Somehow they tip the whole city and everyone flows uphill and then over a little rise into a grassy bowl. Rivulets from everywhere. Hjólandi keyrandi labbandi. Eddies of seventeen-year-olds with green cans of Carlsberg swirling around Hlemmur and waiting to pour into the nr. 17. Innanbæjarmenn, utanbæjarmenn, foreigners, tourists, dogs.
The stage faces the hillside. The hill is full of people. They stand. Some sway. Their edges lap the fences. The music holds the flood of them up against the hill, and if the speakers did not pump out blasts of violin and voice and drum they would crash down against the stage.
But when the city tips back, flow around and out, down towards the harbor. They leave cans and papers and plastic behind. Children picked through the grass and carried the rubbish to the bins.
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