Home »
Jazz Articles » Live Review » Reykjavik Jazz Festival 2025
Courtesy Terezia Rotterova
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 sceneneoclassical, indie, rock, and the unmistakable aura of Björkthe 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 jazzlike Icelandis 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 venueit’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 jazzor any musicfeels 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 sceneADHD. 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 downpart 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 showythey 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 upthey 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
trumpet
b.1968
Arve Henriksen
trumpet
b.1968
”
data-original-title=”” title=””>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 improvisationsinviting 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 narrativethere was a story of a grandfather woven through one song, fragments of memory floating above the instrumental canvas. At times, simple, almost humorous linessuch 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 cohesivedrawing 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 personalan 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 emergedimprovisations 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 contrastsit 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 musiclight yet serious, structured yet freewith intelligence and affection.
By the end, it was clear that Skuggamyndir frá Býsans had not only performed Balkan musicthey 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
piano
1929 – 2018
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 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 explosivesharp 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.
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.
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.
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 handvast 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 soundjazz 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 Alþingithe world’s oldest parliamentwas 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 appearinga 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 aweit lets you find it in small details, if you pay attention. Walking here feels slow and steady, a rhythm that matches the land itself.
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.