"When he came up with the festival idea, out in Ísafjörður, I thought he was mad”, says Petur Ben, the scene's poster boy and winner of album of the year at this year's Icelandic Music Awards, “but he always has crazy ideas. Like going to London and becoming successful. Of course I wanted to be involved. He's my best friend. He's also very popular. No one says no to Mugison.”

The festival is free. As well as this being a thank you to the town for letting it happen, it bypassed the problem of the state not permitting live music events after midnight due to Good Friday. It's a policy that has served them well.

“We even had a bidding war between the two main rival banks this year to sponsor it,” chuckles Muggi senior from the helm of his pilot boat on a journalist-only fishing trip to feed some farmed cod. And very family friendly. In fact the kids, of which there a lot (most Icelanders are married and have at least one child by 24) are used as human shields. “The family atmosphere is very important.” reckons Mugison.

“Otherwise it would be exactly like hundreds of other festivals. Also, it's hard for people to behave badly when the kids are around.” Concerns after the rowdiness of the first night events lead the organisers to delay opening the bar until 6pm and allow under-tens to stay all night even unaccompanied by adults. It's a policy that works well, though in the melee it's hard to tell whose worse, a wobbly drunk or a crazed, crowd-surfing tot.

The rules of the festival are democratic and simple. Each act gets 20 minutes to play, and ten minutes to change over. Something which causes Friday night headliners, the only international act, Blonde Redhead to come unstuck. Looking like a band who normally have roadies to do tricky bits, like tuning, the New Yorkers took over an hour to get going.

It was the closest this festival of cuties got to controversy, “I think we were a bit star-struck,” smiles Mugison diplomatically afterwards, “we didn't explain, err, just how rustic it is.” On Saturday, fresh from opening the day's events with a rowdy set of child-friendly punk pop, nursery school teacher, Heiðar Örn Kristjánsson, is less kind, “They were crap and arrogant. This is a plug in and play event. Just get on with it, do your thing. We do.”

In England, you could imagine a few small-town eyebrows being raised if a festival with bands names like Puke, Slugs, Dr Spock and HAM, arrived on their doorstep. Here it's different. Aimed at luring the Icelandic music scene away from Reyjkavik and back to it's countryside roots, the festival was also set up to coincide with popular Easter holiday event, Ski Week.

The longest running event of it's kind in Iceland, visitor numbers had been declining due to reduced snow and shrinking glaciers. “We don't know if it's global warming but it's a problem everywhere in this part of the world”, says councillor Runar Karlsson, a ruddy character in ski-trousers fresh from the nearby slope. “It's the same in Greenland. There is just less snow.”

Tourism is crucial to the town, which is still recovering from losing out on fishing quotas, which caused a mass exodus and saw property prices in the region drop from £140,000 to as low as £5,000. The music festival is proving to be an important lifeline. “Who needs marketing when you have a festival like this? It's a new audience now,” continues Karlsson. “They are not here for the outdoor experience but for fun. They go to the bars instead of the slopes. We need them.”

On the festival's committee, Karlsson of course on message, but ask anyone and it's impossible to get a bad word against it. Standing right next to the speaker as the first night headline act, heavy rockers Minus, come to a sweaty, crashing close, 62-year-old Jonas, manager of a local prawn factory and there with his 11- and 9-year-old grandsons is smiling benignly. “It's really good,” he yells over another power chord, “A bit loud but great fun.”

Even with no advertising, popularity looks to be the festival's biggest potential headache. This year, all three of the town's hotels are full, with the majority of visitors sleeping on friendly floors. There is talk of moving the event to later in the year, when the summer accommodation, closed each season until June after a tragic avalanche accident a decade previously, reopens.

That, however, doesn't seem to be an idea mentioned to the Muggi clan. "Every year I pray for bad weather," grins Mugison with thaty winning smile, "it adds to the charm." And the issue of this truly grassroots festival becoming too big for it's snow boots? "We'll deal with it. This is a self-made horror that has become a really nice adventure."

The Aldrei For Eg Suður festival takes place every April in Ísafjörður. You can watch this year's entire festival at www.aldrei.is.

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