of Reykjavik has been humble, honest, adventurous and hilarious. Upon walking through a showroom cum apartment complex in Williamsburg this past month, I was pleasently reassured that Emiliana Torrini was to be no exception to the rule.
We spent the afternoon in a garden after a heavy rain. Her band, a joyful pack of hired guns from various corners of the United Kingdom, provided a full and playful accompaniment to a voice that had followed me since my teens, one delicate and mischievious while still conveying a complete authority. Emiliana prepared two acoustic versions of her new songs which the band, all the way up to their performances, had been refining and expanding with elements to accentuate and deepen the impact of their studio recording.
We assembled in the simple scene, found easy laughs, enjoyed a perfect October respite after a storm and settled in to experience a oasis of island tranquility surrounded by the din of the city.