Reykjavik Record Shops

Iceland's musical scene is legendary, and for such a tiny country, the island sure manages to produce an enormous amount of talented artists and bands -- not to mention the occasional superstar. How do they manage it? According to the Kimono guitarist I chatted with in my most recent visit to Reykjavik: "The scene here is so small that musicians have nothing to gain, and nothing to lose. People end up doing whatever they want to do." So Icelanders don't go seeking fame, I get that -- but oddly they receive it, on the international stage no less. Lately I have been wondering: is it not the originality of the Icelandic musician that is critical here, but rather the exoticness of the Icelandic sound? In other words, Icelanders don't mean to sound so quirky, that is just the way they are. The strange thing is that even when Icelanders try to emulate something mainstream (say, Foo Fighters), it nonetheless ends up sounding alternative (like Whool). This is the process by which the B52's is transmuted to the Ice Cubes, and Radiohead is transformed to Sigur Rós...




Much as they would like to be Anglo-American clones, eating pizza and hamburgers, playing drums in the garage, Icelanders are simply not fated to be so mundane. They have something in their background which might be boring to them, but is fascinating to the outside world. Some kind of idiosyncrasy, some singularity is crystallized in their DNA and that is refracted in their literature, their music and their fashion sense, and obviously their art. Where does it spring from, though, this mutation, this mysterious X Factor? The geography? geology? The Sagas and the mythology? I am not quite sure, but I know that it is there.

PLACES TO SHOP
There are basicaly three main record shops (plötubúðir) in Reykjavik -- wait, four if you count the big book store (Mál og Menning) who have CDs and DVDs and stuff on the first floor (self published Icelandic poetry and mystery novels on the second floor.) There may be more than this, but in my opinion there are only good three record stores (þrjár góðar plötubúðir) in Reykjavik worth going to. At one, you can relish the knowledge that you are walking on Björk's sacred space. Or something like that.

12 Tónar: Skólavörðustígur 15 | 101 Reykjavík | Sími: 511 5656 | Web: http://www.12tonar.is/.
Tone means "music" in Icelandic, and 12 Tónar refers to the 12 tones of the musical alphabet, from A^flat to G^sharp. Whenever I am in Iceland, 12 Tónar is one of the first places I head to, to update my knowledge of Icelandic rokk. To get there you must climb the mild incline of Skólavörðustígur from the groovy underground Kofi Tómosar cafe, up towards the big Viking statue and church, and stop off when you see the yellow and blue sign. The first time I visited Iceland, I walked straight past 12 Tónar without thinking it was anything more than a used knickknacks outlet. What a fool I was! On my latest trip, I did my homework, and earmarked this store for the first full day of explorations. Though it may be small, this is the best place to shop for local tunes. The staff are incredibly friendly. Head downstairs, and you can peruse the racks bathed in footlevel sun. Staff serve you coffee, you can listen to the latest Icelandic releases on headphones on a a comfy old couch while browsing art magazines from Japan (that is what I did the last time I was there, anyway.) The staff are no doubt musicians themselves and there are plenty of in-house events, such as free concerts held every Friday at five. While I didn't make it to the concert, I did manage to pick up some CDs here on my last visit, each costing around 1000 Kronurs a disk. One was Anarchists Are Hopeless Romantics, by My Summer As A Salvation Soldier (otherwise known as Þórir ). That record really resonated with me in the humid, horrid Tokyo summer of 2006, as I lamented the breakup with C, and the general collapse of my life. A rather depressing album, to be sure, but Þórir has also put out some more upbeat numbers, for example the euphoric Canada Oh Canada (Land of the Free), and he is also apparently the lead singer of a folk/punk band called Deathmetal Supersquad. A most versatile chap, all in all...

Bad Taste Record Store: Laugavegur 35 | 101 Reykjavík | Sími: 511 5656 | Web: http://smekkleysa.net/.
More than just a record store, Bad Taste (Smekkleysa) is a museum dedicated to the history of Icelandic music and art. It is also the shopfront of a music label, Bad Taste Records, which started as an arts collective in 1986. It became famous as the label which launched Bjork and her former band, The Sugar Cubes. Since that time many Icelandic greats have been signed by this label including Quarashi, Singapore Sling, and of course Sigur Rós. Given the history of the place, I was surprised by the limited selection of music here. You can, for example, order Bad Taste's entire back catalogue on their website. Why they don't have the music on sale at the record store as well is beyond me. Anyway, there are supposed to be performances put on here sometimes. Smekkleya isn't the only record label in Iceland: there is also the Bedroom Community. Just letting you know!

Geisladiskabúð Valda: Laugavegur 64 | 101 Reykjavík | Sími: 562 9002.
If the window display is anything to go by, this store seems to be devoted to the hard stuff: Heavy Metal, Death Metal, and hard rock. I must confess I have never stepped inside this place, as Metal is not really my thing. It is a genre that seems popular in the North, however, and has worked its influence into the indigenous sound. Jónsi claims to have liked Iron Maiden as a teenager. Listen to the climax of Glósóli, and the fruits of this infatuation are clearly audible. Albeit, obviously, channelled through a thick Icelandic filter. Which is, incidentally, just the way I like it! Geisladiskabúð Valda apparently stocks games and DVDs too.

THE GREAT UNSIGNED
As with anywhere, those bands with labels are just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the ocean lies a great vault of untapped talent. How about these unsigned bands in Iceland, where do you find them? There are a number of websites to facilitate your search. Here are some of my favourites:

Hugi (Íslensk tónlist)
Jon.is
Rokk.is (defunct)

Midsummer Magic

Call me naïve, call me paranoid even, but I used to worry that it would be hard meeting people in Iceland.  I used to get obsessed about it, back in the planning phase of this trip, and to combat my fears I would conduct rituals, Paper Burning ceremonies in fact, in my dingy sharehouse in Tokyo. Granted, I had met plenty of nice people on my previous visit here in 2003, among them Akiko a Japanese girl who turned into a lover, and Rodolphe the freak from the Alps who ambushed me in the mossy canyons of Þingvellir, and tried to seduce me. Great folk they all were, but they weren't locals, and it was the locals that I was really yearning to make my acquaintances with. Cute Asian girls are always a pleasure to encounter, but I can encounter plenty of them in Asia. It might well be easier hooking up with Japanese women outside of Japan than it is in their homeland, but truth be told I am over Japan after all my recent conflicts, and I want to take a break from it all. I need time out from all that stress, that Bushido bullshit! And visiting Iceland is such a rare luxury for me right now, I want to make the most of it. Icelanders are the rarest of species, anyway: how often do you see them in your home town, or at your nearest airport even? You don't see any, that's the thing... they are as elusive as elves. Apart from the staff at my youth hostel and the odd waiter or bartender downtown, I don't think I interacted with any real Icelanders on my 2003 trip -- and I was in their own country no less, in their capital city! This time around, having forked out so much for airfares and ripoff hotels, flown halfway across the world, etc, this time around I wanted to do things right, and meet the people who actually live here, rather than fellow travelers like myself. That of course can be hard when you are staying in a dorm in a youth hostel on the edge of town, and you only have six days to spend on the island. To maximize my chances of adventure, I concluded, I needed to have some kind of plan, a little piece of insurance up my sleeve. Obviously, I could have resolved to go out and network hard as soon as I touched down at Keflavíkurflugvöllur and that is indeed what I have been doing these past few days, networking my ass off so to speak! But, back in the planning phases of this trip, I required something more immediate to soothe my anxieties, something a little bit magical perhaps, something vindictively voodoo even. That is where Paper Burning came in. Call it irrational, call it superstitious nonsense, but Paper Burning seems to work. It can make your wishes come true, whether you believe in it or not. It is my key to manifestation.

Gateway between the worlds: an underpass, in Reykjavik (Iceland, 2006)

The process is so simple it's silly: in essence, Paper Burning is the transformation of psychic energy into its physical equivalent, the alchemy of -E into the "E" of Einstein's famous equation. Fire and prayer serve as the interface, the gate between the two worlds. You might liken it to mining Jung's realm of indestructible energy, or sparking a cluster of coincidences, summoning them into existence, and hoping they will play out to your advantage! That's one way of looking at it. Another way is to consider it the recycling of past events: episodes which have happened to someone else, somewhere, at sometime; episodes which you seek to recreate in your own life, right here, right now. In order for the process to work something connected to that past event, something linked to it by psychic energy, needs to be destroyed so that the psychic pattern it represents can cross the threshold into the physical realm, and (re)manifest. When I Paper Burn I first hunt down some person describing, in their own words, an experience they have had, usually online on blogs and forums and the like. Anything that looks genuine and authentic is good for me, for example stories about lucky windfalls, falling in love, ecstatic epiphanies, sex with supermodels, that kind of thing. Or for this particular occasion, the experience of going to Iceland, meeting tons of nice people, making lifetime friends here! Those are the experiences I wanted to manifest this trip: longterm friends and wanton sex! Paper Burning manifested my relationship with C., and it got me a kiss out of the blue with Akiko on the lawns of Shinjuku Gyouen (新宿御苑), so surely it could mine me a few babes and buddies in Reykjavík, and guarantee me a rollicking time here. Truth be told, however, my soul has been longing for something more luminous than just babes and buddies and rollicking fun recently, and I find myself hungering for an accomplice instead of a mere acquaintance, a Twin Flame rather than just a girlfriend, a collaborator or collaborators who can allow me to attain the Divinity in the flesh that I have sometimes glimpsed in my dreams... in short, post C. I yearn for no less than a soulbuddy or coterie of soulbuddies from another dimension, Rock star friends to deliver me the Rock star lifestyle I deserve, and dearly await! Listening to Icelandic music always gives me the suspicion that I am missing out, alienated from the art and adventure which ought to be my birthright. "Born in the wrong family, the wrong town, the wrong country," as I might have complained as a kid, growing up in regional Australia. Back then I used to call this malaise the "Goonie Feeling", and I fantasized about escape through all manner of exotic means: becoming a writer or a famous artist, a child actor, a pop star, a global citizen, etc. Assuming that my misplaced birth was the root of my woes, I figured that all I needed to do was to change my abode, and my dream life would develop around me, spontaneously. Thus my life of wandering commenced, the search for belonging in farflung lands: interestingly, the Promised Land I sought was always overseas, north not south, temperate not arid, erudite and articulate, emotionally intelligent, savvy and sophisticated, youthful but wiser than its years. The quest led me to Japan but much to my dismay, Utopia was not waiting for me there, alas. Japan is cool and all, I love the trains and vending machines, the endless concrete jungles, but it is not the social Promised Land that I was expecting it to be. If my cousin Kellie had been there to join me then perhaps it might have turned out differently, we could have established our colony. But Kellie flaked out on me, she ditched me, and after several years of life in the Far East I was compelled to resume the search for my (now) private Zion, my (personal) Canaan. Almost immediately, I settled my sights on Iceland, a country I have always held a fascination for, ever since I was a wee bairn. I booked a flight here in 2003, and stayed about six days. Amazingly, the place exceeded my expectations, it was even better than I dared to hope it would be. For the first time in my life, it seemed I had finally found the place to call home. If only it wasn't so hard to get to, and to emigrate to!

Corner of Frakkastigur and Njalsgata, in Reykjavik (Iceland, 2006)

Sometime last year I had a dream in which I was in an interior space, a long room of some kind, which was supposedly in Iceland. I can't really remember what was going on; while I often dream of being in huge parties, the atmosphere here felt sedate, more like a library than a nightclub. I was chilling on a couch, and presently I became aware that I was sitting next to this yellowhaired guy. We started talking about life and the universe, philosophy and politics and poetry, and I soon I realized that this man was going to change my life, or at least encourage me to become the real me, whatever that might mean. When I woke up, I knew it was an important dream, it was a dream with meaning. It was an inspirational dream, no less, and I used to think about it a lot during my relationship with C., when I should have been infatuated with her. I didn't know whether it would actually come true or if it was just symbolic of my Icelandic hopes: Freudian or Jungian, wish fulfillment or astral traveling, who knows. But I did remember it, and it did stay with me. That was one dream which crossed the threshold, always so foreboding and forbidding, from the unconscious, to the conscious mind... 

Memories of this dream played through my mind as I readied the Paper Burning apparatus for action, a few months before my recent flight. I had found a choice snippet to burn, which was now printed out on a pristine leaf of white paper, and which read beguilingly: "Though I can say that if you are doing the pub crawl around Reykjavik after 1 am on a Friday or Saturday, you will end up with lots of new friends who are very talkative and outgoing." This read, in fact, like the perfect fodder for a Paper Burning spell: disposable, just an anonymous quote from the Internet, but the way it had been appropriated gave it an edge of sorcery, of the sort you might encounter in Bronisław Malinowski, or vintage Harry Potter. I installed the sheet of paper atop a vessel crusted from the detritus of previous fires, and ignited a cigarette lighter. The vessel was actually a mini altar bell given to me by Soka Gakkai (創価学会), that mad Buddhist order to which I belong (and doubtless they would accuse me of sacrilege if they knew how I was about to treat it!) I settled on to the floor in front of the bell in my bedroom, crouched seiza style, and lit the edge of the page. Flame crept around the perimeter of the page, browning it, bending it, and lifting it with a draft of warm air. For a moment I was worried the blazing leaf might lift itself out of the bell and drop on to the wooden floor of my room. As previously related, my sharehouse is made of tatami mats and paper walls and wood, and it would burn down in a flash if it was set alight. I have to be careful with this shit, so I poked the page back into the center of the bell with a pen, ready to extinguish the flame if things got out of hand. Peak flamage subsided shortly enough, however, and the sheet curled up onto itself, disintegrating into flakes of ash and puffs of gray smoke. I bowed towards my Soka Gakkai gohonzon (sacred scroll) hanging on the wall, and chanted through the smoke three times: "Nam myou hou ren ge kyou" ("南無妙法蓮華経"). I'm not really sure why I do this, since I don't really believe in Nichiren, the Lotus Sutra, and all that jazz associated with the gohonzon. Maybe you could call this "hedging your bets": if Paper Burning didn't work, then at least Nichiren might do the trick, and grant me my wishes. That was probably my motivation. My Soka Gakkai friends would probably be appalled, but this is the system I employ, and it works for me. Freestyling forever... that is the way I play! You can't pin me down to any one style... no way.

The Sirkus, the "only bar in Reykjavik!" (Iceland, 2006)

I used to worry about meeting people in Iceland, but it turns out that this was a misguided fear. The reality of the social scene in Reykjavík is, the city is so small, it is really easy to get to know people. After just a few nights downtown doing the Runtur, I have started to notice and recognize the same old faces -- the Reykjavík gang. And because the city is so isolated, people are interested in you as a newcomer. This is the kind of place where you don't need to exchange phone numbers or business cards -- if you meet someone cool, chances you will bump into them again pretty soon, just walking down the street. And they will remember you. On Friday afternoon, while the wind blew, and I wandered around town checking stuff out, I popped into a corner store to buy a burger for lunch -- and who else was standing there at the counter but my old cocainehunting buddy from Thursday night! I have forgotten what his name was, and perhaps he never gave it to me, but he has become my first true friend in Iceland, my first Icelandic Goonie. Gods willing, more are on their way!

Saturday was Midsummer's Day and I was back down in the Miðbær (midtown) at the Cafe Rosenburg, nursing a hangover from the previous night, and submitting it to my usual hair of the dog therapy (ie, I was drinking another beer!) The Cafe Rosenburg was decorated with model ships, an old piano, and jazz instruments hanging from the walls. Outside was a beautiful day: brilliant blue sky, sunshine and a hearty North Atlantic breeze. I was drinking my beer, and to pass the time (which often seems to expand so enormously here in Iceland, especially when I am wandering around) I flipped through a copy of the Reykjavik Mag which I had discovered on one of the tables. I paused to read an article about a young cartoonist and playwright named Hugleikur Dagsson. According to the article and other stuff I have seen on the Web since then, Hugleikur is famous for his stage play Forðist okkur ("Avoid Us") and his comic books Elskið okkur ("Love Us"), Drepið okkur ("Kill Us") and Ríðið okkur ("Fuck Us"). And he also wrote another work called Bjargið okkur ("Save Us"). There was a photo of the guy in the magazine with short hair and slacker T-shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, looking uncannily like my old mate Dave Harris from Palm Beach in Sydney. (Dave is also an artist and an activist, although I haven't heard from him in years. I wondered what he would think of Reykjavík if he ever made it here.)

I ordered another beer, stuffed the Reykjavik Mag into my slingbag as a souvenir, and picked up a copy of the ever informative Reykjavik Grapevine newspaper, which the Rosenberg was kind enough to stock. Leafing through it, I stumbled upon an article about Midsummer's Day, which was being marked today. It stoked my interest, so I started to read the report which follows, quietly, as I sipped my beer:

In pagan times, holidays were marked by the phases of the moon and the changing of the seasons. The longest day of the year, Midsummer (actually the first day of summer), was a celebratory holiday that revolved around the goddess Freyja, whose primary areas of expertise were sexuality and fertility. You can imagine the gusto with which this holiday was celebrated -- after the long, brutal winter, summer's finally here, and celebrations are in honor of the Goddess of Love? You bet it was a good time. 

Not that things have changed very much since then. Even today, the arrival of summer is greeted with great enthusiasm, as you'll find that on the first remotely mild day of the year, Icelanders pour into the streets wearing skirts and t-shirts. But there are also a few superstitions surrounding Midsummer (due to begin on 21 June, 4:26AM) that have managed to survive. 

One of the biggest ones is, you can roll around in the dew at dawn on Midsummer and any wish you make will come true. This is risky, particularly in an urban area like Reykjavik, but people still do this... Midsummer is also a great time to gather magical rocks and plants, as they're supposedly at the height of their power on this day. I'd suggest getting out of town that day, going for a walk down by the beach, or in a patch of woods, and looking around for small stones that look magical to you. Pick up this stone, put it in your pocket, and keep it -- you've got your new magic talisman.

Boulders, anchor and crane, beneath a blue midsummer sky (Iceland, 2006)

Well, I am sorry to report that I didn't roll around in the dew naked on Midsummer Day 2006, but I did pick up some interesting lava stones down by the waterfront, and perhaps more importantly, I had in my credit a number of Paper Burning spells conducted in Japan which were doubtless swirling out there in the ether, biding their time, just waiting for their chance to do their thing and manifest. And manifest they did, in spectacular form! As I wrote above, June 24 had developed into a wonderfully sunny and beautiful summer's day, and it was the weekend (Saturday no less), with everybody in the mood to party. Thursday had been incredible, Friday had been sensational, and while Saturday had only just begun I could already sense that Saturday was resonating at a higher dimensional vibration altogether than all the other days... in short, Saturday was otherwordly. And who knows, perhaps it was all from the feminine Freyja energy in the air? I put the newspaper in my slingbag, drained my glass, and left the Rosenberg. After walking around for a while I landed at the Sirkus, the site of my adventures on Thursday night. As I approached the bar to buy a drink, I realized that the aforementioned Hugleikur Dagsson was standing at the other end of the counter, beer in hand. I quickly dug out the copy of the Reykjavik Mag which I had confiscated as a souvenir, just to check that I wasn't hallucinating. It was, indeed, him -- the guy standing across the room with a beer in his hand was the same comic and writer and artist I had just been reading about at the Rosenberg. He looked like he had clawed his way out of the page of the magazine, complete with horn-rimmed glasses and slacker T-shirt, and a Dave Harris smirk. Scanning the article, I noticed that Dagsson had been asked: "What is your favorite bar in Reykjavik?" And he had replied: "Sirkus. It is the only bar in Reykjavik."

I will drink to that.

I ordered myself a beer, and walked upstairs to the loft, where they were showing the soccer World Cup. When I entered the loft I thought to myself: Wow, this is the place from the dream, the dream set in the long interior room. This is where I am going to meet that guy, the guy that changes my life! I sat down, and this feeling of déjà vu intensified... the mood, lighting, dogeaten couches, carpet on the floor, and my own state of mind were all the same as they had been in the original dream. I thought: If that dream really was a premonition, I just have to sit back and let it happen! I don't have to force anything. So I reclined in my couch, and tried to concentrate on the game for a while, gripped in a rising excitement. From time to time I looked around, to see if anything truly luminous was going on. There wasn't, just guys slouched in couches all around me, some of them with trainershod feet sprawled on coffee tables, watching the World Cup. I was almost starting to lose hope, when finally this yellowhaired guy walked in from behind me and said. "Do you mind if I sit next to you?" I looked up and realized: Oh my God, that's the guy from the dream! Its really him! A yellowhaired guy in jeans and slacker T-shirt and bright trainers, flopping down into the seat next to me. He looked like he had just emerged out of my dreams, to grace real life. 

We started talking and after some formalities, he announced that he was the guitarist from Kimono, a band I have been listening to since 2003. I'm not sure he told me his name but based on stuff I have read online since, I am pretty sure he is Alex. Been touring for years, now back in Iceland. I told him that their Japanese Policeman in Scandinavia was one of my favorite songs and he remarked, "Wow, I didn't know we had that much of a following." We talked about earthquakes and life on the road, the Berlin rock scene, the Reykjavik rock scene, and so on. I asked him if there were any other musicians in the room with us right now, anyone I might know. "Yeah, there are a few," he replied, tantalizingly. 

The game ended, Alex made his leave, and not long after I bailed as well. I headed out on to the street thinking to myself: Man, this is one magical place. Everytime I come here, something extraordinary happens to me here! I wonder what will happen next?

Walking the streets of Reykjavik under a blue midsummer sky, looking for some action (Iceland, 2006)

After that epiphany at Sirkus, the rest of the day was an anti-climax. I wandered down into the eastern reaches of the city, down to the water where the wind blew hard, and the gulls wheeled low. I could have spent a lifetime there just photographing the houses, the cars, the dwarf trees. I read National Geographic magazines in Kofi Tómasar Frænda ("Uncle Tom's Cabin") in the evening, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Finally, I got up, and commenced roaming again. Gatecrashed what seemed to be a private party at Hressó, sometime around 9pm. Plenty of people there, but it wasn't luminous. Eventually I left and moved on to Nelly's, which was rammed to the rafters. This was where the party was at: everyone was going crazy on the dancefloor upstairs, shaking their hands around like they just didn't care, etc. I got so drunk I fell down the stairs, and then decided it was time to call it a night. I returned to my youth hostel along the waterfront, watching the play of light on Esjan, and the sun orbiting the cold horizon. I could have spent the rest of the night out there, sitting on a rock, gazing into the grim hinterlands, that vast country of which Reykjavík serves as just an introduction. I remembered Alex saying that The Vines are pretty popular in Iceland, and that Nick Cave is actually a frequent visitor to the island. He apparently wrote the music for an Icelandic movie recently. Looking up at Esjan as I resumed my long trudge, I imagined I was Nick walking by himself on the lava beach in the middle of the night, striding home from a gig like a ghost in the mist. This is certainly the kind of country which would appeal to him, I thought to myself as I walked. Even more importantly, it is the kind of country which appeals to me!

101 Reykjavik (By Hallgrimur Helgason)

Every now and then you read a book or watch a movie which changes the way you want to live your life. It's the ultimate compliment to a work of art if it makes you want to start talking like its lead character, or model your own life on theirs. It doesn't happen very often. The last time it happened to me was when I watched Pulp Fiction in the cinema on a quiet sunny Sunday in Sydney, NSW, Australia, and I knew I had found something which connected with me. All those cheesy jokes and cheap suits and retro references! Such brutality, such splendid banality! From then, my way of living was forever changed. Recently I came upon a book which seems like an Icelandic version of Pulp Fiction, minus the gangsters and gore. Strip away Tarantino's violence and what do you get -- endless witty jokes about rock bands and TV shows. Life in the media age. This is the style of writing which dominates Hallgrímur Helgason's 1996 novel 101 Reykjavik. It is kind of like a Tarantino take on day-to-day life, like going to the shops for milk or hanging out with your buddies in the bar, and packed with thousands of reference-dropping commentaries. Ashing a cigarette leads to a reference to David Bowie, "ashes to ashes". Characters don't leave a house, but make an "Elvis exit". 101 Reykjavik is the kind of novel packed with so much 90s-style referential wordplay that, when you're finished reading, you think: "Hey, this would make a good movie." In fact, it has already been made into a movie, directed by Baltasar Kormakur, and starring Victoria Abril.

Smoking in the snow: 101 Reykjavik, by Hallgrimur Helgason.

Other reviewers have described this novel as the "pathetic narration" of an "emotionally retarded slacker whose most intimate relationship is the one he cultivates with his porn collection" (Baltimore City Paper Online.) A little bit harsh, I think -- the lead character, Hlynur Björn Hafsteinsson does indeed enjoy porn, like many folk, but that is no reason to crucify him. He is no doubt a voyeur, but I think Hlynur's absolute obsession -- his core obsession if you like -- is what he calls the "theater of the real". He likes movies, but not to follow the stories -- just to check up on what the actors are doing these days. In one scene he watches a video of live births in American hospitals. In another episode he sneaks into a bedroom where two young people are having sex, pulls up a chair and begins offering critiques! This is how he describes it:

I gradually realize this is the first documentary I've seen about the Icelandic species. And I've got to say it reminds me a bit of Icelandic movies. CHILDREN OF NATURE. There's no plot in it. No angle variation whatsoever. Looks like we're in for an epic feature. Talk about dragging it out. Start to think about the zapper in my inside pocket. Saw a nature documentary the other day about those cameramen who make wildlife movies. Some British pony-tailer who dug himself into a hole for a fortnight in the hope of catching a shot of a hare shag. But he didn't even so much as get a hard-on in those two weeks. Maybe I just don't have the patience.

The Guardian writes: "this lusciously deadpan narrative - dazzlingly translated by Brian Fitzgibbon - is more than funny. It is not so much peppered with gags as infused with a wild, anarchic take on the world that is caustically, worryingly truthful." According to this other site I found: "Hlynur (the protaganist) is a true product of our postmodern global culture. Well beyond slackerdom, he lives at home with his mother and depends on social welfare. He's a quick-witted and articulate young man, and there's nothing wrong with him -- other than a total lack of ambition, an off-kilter sense of morality, and a nagging set of existential woes. Against the backdrop of Reykjavik's storied nightlife and amid the swelling global presence of Icelandic culture, Helgason portrays with brutal honesty and humor a young man who takes uselessness to new extremes, and for whom redemption may not be an option. 101 Reykjavik is a spectacularly inventive, darkly comic tale of depraved and inspired humanity."

The story is basically this: Hlynur is living in Reykjavík, one of my favorite cities, with his mother, who later turns out to be a lesbian. His mother gets a sexy new live-in girlfriend, who Hlynur also sleeps with. "I guess now we're fucks-in-law," he muses. Apart from that, Hlynur's life revolves around going to pubs and parties, and regular trips to the unemployment office. One of the reasons I decided to buy this book was to get an insight into Iceland's storied nightlife, since I was unable to go out when I was there last. Once I started reading, I discovered that Hlynur lives an idyllic, if aimless life, just like me. But what is wrong with being lackadaisical, what's wrong with going with the flow? That's the trouble with the world, there are no many people with aims, everybody aiming for the top... I'd rather be a bottomfeeder, fill the space that others leave behind. That is my ambition, if I must be forced to use such a term. So, I guess I have this in common with Hlynur: we're both bottomfeeders. The happiness of the unemployment lines; our freedom urgent as a blue sky, as Hakim Bey might have put it. Corporate high-flyers will never understand the simple pleasures of being alive. They can have their money, and I will take my precious moments, wherever I can find them. One day I will be dead, and they will mean no more to me.

Reykjavik 101 unloads on you like a stand-up-comedian; it is dark and cynical at times, but relentlessly clever in the wordplay department. Here is a typical extract:

The Castle at midnight. Not exactly wicked. Despite the name, it is just a cellar. "The Dungeon" might have been more apt. You step down into the past. A dire bluesy little piss hole: a murky cave, phoney brickwork on the walls, complete with (fake?) swords and armour. Prehistoric rock music spurting through the speakers, a tinny sound, like the records have been dug up in some archaeological find: Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin. "Eye of the Tiger", as it happens, when we walk in, myself, Throstur and Marri. A trip down mythology lane. Feel like I am in one of those QUANTUM LEAP episodes. Ancient Greece, except everyone's wearing jackets. Bacchus behind the bar cracking his whip, the old master torturer, fat and furious, thrashing the mob -- eternal slaves to alcohol with blistering wounds on their backs -- impressively equipped: the beer taps like levers on the torture rack, the thumbscrews tightening each time they're pulled. He can afford to laugh with the arsenal he has behind him: Hot Shots on the shelf, Black Death. Juggling his bottles like guns, he levels them at his victims, metallic spirit measures screwed to the nozzles like silencers. Uncapping the beer bottles with his teeth, he hurls them into the room like grenades, shakes Molotov cocktails. Pours boiling acids into poisoned goblets, and the customers sign their credit-card slips like they were signing their own death warrants. A highly combustible situation.

One of the things I like about Iceland is that it is so small, it is easy to get the hang of it. If you have been to Reykjavík, if even for a weekend, you have probably visited half of the sites visited in this book. It is the kind of place where everybody knows everyone, and everybody experiments with everybody else's scene. After spending some time in the heavy metal Castle, Hlynur and his crew move on to a place with a totally different scene and style of music -- Duran Duran is being played. Can you imagine young people in England or America being so promiscuous about their choice of music? It doesn't happen. Later, Hlynur confesses a love of Lionel Ritchie's 80s ballad Hello. In Iceland they seem to give everything a try; they mix and match; it's a big melting pot of influences and creativity. There is none of the genre snobbery I was brought up with in Australia: "I like techno -- there's no way I am going to that headbanger crap!" contrasted with "I can't stand that techno shit. Give me music with a bit of guitar in it!" Anyway, here are some of the cooler extracts from the book, the ones which struck me as particularly funny:

We're in a queue in front of the K-bar. There's a new bouncer who obviously hasn't done his homework. Doesn't know us. I've never seen him before, apart from the tattoo on his neck. A little bit more originality, please...

Guildy is telling the story about when he met Bryan Ferry in Amsterdam. Good story. Good music. Good view. There's a kind of Polaroid atmosphere here. One that calls for instant developments. If only Rosie would shut up. He's still trying to open himself to me:

"But I've always wanted to get back into costume design. I've done everything in hair now, everything I could do really, and I want to get out of hair and maybe work in theatre or something..."

"Yeah," I say, and manage to establish some eye contact with the video presenter sitting beside me. It works. He's obviously used to this from his TV work. I think it's what they call a cue. One glance and he knows he's on, he has to say something:

"But you HAVE actually worked in the theatre before, have you not?"

Good. We've slipped into the chat-show mode at last...

I have only been to Iceland once -- it was in late summer. Very pleasant I thought it, if a little too windy at the time -- and it amazed me with the most amazing skies I have ever seen. I will always remember that crystal clear Icelandic sky -- the sun hanging like a jewel in the blue, the clouds whizzing by just hundreds of meters off the ground. One night I saw the aurora. Next time I go to Iceland (estimated late 2005 or early 2006) I want to go in the middle of winter, like January or something. I have already started my saving campaign. I want to see what real Arctic dark and cold is all about, and I want to stay a long time -- at least six weeks. Plenty of time for hanging round boozy pubs and hotsprings -- I can hardly wait!

Here is how Reykjavik in the winter is depicted by Hallgrímur Helgason:

Reykjavik on a dark winter morning: a small town in Siberia. Snow drifting in the glow of lamp posts under a dome of darkness, enshrouding a shivering salted sea of porridge and shorelines of milk curds. Masticated frozen mush around the darkness. The mountains -- heaps of ancient debris, forsaken refuse, a junkyard from heathen times, scrap iron from the Bronze Age. Hardened glacial diarrhoea, hideous mounds of mould, encircle this transient town of cards, a camping site littered with computers doomed to disappear in the next blackout.

One other site I visited (from Sweden) also provided this pithy review: "En ung manns seksuelle følelser går når han oppdager at han har hatt sex med morens lesbiske elskerinne, og at hun antageligvis er blitt gravid." I am just trying now to guess what that this means. How about: "A young man's sexual fantasies run amok after he has sex with his mother's lesbian girlfriend." After Hlynur does eventually has sex with his mother's Spanish lover, he ponders: "I guess that makes us fucks-in-law." It's a witty remark, but also full of pathos, when you think about it. And when you think about it, there's plenty of great wit and pathos in this book! And so there should be.

Straddling Two Worlds

Well, after years of fantasizing about Iceland, I finally found myself there last month, for the first of hopefully many trips. The only trouble was, on the way to Iceland I had stopped off for a few days in Copenhagen in Denmark, and spent almost all of my money in that eccentric, libertarian city. I didn't even have enough money for food, and travelling around Iceland was out of the question. Actually, apart from ripoff youth hostel room (2000 kr. or something like that), I had only the money for the most basic of purchases: a couple of loaves of bread and pieces of cheese for example, a few cans of light Viking beer from the supermarket, some slices of meat. Luckily I had prepared for this scenario by bringing a host of cheap, mostly tasteless items from Japan -- cups of instant noodles for breakfast, a box of green tea sachets which became the gourmet highlight of my holiday. I swear it was the vitamin C from the green tea which kept me going as I gradually starved myself in Iceland, losing a lot of unwelcome weight in my meantime! And as we all should know by now, green tea gets you high!

I was so broke I couldn't even afford to go anywhere once I arrived in Reykjavík, and had to travel everywhere on foot. This was not quite the tragedy that you might imagine because I was so happy to be in Iceland, even striding around Reykjavík was an unearthly experience. Of course I looked at the distant mountains and yearned to be able to reach them, but there were plenty of things to see in walking distance of the youth hostel. Gold boats down at the harbor, funky Nordic houses with primary colored corrugated iron walls and triangular roofs. The strangest sky I have seen in my life, which words can't describe. I was enchanted! Yes, the weather was often terrible. Usually I don't like the wind when it is blowing strong, but in Iceland I could forgive it. The same goes for heavy metal music, which seems to be popular in this North Atlantic nation. In other countries I can't stand it, but in Iceland it seems appropriate. It's the perfect soundtrack for a Viking wasteland.

I am proud to say that I never felt bored during my whole 8-day stay in Iceland, not even when I had to spend all night sleeping out at the airport because I didn't have the money for the youth hostel that night. The only problem is, I walked so much my feet soon developed enormous blisters, which plunged me into agony whenever I took my shoes off. But what was I going to do, hang around the youth hostel all day and recuperate? There was no chance to rest -- I had to push on, walking on the sides of my feet (which is a hard way to get around, especially somewhere like Reykjavík, where everything is so spaced out!) Anyway, I managed to scrape enough money one day for the bus ticket to Þingvellir, the ancient parliament which straddles the European and American continental plates, west of the capital. It felt great to finally get out of the city and see some of the scenery. At Þingvellir it was cold and windy (what else is new? this is Iceland!) I ambled around the big canyon there, formed from the aforementioned American and European plates sliding away from each other, as fast as a fingernail grows -- a gorge of jumbled stones and moss, quite possibly home to fairies (or so the Icelanders would believe). I've never seen so much moss -- it was the kind of moss wonderland I expected to find in Iceland. In some of the more secluded corners that the wind couldn't reach, when the sun peaked out from the clouds, I wished I could lie down upon these moss beds and have a nap.

I was crabwalking my way through one of these meandering gorges, somewhere near the waterfall, and keeping a mental track of the time so I wouldn't miss the bus, when I bumped into a friendly Italian man with graying beard and an impish bent. He was dancing from stone to stone, awed by the surroundings. "This is so wonderful!" he said. "Look at those beautiful rocks over there! Magnificent!"

I should have assumed then and there, by the way that he was prancing from rock to rock, that something was amiss here, and that I was falling in with a fairy. A moss fairy, no less. I should have heard the warning bells. Poor gullible, trust-everybody-me. Little by little, I fell into the trap.

Let me put it this way: I can see now why they always say don't take rides with strangers! The Italian guy (I can't remember his name -- maybe something like Rodolphe) promptly announced, as the wind swept his hair: "Let's go to the spa -- to the Blue Lagoon! There's nothing better than ending your day in the hot waters of the Blue Lagoon. It is the best thing in Iceland. Come on, let's go."

"But I have a ticket for the bus," I said, "and it goes back to Reykjavík soon."

"Forget about the bus," he said. "I have a hire car. I can drive you back to Reykjavík tonight. And besides, I can show you round this corner of Iceland -- it's more than you can see in the bus."

He had a point there, and despite the obvious risks of "riding with strangers", I decided not to be a pussy. From my point of view, it was an offer too good to refuse. I had been forced to challenge Iceland by foot ever since I arrived, and here was this guy offering to drive me around, in his hire car. Besides, I could never have afforded the bus ticket to the Blue Lagoon, which I was interested in seeing. He seemed like a nice guy. Actually Germanic in race, lived near the Austrian border in northern Italy. Ran a record shop, liked Icelandic bands such as Sigur Rós (nice one). Went to Iceland every summer, for the past three years at least. (I can imagine doing the same thing, but next time I want to go there in winter. Just to see the real polar night!) So, I agreed to ride with him. We passed the bus on our way out -- suckers! I thought, looking at the passengers cooped up inside. I had moved a step beyond them -- I was now seeing Iceland by car!

And what a rush it was sitting in the passenger seat with Rodolphe as we sped down the narrow roads being buffeted by winds, with the hills green and strange all around us. This was the Iceland I had been dying to see! As we headed south to the Blue Lagoon, I looked at his hand and wondered: where's the wedding ring? I remembered concluding that he had to be gay. In my naive way, I didn't think that would be a problem. (Not that I have a problem with gay men, mind you -- they just always seem to want to hit on to me! They get the wrong idea about me, when I am just trying to be friendly!)

The terrain immediately surrounding the Blue Lagoon is one of the most forbidding moonscapes I have ever inspected. It is the closest thing I have to an alien world I've encountered, and everything is exotic -- ground, sky, you name it. Out of the fields of lava suddenly pools of bright blue water appear -- the world-famous Blue Lagoon! According to explore-reykjavik.com, the Blue Lagoon is "located in the lunar-like landscape of a lava field... accidentally created by the run-off water from the Svartsengi power station. The reputed health benefits (particularly for skin ailments) of its mineral-rich, geothermal seawater have made it one of the most visited locations in Iceland. The Blue Lagoon (tel: 420 8800; fax: 420 8801; e-mail: lagoon@bluelagoon.is; website: www.bluelagoon.is) is situated on the Reykjanes peninsula, about 50km (30 miles) southwest of the city. Bus 5 leaves Reykjavik's central bus station three times a day, and the journey takes about 40 minutes)."

It was blowing a gale and absolutely freezing when we arrived in the barren, almost godforsaken car park adjoining the lagoon, in Rodolphe's little vehicle. I was out of cash, but thankfully Rodolphe (sugar-daddy style) offered to donate some gold Icelandic coins to help cover the rather lofty entrance fee (1200 kr.). Into the showers where we stripped naked and soaped up before putting on a pair of swimming trunks, and hitting the spa. It was a wonderful and surreal experience, especially after it started hailing, and my head was softly massaged by falling chunks of Arctic ice, while my trunk was churned by the warm current underneath! Fire and ice -- that's the Icelandic polarity.

Rodolphe suggested a spell in the sauna, which I didn't really like, and which should have provided me further confirmation of his sexuality (pardon the stereotypes here). However, he hadn't made a move on me even when we were naked together in the showers, so I figured even if he was gay he a cool gay (rather than the in-your-face aggressive variety I sometimes encountered in Australia.) After a spell in the spa, sweating out toxins, we returned to the lagoon, floating under the stream drifts which were blown this way and that by the relentless wind. We smeared white mud on our faces. I noticed my blistered feet began feeling better -- within the next day or two they were almost completely healed. Remarkable! We stayed right up until closing time at 9pm, as the world turned dreary and cold all around us. I love Icelandic weather which is one reason I want to come back in the winter, and see real desolation! Rodolphe and I drove back to my youth hostel in Reykjavík. It had been a great day, and I wondered how I could match it tomorrow (although the morrow did indeed prove just as memorable, as I met a future lover. But that is another story.)

Oh, I was forgetting -- there was meant to be a punchline here, or least some kind of climax! Well, the punchline is this: Rodolphe was in fact gay! And as we hit the Reykjavík city limits he made his move, and tried to grab my hand. It was touch and go there for a while, but I managed to get out of it with my dignity attached. Not as if I could bail our of the car while we drove through the lava plains, and it would have been lame just to tell him that I wasn't gay. I just handled the situation Japanese style, by not reacting at all. Hoping Rodolphe might pick up the hint. Some of the guys at the youth hostel were horrified when I told them the story later on, once I had escaped his grasp. Shortly before he dropped me off, Rodolphe informed me that he didn't have anywhere to stay for the night, and that he wanted to book something at the hostel. Thankfully the hostel was full (I dodged a bullet there!) Rodolphe said goodbye to me rather crestfallen, got into his car, and drove off looking for another inn. I never saw him again. My skin and hair smelling of sulphur, I went to bed somewhat pleased with how the day had gone... the way I figured it, it was worth taking the risk of riding with Rodolphe to see a part of Iceland I would never have been able to see. Sometimes you have to take a chance -- that's the Vagabondic way! To be honest, despite the experience in the car, I still think Rodolphe is a nice guy. Maybe I will bump into him again on future trips to Iceland -- perhaps in the sauna at the Blue Lagoon!

Regarding to Gay Iceland, I have heard it said: "Although a gay scene does exist in Reykjavík, it is very small. One good place to meet gay men is the sauna at the Vesturbæjarlaug-Vesturbaejar Swimming Pool (Hofsvallagata, IS-101 Reykjavík, phone: 354 551 5004)." If you are that way inclined, you might as well check it out. I don't go for saunas myself, but many guys swear by them...