Spacestation hovers around the edges of Reykjavik’s rock venues and sleazy bars, beaming up every jagged guitar riff, jogging bass line, and angular feedback noise they can lay their hands on.
Not a part of any scene, they comfortably rest on the nihilistic outskirts, eternally gazing into the void through dark shades and a haze of cigarette smoke. Main interests are white noise & wine.
Spacestation feels like being on the smoking carriage on the night train from Reykjavik to Berlin, which gets stuck in a Bermuda triangle between cosmic 60’s psychedelia, late 70’s post-punk, and motorik German krautrock. Just hop aboard and enjoy the ride, we guarantee its a hell of a trip.