Of Monsters and Men (OMAM) are a divine combination of wispy, romantic folklore and deeply human grit. The Icelandic indie folk band recently blessed Australian soil with the tour of their latest album, All is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade.

They could not have performed on a better night at St Kilda’s Palais Theatre. The gloomy Sunday evening had fans arriving with dewy umbrellas and cozy woollen knits. It was all very mystical and Icelandic, reminding me of Laufey’s whimsy and my majestic Icelandic horses, both of whom share OMAM’s grounded presentation.

The stage was set under a blue haze with industrial film lighting and a gentle smoke machine mimicking a breath in cold weather. From the shadows, the band emerged one by one to the reverb-heavy strings of “Television Love”. Stage lights framed their poised silhouettes as drummer Arnar Rósenkranz Hilmarsson erupted into a rhythmically complex beat with such enthusiasm that his drumsticks broke!

Alongside Hilmarsson, OMAM comprises of Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir (vocals, guitar, melodica), Ragnar Þórhallsson (vocals, guitar), Brynjar Leifsson (lead guitar, backing vocals) and Kristján Páll Kristjánsson (bass). The emphasis on guitars supports the folkiness of their sound and is contrasted by Hilmarsson’s syncopated boom. 

Drawing inspiration from bands like Bon Iver and the snowy, nordic cabins they often write their music in, OMAM’s ambiance leans more wintery than the summery sound of The Lumineers or the autumnal Mumford & Sons. 

OMAM’s harmonically rich quality was well introduced by Australian opener, Gordi. The alternative artist has previously travelled and collaborated with the band, likely explaining their similar sounds. Gordi played with live looping and pulsing reverb alongside drummer Liam Meredith. Whilst the two of them were situated toward the back half of the stage, Gordi’s music had no trouble swirling around the theatre. 

OMAM also made fun visual choices, including pineapple-shaped maracas and Hilmarsdóttir’s glittery guitar, that nodded to their unified, eccentric nature, both in music composition and personality.  

In the transition between “Human” and “Kamikaze”, the audience respectfully waited in silence to keep the spellbinding atmosphere undisturbed. Hilmarsdóttir admitted that she felt "shy" from this watchful silence, so requested that the audience roar to break the tension. With a more than accommodating roar, we received an altered request from the singer and delivered a whispered yell-hiss instead. 

The only grumble of the gig was the restrictions of the Palais Theatre. Whilst providing a beautiful backdrop, strict seating protocols diluted the engagement I feel OMAM deserved. Even when some impassioned fans got up and out of their seats to jig and jive together, security were quick to usher the hoards back to their seats. It’s a tricky balance between honouring the venue’s safety protocols and disrupting the flow or immersion of an indie concert that lends itself to connection through movement. 

Hilmarsdóttir herself wistfully praised “the little dance” and Þórhallsson asked the audience to form a conga line, which he said would “be cute”. They were very conversational for having just gotten off of a 40-hour-long flight. I do wish we could have given them that conga line. 

The setlist was masterfully curated to ebb and flow through varying levels of energy and emotions. They centered their set around the pensive song “Mouse Parade”, stripping back all instruments and collecting in the middle of the stage around a singular microphone, hauntingly harmonising. To be nestled in that space—still, moody, tinglingly in unison—was ethereal. From here, the band slowly crescendoed back to their scattered positions, breaking out into the 2011 throwback “Dirty Paws”. 

Of course, this was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from the audience, having been taken on a somber journey to this long anticipated release. Following “Crystals” and “Ordinary Creatures”, the energy was sustained, prompted by Hilmarsdóttir’s request to sing the chorus of “Ordinary Creatures” with her: “I wish I could run to your house when it gets dark out.” Its descending arpeggio melody is catchy enough to follow you for weeks. 

The intro to the chart-topping track “Little Talks” brought a nostalgic roar from the crowd, returning to the stomp-clap of the 2010’s. It was at this moment I realised I had expected OMAM to be more stomp-clap than they actually are. Their repertoire rather centralises swaying liberation, whether that’s through cacophonous noise, poetic lyricism or intuitive, unrehearsed movement on the stage. 

The set closed with “Visitor”, a song that leans on the rockier side and rewards Hilmarsson’s stamina. Hilmarsdóttir made her way off the stage and down the aisle, twirling around the microphone lead and darting amongst outstretched hands. She was just as enchanting twenty centimetres away as she was on stage. With a production assistant's frantic reel of Hilmarsdóttir back onto stage, the band was gone, leaving a stunned and satisfied crowd. 

Of course, they returned for an encore, performing “Love Love Love” and “Fruit Bat”. As Hilmarsdóttir introduced the final set, an audience member called, “when are you coming back,” already eager for OMAM’s return to Melbourne. This was initially met with laughter before being drowned with shushes. For OMAM is too precious to waste with laughter. Laughter can be heard anywhere, but a sound molded over decades that is both meditative and energising is irreplaceable.

The most poignant image of the show was a young girl, no more than eight years old, dancing in the aisles as though her life depended on it during “Little Talks”. In the end, it was this anthem that reminded the audience that we are descendants of monsters and men, of omnipresent and complex creatures, of musicality and creativity. No security personnel could usher this young girl, especially not one who had learnt some groovy dance moves from Hilmarsdóttir’s organic movement. 

Wielding picks and drumsticks, Of Monsters and Men transformed the rainy Sunday into that which is faeries, fire, and ice.