Reykjavik Jazz Festival 2025

Reykjavik Jazz Festival
Harpa Concert Hall
Reykjavik, Iceland
August 26-31, 2025

Jazz festivals are rarely just stages and instruments. They are living, breathing ecosystems, a careful weaving together of artists, ideas, and audiences. Each performer brings a unique expression, and each set is curated with an ear for the festival's identity. Financial constraints may exist, but thoughtful curation is what gives a festival its soul. The Reykjavik Jazz Festival is no exception: it's a mosaic of sounds, perspectives, and atmospheres, all carefully assembled for those who truly listen.

Iceland has always held a special fascination for me. Beyond its music scene—neoclassical, indie, rock, and the unmistakable aura of Björk—the country has a culture that feels both intimate and vast. Stepping off the plane, that sense of uniqueness is immediate. The scenery confronts you with its contrasts: volcanic formations that seem freshly born, a quiet rawness, and yet an undeniable beauty that changes with every turn of the road. My introduction to this world came through Sigtryggur Baldursson, who greeted me at the airport and guided me toward Reykjavik. His presence was both a window into Icelandic culture and a gentle navigation through the changing landscapes. The first sight of barren volcanic stretches gradually gave way to areas lush with vegetation, a transformation as sudden as it was subtle. It felt like the country was telling me: expect surprises, pay attention, and listen closely. Our first stop was an arts center, where the festival's eclectic reach became immediately apparent. A group of Polish musicians performed, and an interactive AI video installation responded to their sound. Watching the synthesis of live performance and digital interpretation, it was clear that Reykjavik Jazz Festival is not only about jazz in its traditional sense but about the dialogue between music, technology, and creativity.

There's a rhythm to experiencing this festival that mirrors Iceland itself: sometimes still and reflective, other times vivid and unexpected. From the barren volcanic plains to the lively urban spaces of Reykjavik, the festival's music and art reflect the country's contrasts. It's an invitation to listen differently, to embrace each moment fully, and to understand that jazz—like Iceland—is never just what you see on the surface.

Reykjavik

Reykjavik was unlike most of what I expected. Calm streets, low houses, and a sense of openness that seemed almost impossible for a capital city. It doesn't rush; it invites you to wander. Even the colors of the rooftops feel deliberate, a statement against the pale Icelandic sky. The city is absolutely worth exploring. Its architecture offers plenty of surprises-minimalist lines softened by warm wood, punctuated by bursts of color in murals and street art. Cafés spill out onto the sidewalks, serving hot drinks and baked treats that smell like comfort itself. Restaurants showcase Icelandic flavors with care and creativity, making even a simple meal feel like a small adventure. There's a strange kind of serenity here. Reykjavik is so incredibly peaceful that it almost feels like a dream, a place where the hum of city life slows down to match the rhythm of the sea and wind. You notice the details: the way light bounces off the colored buildings, the way people move with calm purpose, the subtle echoes of music drifting from tiny venues tucked between streets. And who would have imagined that an island so far north, with just a few hundred thousand residents, could hum with so much jazz energy? Yet Reykjavik seems to have proven that every year. Reykjavik Jazz 2025, the festival's 35th edition, stretched over six vibrant days, filling the city with sound, rhythm, and improvisation.

It brought together a diverse array of artists, performing across a spectrum of venues, including the city's jewel, Harpa Concert Hall, churches, bars, and remote locations. The architecture and acoustics of Harpa elevate every note, turning performances into vivid and enriching experiences.

Harpa deserves to be mentioned separately.

Harpa Concert Hall

The Reykjavik Jazz Festival found its home at Harpa Concert Hall, a building that feels alive the moment you approach it. Its glass façade catches the light in a thousand ways, reflecting the ocean, the sky, and the energy of the city all at once. Walking along the old harbour toward Harpa, you realize it isn't just a venue—it's a statement, a bridge between Iceland's raw nature and its cultural ambitions. Opened in 2011, Harpa has quickly become the beating heart of Reykjavik's musical life. It hosts everything from the Iceland Symphony Orchestra to the Reykjavik Big Band, from Icelandic Opera to experimental contemporary performances. And yet, despite its grandeur, it feels welcoming, as if it was designed not to impress from a distance, but to invite you in, to move through it, to explore its spaces at your own pace.

The views from Harpa are breathtaking. Look out over the ocean, and the harbour stretches endlessly, dotted with boats and volcanic rock. The city rises behind it, a blend of color, quiet streets, and distant mountains. Inside, the acoustics are flawless, every note, every breath of a musician perfectly captured. It's a space that honors both sound and sight, a place where jazz—or any music—feels larger than life yet intimately personal. What stood out weren't just the international acts, though they were dazzling, but the sheer depth and creativity of Iceland's own jazz community, which the festival gave accent to.

Tuesday, August 26

ADHD

The Reykjavík Jazz Festival opened with a band that has, over the years, become something of a heartbeat for the Icelandic scene—ADHD. There's a certain comfort in seeing them take the stage: the four musicians don't just play together, they seem to breathe in the same rhythm, moving between moments of hushed intimacy and volcanic bursts of sound. Their music has always been hard to pin down—part jazz, part rock, part atmosphere. Live, it feels like you're stepping into a landscape: windswept, spacious, sometimes stormy, sometimes fragile. Eiríkur's saxophone cut through the hall with piercing lines, while Ómar's guitar leaned into textures that seemed to shimmer and fade like northern lights. Underneath, the rhythm section kept everything fluid, pulsing and unpredictable.

What struck me most, though, was how natural it all felt. Nothing was forced, nothing showy—they let the music unfold as if it was happening for the first time. In that way, ADHD captured the spirit of the festival's opening perfectly: a reminder that jazz, especially in Iceland, thrives on exploration, risk, and a deep sense of place.

By the end of their set, the audience wasn't just warmed up—they were pulled into ADHD's world, one where boundaries dissolve and music becomes pure atmosphere. It was an opening that promised a festival full of discovery.

SAUMUR: Arve Henriksen-Skúli Sverrisson-Hilmar Jensson

Arve Henriksen's set was like entering a different world. The air seemed to shift, soft and expectant, as if the room itself was leaning in to listen. Sounds began to drift with delicate guitar echoes, subtle ambiance, and playful improvisations—inviting the audience to slow down, to notice the spaces between notes as much as the notes themselves. Henriksen's presence was calm but magnetic, a guide through music that feels both intimate and otherworldly. As the trio settled into their groove, the music took on a conversational quality. Skúli Sverrisson's bass lines murmured like asides, while Hilmar Jensson's guitar textures shimmered and echoed, painting delicate soundscapes around Henriksen's melodic explorations. The music moved slowly, sometimes pausing, then stretching into unexpected spaces, as if the hall itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next phrase.

Henriksen's vocal improvisations added another layer entirely. Gentle, playful, sometimes whimsical, sometimes almost narrative—there was a story of a grandfather woven through one song, fragments of memory floating above the instrumental canvas. At times, simple, almost humorous lines—such as "I want to play, I want a PlayStation"—slipped into the melodic flow, reminding the audience that improvisation can be light, human, and full of charm. The ambient qualities of the performance made the hall feel larger and smaller at once. Every echo, every sustained note, seemed to interact with the space of Harpa, reaching into corners, bouncing off walls, wrapping the audience in a soft, immersive envelope. It was music that demanded attention without demanding effort, coaxing listeners into quiet contemplation while rewarding them with unexpected warmth and playfulness.

Poney Moon

The third act of the evening at Harpa was Poney Moon, and the change in atmosphere was immediate. Smooth, classic jazz melodies filled the hall, each note deliberate, each phrase unfolding like a story. Ballads drifted gently, slow-paced but never stagnant, allowing the music to breathe and the audience to sink into its warmth. At the heart of it is Nicolas Moreaux, the French bassist whose compositions guide the band's journey. His pieces are eclectic yet cohesive—drawing from rock, swing, Americana, and even subtle echoes of Icelandic musical sensibilities. The result is music that feels spacious, joyous, and deeply human, with improvisations that shimmer rather than shout.

Watching Poney Moon perform, it was clear that the band takes delight in the music itself. There's a lightness to their playing, a sense of enjoyment that ripples across the room, infecting the audience with quiet smiles and gentle nods. Every chord, every pause, is thoughtful yet playful, a balance of precision and freedom that keeps the performance alive.

Skuggamyndir frá Býsans

The fourth act at Harpa brought a delightful surprise: Skuggamyndir frá Býsans. From the first notes, it was clear that this Icelandic group had immersed itself in Macedonian music traditions, giving them a respectful and playful voice on stage. Hearing them perform "Oj devojche" (traditional Macedonian song) as an opening song felt unexpectedly personal—an homage to the rhythms, ornamentations, and melodic twists that define my homeland's folk music, yet interpreted with their own Icelandic sensibility.

Haukur Gröndal's clarinet sang with warmth and charm, articulating the intricate ornamentation that gives Macedonian melodies their character. Ásgeir Ásgeirsson on tamboura, bouzouki, and saz baglama added texture and color, while Erik Qvick and Þorgrímur Jónsson held the rhythmic foundation, occasionally nudging the music into gentle, meditative passages. Moments of brilliance emerged—improvisations that sparkled, subtle chalgija touches that reminded the audience of the tradition's depth, all while keeping the music playful and approachable.

Their repertoire also spanned Greece, Bulgaria, and Turkey, but Macedonia was at the forefront, the music's intricate meters, lively phrasing, and danceable motifs shining through. Haukur Gröndal's clarinet carried the essence of these melodies with warmth and nuance, while Ásgeir Ásgeirsson on tamboura, bouzouki, and saz baglama wove colorful textures around the core motifs. Erik Qvick and Þorgrímur Jónsson provided rhythm.

On the other hand, I found the rhythm section too polite for music meant for weddings and celebrations. This music itself thrives on contrasts—it must feel at once easy and effortless, yet intricate and driving. Macedonian folk music demands bursts of energy, bold moments of dance and drive, as well as tenderness and sorrow. Still, there was joy in every note, a playful spirit that carried through each piece. Skuggamyndir frá Býsans often navigated this balance gracefully

Still, the performance was joyful and full of character. Playful Balkan melodies, hints of chalgija and Turkish overtones, and moments of improvisational brilliance kept the audience engaged. The band navigated the contrasts of this music—light yet serious, structured yet free—with intelligence and affection.

By the end, it was clear that Skuggamyndir frá Býsans had not only performed Balkan music—they had celebrated Macedonia's rich musical heritage, blending it with influences from neighboring traditions and Icelandic curiosity. The result was spirited, heartfelt, and a reminder that folk music, even when far from home, can still speak deeply to those who know it best.

Wednesday, August 29

Ingibjörg Turchi-Eonia

On the second night, bassist and composer Ingibjörg Turchi presented Eonia, an ambitious new work that extends the ideas she began exploring on her 2023 album Stropha. For this project, she expanded her ensemble with a woodwind section, weaving their voices into her core band and opening a broader palette of textures.

The performance unfolded as a suite of shifting moods and dynamics. It began with a gentle guitar figure and a wandering flute, setting a playful, almost searching tone. Soon, the brass section drove the music into atonal territory, with fractured melodies and asymmetrical lines adding drama. What followed was a burst of free jazz intensity, full of momentum and restless energy, before dissolving into a more ambient passage where cymbals shimmered and bass echoes hung like ghosts. Over its length, the piece moved through contrasting passages, its unpredictability recalling the exploratory spirit of Cecil Taylor while remaining grounded in Turchi's own voice.

What makes Eonia compelling is the balance between freedom and structure: open improvisation flows seamlessly into carefully shaped arrangements. Framed by selections from Meliae and Stropha, the premiere suggested a composer steadily refining a personal sound world that feels both expansive and deeply rooted.

Bliss Quintet

Bliss Quintet brought a surge of energy to the Reykjavík Jazz Festival, confirming why they're seen as one of the most vital young bands in Norwegian jazz. Their set felt at once rooted in tradition and eager to push beyond it. The saxophonist channeled Coltrane's fiery spirit, his intensity matched by a rhythm section that evoked the drive of Coltrane's classic quartet, with shades of Miles in the trumpet's mournful lyricism. "Painted Blue" and "Breathe" unfolded patiently, the trumpet stretching long, melodic lines while the band gradually filled the space with quiet intensity. A piano solo, tender yet searching, opened into a brass swell that felt almost orchestral. "Eda," dedicated to a landlady, was explosive—sharp piano bursts and brass interjections colliding in dynamic waves. Later, the wooden tones of a Bulgarian kaval added unexpected color. Mostly unreleased pieces, these songs revealed a band brimming with invention and restless drive.

Óskar Guðjónsson & Magnús Jóhann: Fermented Friendship

The duet between pianist Magnús Jóhann and saxophonist Óskar Guðjónsson at the Reykjavík Jazz Festival was marked by quiet beauty and deep mutual understanding. Their music carried a softness that drew the listener in rather than demanding attention, unfolding like a conversation between two close friends. Óskar's saxophone often recalled the gentleness of Lester Young, its breathy lines floating above Magnús' understated piano touch, notes falling like raindrops against a window. Together, they shaped spaces of silence and resonance, allowing each phrase to linger. The balance between them felt effortless: Magnús never overplayed, instead offering delicate chords and minimalist figures that gave Óskar the room to speak in tone rather than volume.

Much of the performance reflected the spirit of their album Fermented Friendship, recorded on the same Steinway piano they used this evening. It was a concert of subtle strength, tender connection, and quiet respect. This performance was one of the highlights for me.

Bisgaard/Jónsson Quartet

The Bisgaard/Jónsson Quartet offered a tender, melodic set at the Reykjavík Jazz Festival, one that carried the warmth of shared traditions and the intimacy of chamber jazz. Saxophonist Ólafur Jónsson's lyrical tone, paired with Eyþór Gunnarsson's graceful piano lines, often evoked the spirit of Joshua Redman in their romantic gentleness. Alongside Ulrik Bisgaard's sensitive drumming and Þorgrímur Jónsson's steady bass, the quartet created music that felt both rooted and exploratory. Drawing on Danish folk sources such as Drømte Mig En Drøm i Nat, as well as original compositions, they blended Icelandic and Danish voices into one seamless conversation.

Thursday, August 28

Þingvellir location/the Sigmar Matthíasson Band

On the third day, we ventured to Þingvellir, Iceland's storied National Park. The road wound through landscapes that seemed almost unreal, as if painted by a careful, playful hand—vast fields, lakes, mountains, hills, rivers, and gorges stretching toward distant horizons. Iceland has a way of making every turn feel like a discovery. The otherworldly scenery never ceases to amaze, and as we drove, each view became more breathtaking than the last. Truly, Iceland is a remarkably photogenic country.

There at Þingvellir, the Sigmar Matthíasson Band welcomed us for a noon concert in the park's small store-museum, opening a softer yet equally expansive world. Matthíasson's Uneven Equator unfolded in live sound—jazz interlaced with subtle Eastern textures, strings and vocals weaving unexpected patterns. The result was a unique, carefully woven blend of contemporary jazz and Middle Eastern influences that felt both intimate and expansive.

Pingvellir carries its history quietly. Its name means "Assembly Plains," and the Alþingi—the world's oldest parliament—was founded here in 930. Walking through the rift valley, you can feel the land's slow, persistent movement between the North American and Eurasian plates. The Almannagjá gorge is impressive without needing to announce itself; its basalt walls seem to hold onto time. Along the hiking trails, small surprises keep appearing—a patch of moss, a trickling stream, or Öxarárfoss spilling into a shallow pool. The terrain changes almost constantly: wide, open fields give way to narrow clefts, and distant cliffs rise up like quiet sentinels. You notice the sound of water over stone, the smell of damp earth, and the wind brushing against your jacket. It's the kind of place that doesn't demand awe—it lets you find it in small details, if you pay attention. Walking here feels slow and steady, a rhythm that matches the land itself.

Kham Meslien

At Harpa, Kham Meslien took the stage alone, double bass in hand, and immediately set a reflective tone. He began with the bow, coaxing minimalistic textures over loops of shakers, gradually layering a second bass, percussion, and charango. Loops intertwined with subtle keyboard samples and echoing ukulele lines, creating a soundscape that felt less like music in the conventional sense and more like a story unfolding. Meslien's compositions evoke wide, arid landscapes bathed in light, where each note seems to measure time and vibration. There's a sense of deliberate pacing: motifs emerge, repeat, and transform, inviting the listener to follow each layer as it grows. After twenty years with Lo'Jo, Meslien now charts his own path, blending jazz improvisation with purely instrumental narrative pieces. On stage, he demonstrates that improvisation need not be aimless; every loop, every texture, every added instrument contributes to a carefully woven journey.

Sunna Gunnlaugs Trio

Sunna Gunnlaugs Trio took the stage with a quiet confidence, quickly revealing a playful, dynamic energy. The trio, anchored by Gunnlaugs' elegant piano, drummer Scott Lemore, and a solid bassist, moved effortlessly between melodic reflection and lively swing. The set drew heavily from their latest album, with pieces like "Go Round Mary" and "Be Like Charlie" highlighting Gunnlaugs' sharply defined melodic sense and her fluid, bluesy touch. There were moments of intimate introspection, like late-night radio drifting through the hall, and others of full-band vitality, reminiscent of Bobo Stenson's spirited approach but with an unmistakably American harmonic sensibility. "Missed Mistur" and a rendition of U2's—"I Still Haven't Found" hinted at their versatility, while Bobo's Boogie brought a playful, contagious energy that had the audience leaning in.

From the first notes, it was clear this is a band that thrives on both structure and spontaneity. Beautiful, melodic, and vital, the trio reminded listeners that jazz can be both intellectually engaging and immediately alive, a conversation between musicians and audience alike.

Björg Blöndal's quartet C4THERINE

Björg Blöndal's quartet C4THERINE made their Iceland debut with music that straddles contemporary jazz and psychedelic rock, previewing material from their upcoming concept album Wild Blue Yonder. The band's mix of vocals, guitar, and vibraphone created angular textures that shifted between colorful melodies and heavy riffs. At times, the performance reached moments of real intensity and beauty, while in others it leaned toward chaos and noise. There's clear ambition in the way the group confronts themes of grief and loss, but despite its energy and originality, the music often felt uneven and, for me, not entirely convincing.

Tómas Jónsson: Gúmbó no. 5 & Þórir Baldursson

Tómas Jónsson's new project Gumbo No. 5 brought a fresh dose of groove to the stage, mixing funk, jazz, and blues into a lively set. Originally formed as a trio, the group performed here as a quartet, with keyboards and piano leading the way. The sound had a New Orleans flavor—swinging, upbeat, and joyful—while also giving room for extended improvisations that built into energetic, dynamic passages. Some pieces leaned toward bar blues, others toward melodic and expressive piano-driven themes. After these longer, high-spirited numbers, the group closed with a tender ballad that balanced the energy with a touch of intimacy. The evening ended on a humorous note as most of the audience rushed toward the stage for an actual taste of gumbo, underlining just how entertaining the show was.

Friday, August 29

After the rugged landscapes of Ponivir, with its lake and mountain backdrop, the next stop felt like stepping into another world. We arrived at a remote location with geothermal pools, steam rising gently from the earth, inviting us into their warmth, named Hvammsvík! The scenery bore no resemblance to the previous excursion—quiet, otherworldly, and soothing in its own way. Swimming there was a rare treat, a pause of pure relaxation. Later, the day took a more intimate turn with lunch at the PR's house, where Roberta Anderson surprised us with a short set of solo electric guitar improvisations—personal, raw, and memorable. It was a prelude to what was going to unfold that evening.

Róberta Andersen Solo

Róberta Andersen's solo guitar set unfolded as a series of explorations rather than fixed songs. Using effects and loops, she shaped soundscapes that felt both deliberate and searching, weaving textures of noise and melody in equal measure. At times, the guitar wandered into abstract territories, bending into distortion or sudden ripples of sound, before settling into something more melodic. A Billy Strayhorn tune emerged early in the set, grounding the performance in familiar jazz language, while her own original composition leaned toward lyrical lines, contrasting nicely with the denser, more experimental passages. Later, she turned to a Magnus Eiríksson song, filtering Icelandic pop heritage through her improvisatory lens. What tied it all together was her painterly approach to sound—each piece felt like a canvas in progress, shifting between color and shadow. It was a performance both intimate and exploratory, never static, always moving toward something new.

Sigurður Flosason & Mattias Nilsson Duo

Saxophonist Sigurður Flosason and Swedish pianist Mattias Nilsson made their debut as a duo, presenting a lyrical program of originals and Nordic folk influences. The opening pieces were melodic and moderately playful, with soprano sax and piano weaving seamlessly. "Darkness Falls," featuring alto sax, was beautifully gentle and mournful, followed by a hopeful, tender composition. Nilsson's piano shone in "Waltz Anoba," blending bossa nova rhythms with waltz phrasing, while "Slaptic Rain" offered delicate textures. The evening closed with "A Hymn to Love and Father of Light," a gentle, tender, and melodic piece, leaving a lingering sense of quiet warmth and Nordic lyricism.

O.N.E.

Poland's O.N.E., joined by Icelandic collaborators, delivered a striking set that balanced experimentation with lyricism. Their music moved through dynamic, angular passages and quieter, tense moments, reflecting the band's playful yet uncompromising energy. Pieces from their new album alternated between free, fragmented improvisation and gentle, melodic songs like Oslo. The closing track, Robespier, was a melodic, almost standard-like moment, offering calm after the storm. The quartet—Monia Muc, Kamila Drabek, Patrycja Wybrańczyk, and Kateryna Ziabliuk—showcased remarkable cohesion, pride in their craft, and a commitment to shaping the next generation of women in jazz. A performance both daring and heartfelt.

Cuban Club

Adding to the festival's variety, Halli Guðmunds' Cuban Club presented a set of Cuban jazz that felt both lively and relaxed. Their album Live at Mengi was reflected on stage, with six instrumentalists performing arrangements inspired by Cuban and Colombian music. Recorded live at Mengi, the performance balanced rhythmically engaging passages with quieter, more reflective moments. Halli guided the group through each piece with clarity, allowing the interplay between instruments to stand out. The set offered a taste of Cuban jazz that was approachable and enjoyable, with careful arrangements and a sense of musical conversation among the players.

Saturday, April 30

Rebekka Blöndal—Billie Holiday in 110 years

Rebekka Blöndal's tribute to Billie Holiday at the Reykjavík Jazz Festival was both tender and uplifting, celebrating the singer's enduring legacy as her 110th birthday approaches. Dressed in a flowing red gown, Blöndal moved gracefully through classics like "Lady," "I'm a Fool to Want You," and "Hush Now, Don't Explain," her voice smooth and expressive, full of warmth and nuance. Original compositions, such as "The Moon Revealed Another Colour," blended naturally with familiar melodies, offering moments of reflection and delight. Andrés Þór Gunnlaugsson's guitar solos were lyrical and heartfelt, while Birgir Steinn Theódórsson's bass and Svanhildur Lóa's drums provided the perfect rhythmic foundation. Sigurður Flosason's saxophone added shimmering color throughout. Between songs, anecdotes, and insights into Holiday's life gave depth to the celebration. The concert felt both intimate and joyful, honoring Holiday's artistry with elegance, heartfelt expression, and a gentle, uplifting energy.

Sara Magnusdottir—A Place To Bloom

Sara Magnusdottir's album release concert for A Place to Bloom at the Reykjavík Jazz Festival was a playful and engaging evening. The quartet, occasionally expanding into a quintet with Tumi Torfason on trumpet, moved effortlessly between dynamic grooves and lyrical solos, with Magnusdottir's Hammond organ at the heart of the sound. Highlights included "Skin and Home, where the band's interplay felt spontaneous yet precise. Guitar and organ solos wove naturally into the set, creating a warm, intimate atmosphere. The music reflected both her New York influences and Icelandic roots, offering a personal, melodic journey.

Barrio 27

Barrio 27 delivered a vibrant and lively set, with fifteen young musicians rotating lead vocals and keeping the energy high throughout. Alexandra Rós Norðkvist's percussion and trumpet, shaped by her studies in Havana, drove the band's infectious Latin rhythms, while the rest of the ensemble added rich layers of percussion, brass, and melody. The music flowed seamlessly, playful and dynamic, with moments for solos and interplay that highlighted each musician's skill. Dancers moved above and around the stage, complementing rather than overshadowing the performance. The result was a joyful, celebratory experience, demonstrating not just technical skill but the band's love for the music and their ability to share it with the audience.

Brekky Boy

Brekky Boy's concert was an exhilarating blend of precision, playfulness, and unexpected twists. The Australian trio—Taylor Davis on piano, Rob Hamilton on bass, and Liam Hogan on drums—crafted intricate, minimalistic textures that sometimes evoked Philip Glass, yet never stayed static. Rhythms bubbled and twisted, tempos shifted, and grooves emerged and dissolved with surprising fluidity. Jungle-inspired beats, dub effects, and piano runs added color, while humorous breaks and scenario-like passages kept the audience smiling.

Their set ranged from playful compositions, like a Shrek 6 homage, to funk-driven improvisations, showcasing both skill and personality. Hogan's drumming danced around Davis and Hamilton's rhythmic knots, energizing without dominating. The band's synergy was effortless, and the music, while complex, remained inviting. Brekky Boy proved that sophisticated, experimental music can be fun, warm, and deeply engaging, leaving the audience both impressed and thoroughly entertained.

Sunday, August 31

Cécile McLorin Salvant

Cécile McLorin Salvant closed the Reykjavík Jazz Festival with a performance that felt both intimate and expansive, filling the superb Eldborg concert hall with warmth and energy. From her entrance, moving effortlessly across the stage to a playful jazz tune, it was clear that the evening would be as much about personality as it was about music. Despite revealing she was battling a cold, Salvant smiled throughout, her expressive presence immediately drawing the audience in. If she hadn't mentioned it, no one would have known she was battling a cold from her performance.

The set opened with lighter, playful numbers, including a ragtime rendition of Changeable Daddy of Mine and a lively Burt Bacharach tune Wives & Lovers. Her ability to shift seamlessly between registers and moods made each song a distinct character in the evening's unfolding story. The interplay with her band—pianist Sullivan Fortner, drummer Kyle Poole, and bassist Yasushi Nakamura—was effortless, their improvisations enhancing rather than overshadowing her voice.

Quieter moments, like City of Angels and her own Fog, revealed a delicate, almost fragile side of Salvant's artistry. On these songs, her phrasing was introspective, phrasing lyrics with a subtle theatricality that suggested narratives unfolding in real time. Fog, with its impressionistic piano textures and vaporous lyricism, brought a contemplative hush over the hall, reminiscent of observing a Monet painting come to life.

Playfulness returned in songs such as "One Step Ahead" and "Trouble Is a Man," where Salvant toyed with tempo and mood, letting the drums and piano shape intricate rhythmic dialogues. These numbers highlighted her theatrical instincts: sudden changes in character, glances to the audience, and expressive gestures that made each song feel like a miniature performance within the larger set. Humor threaded naturally through the program, particularly in moments like her playful Bessie Smith ragtime number, which had the audience responding in delighted amusement.

Salvant's explorations weren't limited to standards. She introduced pieces inspired by theater and literature, such as Blackwing and Silver Hue, drawing on Aeschylus and Harrison Birtwistle's music for Agamemnon. Here, the band's dynamics reached a near-orchestral intensity, with swirling instrumental textures punctuated by Salvant's precise, dramatic vocals. It was a testament to her ability to inhabit the story behind each piece, transforming narrative into musical experience. Audience engagement remained central throughout the night. In "Anything But Now," she encouraged listeners to respond to rhythmic cues, while in "What Does Blue Mean to You?," dedicated to Toni Morrison, Salvant's phrasing and delicate, Latino-infused beats elicited reflective attention. The performance balanced joy and sophistication, creating moments of both playful celebration and quiet contemplation.

Eldborg's acoustics amplified the clarity of Salvant's voice and the subtleties of her trio's sound, allowing intricate piano runs, shamanic brushwork on drums, and rich double bass lines to shimmer alongside her vocals. Even in the evening's most complex arrangements, the music never felt forced; the band moved as a single entity, supporting Salvant's storytelling while maintaining a natural, conversational flow.

The concert closed with two encores, including "Blackwing and Silver Hue," leaving the audience both exhilarated and emotionally touched. Salvant's final bow, smiling despite her illness, summed up the evening: a blend of grace, virtuosity, and undeniable warmth. Her ability to traverse styles—ragtime, blues, jazz standards, and original compositions—while maintaining a coherent and personal voice confirmed why she is regarded as one of the finest vocal talents in contemporary jazz. At Eldborg, she didn't just perform; she invited the audience into a world of narrative, character, and musical imagination, leaving a lasting sense of wonder and connection that lingered with everyone as they exited the hall.

Closing thoughts

Jazz festivals are never just about the performances—they are also about the people you meet: fellow journalists, publicists, friends, and organizers, all contributing to the atmosphere. In Reykjavik, the experience was enriched by Iceland itself—the dramatic landscapes, crisp air, and unexpectedly pleasant weather added a sense of wonder to each concert. When the music, the company, and the surroundings align, the festival becomes more than a series of performances; it becomes a fully immersive and transformative experience. Iceland offered both inspiration and serenity, making this edition of the Reykjavik Jazz Festival a memorable highlight in every sense.

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