The Stool Pigeon

So you think there are too many festivals in this country? In Norway there's about three for every person and, of course, where there's fierce competition, there will be casualties. The Quart festival going down earlier in the year, despite its incredible line-up, was front-page news across the country, suggesting two obvious things: that Norwegians take their music festivals very seriously, and that fans there can be fickle. They hunt in packs.

I'm in Tønsberg, perhaps the only town in Norway that's actually somewhere near 'Oslo' Torp airport. It's a gorgeous day, I've cleverly added duty free whisky to a half empty bottle of Coke and I'm walking through this small, wealthy town on route to the Slottsjell festival. I'm told there's a sanitary towel museum here somewhere - an essential visit, naturally - but it's a awkward thing to enquire about when you're not 100 per cent sure it actually exists.

A gorgeous valley with dramatic, endless view across the fjords. This is a wet dream of a destination for a music festival and tomorrow, when the weekend starts, two other stages up a long concrete staircase in the park will reveal themselves.

The Englishman often watches Scandinavian bands with the same horror a Scandinavian might watch Chas & Dave. Sweden's Kent play today and it's perplexing; perplexing that people actually know these songs and seem to be enjoying them. But there's an even ratio. Fuck Buttons bomb badly, and Gogol Bordello can't - they never do at festivals.

The beauty of the Norwegian festival: it's not over by 11pm. At Slottsfjell, some of the best stuff could be witnessed late at night in two lock-ups on the side of the town. And when I say the best stuff, I mean black metal. Perhaps to the older generation, Norwegian folk music means the yoiks of the Sami people up north. To the youth, the indigenous sound is that of bands like Keep Of Kalessin (pictured rocking the middle stage on Saturday afternoon) and 1349, who blew the doors off the barn with a set that, quite beautifully, began at 1.45am. Thunderous, tremendous, full on, and really really scary.

Casio Kids, Annie... Norwegians go pop too. Both excelled at Slottsfjell, which was an excellent festival; a towering, sold-out success for its organisers. And, my god, there's fun to be had with the locals at those cheesy-ass bars on the waterfront in the wee small hours. Viking spirit. Proper Viking spirit.

Special mention to the man Lethal Bizzle who, as the local paper said the next morning, "came straight from the streets and into Tønsberg's heart".

"This is not a fucking picnic, Slottsfjell! Get on your feet and let's have a party!" Cue much 'you say Bizzling'. Bam!

But I never found the courage to ask for directions to the sanitary towel museum.

Less than a month later and I'm back in Norway, and back at the Øya festival, Oslo's almost-week-long music throwdown. I'm such an old hag at this event (fourth year running), I simply turned up with a sleeping bag and nowhere to stay. Big mistake, but thank you Howie, Lisa, and Marie for taking pity on a tramp.

Oslo. Amazing city, the kind of place that offers a psychological holiday as well as physical one. It might take a day, but you'll stop yourself and think: "People are really nice here and, quite incredibly, I'm being nice too." An extraordinary feeling. But back to the music. UNBELIEVABLE LINE-UP. From Norway: Turbonegro (playing Apocalypse Dudes in full!), Mayhem, Ane Brun, Ida Maria, Stella Mwangi, Silje Nes... And shipped in from overseas: Grinderman, Sonic Youth, Sunn O))), Lightspeed Champion, Jamie Lidell, My Bloody Valentine, Holy Fuck, Sigur Ros, Yeasayer, and, as James Murphy might say, THE SONICS! THE SONICS! THE SONICS!

Five nights and four days... Øya is for the hardcore and, like at Slottsfjell, 11pm is only lunchtime. At night, downtown explodes.

Four years of going crazy at this festival and you begin to get an idea of why it's so special. It has a king called Claes Olsen and all good vibes flow directly down from him. He's the big boss man and you see him casually meandering around his own kingdom like an ordinary punter. No wacky double-Blackberry, walky-talky, check-me-out-cos-I'm-the-guvna stuff, just a nice fella with a six-month beard totally and peacefully in control of what's going on. Stalin, he ain't.

Some quick reviews: Holy Fuck (holy fuck!), Mayhem (mayhem!), Rumble in Rhodes (rumbling!) My Bloody Valentine (bloody!) Fleet Foxes (foxy!), Yeasayer (yea!), No Age (no!), The Sonics (THE SONICS!)

And a special mention here to Euroboy of Turbonegro. He's got Hodgkin's Disease, and he doesn't look well. A very depressing sight. But he played and he SHREDDED.

I bumped into Claes on the last night. An easy thing to say, but it was the best Øya I'd been to. "Coming back next year?" he said. "I can't Claes, I really can't."

Absolutely idiotic thing to say. Totally mental.

I leave you with a hard fact: in Oslo, the two most popular choices of beer are called Aass and Ringnes. Aass tastes better than Ring.

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