Well, here's something you don't see everyday: a hardcore singer with a cardigan tied preppy-style around his shoulders. In his defense, it was black. Like his soul!
The pale and pimply Danish punks suffered through multiple sound problems. Popping fuses forced the band to stand awkwardly, quietly on stage. The crowd surfers plopped to the dried mud. There wasn't one word of banter; no thank you, Chicago. Chalk that up to a language barrier or charred surliness. What Iceage is so angry about goes unanswered, as Elias Rønnenfelt, the one with a sweater around his neck in a heatwave, just sort of baritone retches into his microphone. When he ditches his guitar and chokes his microphone, the energy level picks up. They're a pretty freaking stoic sort of punk act.
In the basement of some vegan crust punk co-op, this sort of thrash would be great. Under a peaking sun? Eh. There's little to set Iceage apart from other bands of this ilk other than its passports. Well, in place of chunky, palm-muted riffing, the guitars whip up sheets of white noise. White noise. That'd be a better name for these guys if there weren't dark fascist implications.