Was Friday really only two nights ago? Am I really still alive? Let me retrace my steps…

Hot Chip of London cheated by playing twice, and playing first. We see them at the crack of dusk in a rather excellent record shop on one of Reykjavik's less crowded streets (alright, not the one busy Reykjavik street). They are indeed excellent, with the guys who run the Tonar 12 record store giving out wine and beer to all. Wonderful. Hot Chip are like The Futureheads lined up in a row doing a synth-based tribute to Prince. Actually, that's nothing what they sound like, apart from the bits about lined up in a row, synths and Prince. But they are cool nonetheless.

Two parties later (bemusingly, they both started at 6pm and both are held for the same people), we're a little beer-soaked, and we decide to go see another band. Fortunately, this being Iceland, nothing has actually started yet, so we go for dinner instead. You can only however, delay the inevitable and our first musical stop is Bang Gang at the Art Gallery. It's easy to be fooled by these Icelandic types; they being ever so much cooler than the rest of us, even the naff things can almost be deemed acceptable. And this is very much the case for about three songs; Bang Gang appear to offer us commanding, ice cold glacier gothic-esque textures and a haunting female vocal. And then we realise it's actually just Evanescence with a woolly hat on and we scarper.

Over to Grand Rokk and we're greeted by the sight of five men in white translucent boiler suits. They are Skatar. They play heavy indie rock and they were tipped to us by XFM's John Kennedy (the new John Peel, oh you of little satellite radio) back over at Hot Chip. They're also f**king mad, and were by far our favourite band of the night. Comparisons to Super Furry Animals are inevitably, especially when the frontman bears a passing resemblance to Gruff Rhys, but we'd like to call it Devo vs Agent Blue. And it was ruddy great. Cheers John.

A little more sensibly minded was the dash over to the lush basement surroundings of the Pjooleikhus Kjallarinn. Which is the basement of the national theatre, we think. Settling down for some seated beer-swilling action, we're greeted by the lush ambient indie of Skakkamannage, who have one trick, but it's an excellent one. Quiet, Arab Strap-esque instrumentals are interspersed by lovely rising happy Cure keyboards and vocals and it's very engaging indeed. A little ramshackle in places, but that only adds to the joys of it all. Plus we were bought a very expensive pint of Viking Beer by that nice Jason from Four Day Hombre who we randomly met in there. How random. Skakkamannage are followed by the Lo fi acoustica of Siggi Armann who finishes his set with a complicated flourish of lovely tunes. We split before the end of Indigo, as their female-male duopoly fails to ignite the heart. That, combined with the danger of us slumping in our seats and going nowhere for the rest of the evening thanks to beer and growing tiredness.

We need something to shake us up, and what better than seeing Icelandic heroes Minus in a small club in their hometown? If anyone tells you that the people of Reykjavik are quiet, peaceful chaps all the time, don't believe them. When the RAWK mini-legends hit the stage, the place unsurprisingly erupts. Beautiful Nordic girls start flying everywhere battering us from pillar to post. It's utterly great. Skol!

And then it's pretty much bedtime. We make one last stop back to Grand Rokk on the way home to check out the Mercury Rev in a coma warblings of Lights On The Highway, but despite having twin towers of female beauty on either side of the stage, it doesn't really do much for us and we quickly pull our collars up and dash into the night.

Now, fuelled by raw Irish coffee (black with Jack Daniels), Saturday night saw us do it all over again. Onwards!