I snickered. “No, I mean in Norway. If I heard them speak, I would know, but…”
“Oh, they are from Boat-o?” She winced, looking at a PA.
“Bo-da,” I corrected. “Ah, Bodø is north of Trondheim. It’s a beautiful place to see the northern lights or catch a game with the Yellow Toothbrushes.”
“And you like it… the song?”
“It’s not my usual listen, but I appreciate the message,” I said. “I’m sure they are way cooler than I am. I look forward to meeting them in Trondheim.”
Brita shot me a dorky thumbs up.Nailed it.
“I gotta ask,” Kaldi said. “Their name is… interesting. What is a giftehode?”
“Well,giftecan mean two things,” I said. “I think it is a play on words. To you, it sounds like a present-head, right?”
She nodded with a grin. “Their fans are all over the world. They call themselves gifters. I wonder if that means they bring gifts?”
“Eh…” I looked at my hands. “I think it probably means the second thing which is poison.”
The crew stared at me, mouth agape.
“Why… why would they call poison a gift?”
I shrugged. “No clue. We were Vikings when we decided that. I would say they are actually Poisonhead. But it’s a fun double-entendre of sorts.”
“I’m learning new things,” Kaldi said cheerfully. “So, next up are the Swedes. And you know the controversy here?”
“People keep mentioning that, Kaldi, but I really don’t know much.”
“The most selling single of all time last yearshouldhave gone to UniVox but there was a supposed payoff, so another act went. The same producer is back with this talented young woman, Alia, and this DJ, JayMan, who make up this group, 4låt. They do a fabulous job, but the artist who wrote the should-be winner…”
“Allegedly,” a producer added.
“Yes, allegedly, well, she is now working for Britain. Very scandalous!”
I wasn’t surewhyany of this mattered as I spun up the next song, a sad ballad called “Completely Forbidden”. I questioned the singer’s age and her sexy lyrics.
“She’s how old?” I asked.
“Eighteen,” Kaldi replied, as if this was a question everyone asked.
“She’s… young,” I said as the girl gyrated her hips and danced around a stage in a hall of mirrors. Still singing, the girl fell to the floor and ground against it, her face to the camera. To say it was uncomfortable was an understatement!
“That is… very charged,” I said, as the song finished. “Good beat, though.”
“We aren’t sure if they will show it in Ireland,” Kaldi said, as if this were a badge of honor.
A producer whispered, “Too hot for TV.”
“Well, that is… something!” I folded my hands. “What is next?”
“The band from the UK.” Kaldi handed me the iPad. “The Zamboneys. Now, they don’t have a music video for this one yet. This is their BBC Session. It was a last-minute entry but as the kids would say… it slaps.”
I nodded, praying this woman would never again utter those words.
Though the production quality wasn’t the same as the Swedes or as edgy as the Norwegians, the grittiness of the session added to their vibe.
“It’s a bit of a Y2K throwback, yeah?” I avoided implying it was low rent, but not as super produced as the exploitative Swedish video before it.
