A Love Letter to Icelandic Music - Submission Deadline for the Icelandic Music Awards 2025 is January 17

The submission deadline for the Icelandic Music Awards 2025 is Friday, January 17. We encourage everyone involved in Icelandic music to submit their work and seize the opportunity to take part in this magnificent event that celebrates the creativity and diversity of Icelandic artists.
Submissions are made on the awards' website.
In honour of the Icelandic music awards, we wanted to share A Love Letter to Icelandic Music, written by artist Vigdís Hafliðadóttir for Icelandic Music Day and delivered during a festive ceremony on December 1st. In it, she said, among other things:
"Musicians have opened my mind and heart. Some have put into words feelings I didn’t know I could experience, others have revived me, made difficult times beautiful, entertained me, or connected me to people unlike myself."
Vigdís also compiled a special playlist featuring music she discusses in her letter. The playlist is available on Spotify and uniquely captures the spirit of Icelandic music culture.
Long live Icelandic music!
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A Love Letter to Icelandic Music – Vigdís Hafliðadóttir
Greetings, dear musicians and music lovers, and happy Icelandic Music Day.
I realised early on that Iceland was not as prominent in other people's minds as it was in mine as a child. When I was 11 years old, I attended an international summer camp where children from 11 countries, along with staff from all over the world, came together to learn about each other's nations. I discovered then that most people knew nothing about Iceland.
I remember how delighted and proud I was when the guide from Turkey told me, "My favorite musician is from Iceland, Björk," and I was able to happily reply in broken English, "She fixed my dad’s pants once." I had often been told the story of how, in his younger years, my dad tore his pants on his way to a party, and Björk patched them up during the pre-party.
While on an exchange program in Italy, where most people referred to me as the girl from Ireland, the song Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men was featured in a major telecom commercial that played everywhere.
The Swedes I studied with at a folk high school after graduating knew only that Iceland had horses – but they listened to Sigur Rós, Ásgeir, and Hjálmar.
During my travels around the world, I met people who couldn’t point to Iceland on a map or thought we lived in igloos – but they knew these artists. Music created on this tiny island, which no one knew much about, connected Iceland to the world and made me, as an Icelander, more approachable and even exciting.
Music that has not enjoyed the same international popularity has nonetheless profoundly impacted every phase of my life, and for that, I am deeply grateful.
In preschool, I sang about fire and water when the Millennium Poems were performed on Arnarhóll.
In Laugarnesskóli, all students performed in the assembly at 8:50 a.m., singing two or three songs – songs I still know to this day.
At Sigursveinn’s Music School, we regularly had themed concerts where we played and sang songs by specific Icelandic artists. I found the jazzed-up children’s songs of Aðalsteinn Ásberg and Anna Pálína challenging and fun, and I was captivated by Olga Guðrún Árnadóttir’s songs. But Lísa’s Picture, which asks the question “Isn’t the Earth for everyone?”, was the most beautiful song I had ever heard.
In the car, if my sister and I were sulking after an argument, we could always put on the Winter Songs album by Ragnheiður Gröndal and forget what we were upset about as we sang along as beautifully as we could, arriving at our destination happier.
At one point, I was so obsessed with Stuðmenn that, at age 9, I planned to sing “Out to the bus stop I rush now with a bottle in hand” in a singing competition at a Christian summer camp until my mom pointed out that it might not be an appropriate song.
As a teenager, I blasted Sigur Rós so loudly in my room that my mom had to ask me to turn off that noise. “NOISE? You don’t understand anything!” I yelled back.
Around the same time, I discovered Davíð Stefánsson’s poetry because Pascal Pinon composed such a beautiful song to “But you were an adventure.” I also fell in love with Jón Múli’s compositions because Sigríður Thorlacius released a wonderful album.
At MH (Menntaskólinn í Hamrahlíð), CDs became currency in a sharing economy where we swapped them to upload to our computers.
“I have Kimbabwe by Retro Stefson.”
“Does anyone have anything by múm or Hjaltalín?”
“I have ‘Sorry’! Does anyone have ‘Let’s Make Babies’?”
When people sat in the red Yaris I drove at the time (bless its memory), the album Come to Me, Black Sister by Mammút was usually in the player, and the first thing anyone did when they got in was to put on track 4: Salt.
In the Hamrahlíð Choir, I was introduced to Jórunn Viðar’s arrangements and works by Jón Nordal, Atli Heimir, Jón Leifs, and contemporary pieces by Hugi Guðmundsson. In a space with people I felt insecure or even slightly intimidated by, our voices could come together so beautifully in arrangements that were both challenging and straightforward, making nothing matter but the moment.
Musicians have opened my mind and heart. Some have put into words feelings I didn’t know I could experience, others have revived me, made difficult times beautiful, entertained me, or connected me to people unlike myself.
I have always held immense respect for musicians who, with diligence and selflessness, share their creativity, talent, and energy with us. Since becoming more involved in music myself, my respect has only grown. On a small market where only a few make a living, with stories of bands earning their first payout at their 10th anniversary concert or superstars breaking even after sold-out shows at Harpa’s Eldborg hall, it’s easy to ask: why am I doing this?
It’s not a given that such a small nation has such excellent musicians, and if we want diverse musical life to thrive here, it requires support and encouragement.
We need people who listen to music and attend concerts.
We need venues, which are disappearing in Reykjavík, replaced by corporate holiday parties and annual celebrations.
We need people willing to run these venues, who find it important that artists get paid for their work.
We need strong music schools, school bands, and teachers.
We need musicians who support one another, putting their egos aside for the greater good.
We need radio stations that strive to play as many Icelandic titles as possible.
We need award ceremonies that also recognize what is less prominent.
And we need politicians who view support for music as an investment, not always yielding financial returns but fostering inspiration and well-being, which can often be overlooked.
To all those who have created music that has enriched my life, or may do so in the future, and to all those who have contributed to Icelandic music, I want to say the same thing as the title of the album my mom called noise: Takk (Thank you).
I am a huge fan of you all.