Overcrowding. Punishing heat. Alcohol-fueled misdemeanors. Marshfuls of mud.
If you’re not experiencing these things, are you really at a music festival?
With the exception of a bit of muddy grass—the inevitable result of near-daily spurts of rain, but not enough to keep you slip-slidin’ away—the Oya Festival in Oslo, Norway was absent all of these miseries during its four-day run from Aug. 10-13. (Of course I can’t accurately speak to the misdemeanors, but Oya hasn’t had a single arrest in its 18 years.)
With the festival’s offerings of plentiful greenery, cool weather, and personal space, its most onerous aspect was the diversity (and number) of its acts. Mastodon and Massive Attack. Sweden and Orlando Julius. Anohni and Daughter. You want to devour all of it. (Though here’s a tip for future outings: Skip Daughter’s drone-rock unless you’re looking for a nod.) PJ Harvey headlined one night. Grace Jones closed Oya out. And after the park, Toyenparken, went dark for the day, the music continued under the moniker OyaNight, with more artists scattered among 25 venues around Oslo.
Jason Isbell, the very Southern, very alt-country former member of Drive-By Truckers, presented himself as an example: “Most places, they don’t know where to put us. It’s good to hear some rock ‘n’ roll.” Though said rock ‘n’ roll wasn’t coming from Isbell’s set (barring a riff that disconcertingly echoed Tom Petty’s “Refugee”). His 45 minutes were full of achingly gorgeous melodies such as “Cover Me Up,” perhaps the most beautiful song about fucking ever. (“So girl, hang your dress up to dry/We ain’t leavin’ this room.”)
Isbell played a daytime slot Tuesday, but that afternoon belonged to bands who would feel right at home on the Vans Warped Tour. Norwegian band Sweden’s confection “Just a Kid” sounded like a blink-182 cover, with its buoyant, arena-ready chorus elevated by fellow Norwegian artists Andreas GR, Vidar Landa, and Ole Petter Andreassen coming onstage to sing along. Then British pop-punk band Vant—masters of the 90-second record—literally warmed up the crowd, with singer Mattie Vant entreating fans to move toward the stage “to make us feel better, and you’ll keep each other warm. But do what you want—I don’t give a fuck.” The group continued on with their heavily fuzzed guitars in songs such as “Parking Lot,” destined to be an anthem for teen abstinence with the lyrics “If you’re not ready/Then I’m not ready/Just keep things steady/Just keep things cool.”
After a do-over made necessary when he started out of tune, James Alex from Philadelphia’s Beach Slang was extremely grateful for every “wooo!” from the audience. Clad in a frilly-shirt-and-bowtie prom get-up straight from the ‘70s, he babbled between songs about how lucky they(/he) felt to be there, even jumping into the crowd to give a particularly enthusiastic fan a bear hug. (I think the poor guy got Alex’s legs wrapped around him, too, but I didn’t have a clear view.) For all his effusiveness, though, Alex bore Jack White’s hair and swagger, frequently showing off his Matrix bend-back and windmilling through songs such as “Noisy Heaven.”
The rest of the fest brought less radio-friendly fare. (Though it’s puzzling why Norway’s Death by Unga Bunga isn’t known in the States.) The Eagles of Death Metal may have been brought to prominence by Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme, but he rarely tours with them, leaving their otherwise bounce-worthy, rockabilly-tinged set a bit disappointing. Songs like “Silverlake”—”Can you not see the style of hipster/I most surely am/I’m trying twice as hard as anyone you just let in”—however, were a fine compensation. In comparison, England’s indie-rock Foals were often self-indulgent and always self-serious, either whipping their fans into a moderate frenzy or bringing them to a standstill.
Day 4 boasted the most off-center acts, including all-female noise rock group Savages, whose strobe-happy and propulsive set (thanks the impressively heavy playing of drummer Fay Milton) threatened to blow both your eyes and ears out.
Then Grace Jones put an odd but undeniably Grace Jones-esque cap on the fest. Coming out wearing a skull mask, the 68-year-old Jamaican model, actress, and singer gave only glimpses of the body paint covering her beneath her long frock as she sang slowly funky meditations such as “Nightclubbing.” She prowled the stage and contorted herself around a veritable altar, stealing off between songs to change her outfit a bit. Jones became a lionness—and then an exhibitionist—when she ditched most of her duds in favor of a large headdress, a corset that surely lifted but did not cover her breasts, and little else. The songs largely remained the same—thump thump thump, but more leisurely than EDM—while the show became not her music but her lithe and amazingly ageless body. (Did I mention the strap-on?)
But Jones isn’t a kid anymore, despite her continuing to push the boundaries of decency and desire to shock. About 20 minutes into her set, she had a surprising confession: “I’ve got to catch my breath.”