Imagine that you are one of the foremost bands in today’s burgeoning electro-pop scene. Imagine that this scene is like a family, and that FM Belfast is your baby brother. You have spent all your time working hard for your parents’ approval, tweaking your synthesizers and drum patterns until they sound perfect. You write anthems that sound great on record, but find it difficult to recreate the same excitement in your live shows. Your eventual success does nothing to relieve the weight of responsibility that sits heavily on your shoulders. You harbor a sense of resentment somewhere deep in your heart.
Then you notice your little brother, who only started playing music on a whim because he saw you doing it. You can tell he doesn’t take his craft as seriously as you do — he doesn’t take anything as seriously as you do — but your family and friends give him all the attention he wants. He is adorable, and he has that effortless baby brother charm on his side. Neither his frivolous lifestyle nor his stubborn naïvete seem to bother anyone. It annoys you that charm can render seriousness irrelevant, but there is nothing you can do about it.
FM Belfast are not serious at all. The duo of Árni Hlöðdversson and Lóa Hjálmtýsdóttir formed the band in late 2005 as a studio project, and recorded some songs for friends as Christmas presents. Although the outfit has since then grown in size and gained enough momentum to attract international attention, the music still maintains a stubborn naïvete. It sounds like some good friends messing around with Casios and drum machines in someone’s basement. It’s minimalistic, but not in an austere way, where barrenness and silent spaces are supposed to make a statement. No one here is trying to make any statements. They thumb their nose at the very idea of making statements, especially with their cover of Rage Against the Machine’s “Killing In The Name,” here retitled “Lotus,” a cover which is populated by harsh chord stabs, frantic handclaps, and a bewilderingly disaffected vocal style. It has little going for it except novelty value and, perhaps, the element of surprise.
FM Belfast are from Iceland, but that doesn’t really help describe the way they sound. Unlike Björk or Sigur Rós, their music is not at all reminiscent of the poetic beauty of glaciers and mountains. Instead, they have written some whimsical songs about things like going to the beach (“Par Avion”) and running around outside with no clothes on (“Underwear”). And unlike most current electro-pop bands, their reputation is built on a festival-stealing live act. Their onstage personnel can vary anywhere from three to nine people, depending, apparently, on whoever happens to show up. They seem a little surprised and genuinely pleased that their enthusiasm has taken them this far.
Their debut album, How To Make Friends, is not so much an album experience as it is a conjuring act, meant to summon up a world where sunny keyboard melodies and enthusiastic singing are the wonder drugs that relieve life’s barrenness. “Underwear” is only reckless because of an underlying boredom; you can hear Hjálmtýsdóttir echoing the phrase “Nothing ever happens here” in the background, singing about how “We live in a place where we count the days ‘til nothing.” “Tropical” features escapism at its most exaggerated, using one of the album’s perky synthesizer riffs to carry the listener through several lines of nonsense about an imaginary island boyfriend and a monkey named Pedro who plays keyboards, all with the incessant refrain, “It’s tropical.”
If you have a younger sibling who uses the internet to discover the hottest new electro-pop, then FM Belfast might be their new favorite band. Today’s youth may have never heard Technotronic’s “Pump Up The Jam” before, but they will still think that FM’s cover, which sounds a little like major-key bossa nova played through a Game Boy with low batteries, is one of the most delightful things they have ever heard. I’m no hater; I admit that I catch myself humming “Synthia” around the house sometimes, in spite of myself. There is something beautiful about being young and simple and not giving a shit about anything, but only for so long. I’m not even 25, and this music makes me feel old and stuffy. MGMT put it best: the youth are starting to change. Am I starting to change?
More about: FM Belfast
