fílósófía
of tramp rockers to shock others and turn the public against themselves. Tramp rockers color their hair purple or green and wear clothes so torn to pieces that the hippies of the past decade would be ashamed of their outfits. What’s more, they often stick safety-pins through their ears or cheeks.
I cut out the picture of Camilla Cool and hung it on the wall. I read the story again and again and again. What was fílósófía? I had no idea, but I knew how fun it was to shock people and turn them against you. For example, it’s okay to make fun of hippies. They’re lame.
Shortly after I got to the countryside, The Clash toured Iceland and played gigs at Laugardalshöll. There was a lot written about them in The Times, which published pictures of them taken at the airport. “London Calling” was played on the radio. “Bankrobber” would definitely have been played at the gig. I longed with all my heart to go but couldn’t because I was so far away. I was gutted about this; I cried. That was my song! The most magnificent event of my life was taking place, and I wasn’t there. Nina Hagen looked reassuringly at me. Camilla Cool, too.
Punk was shaping my life. I scrutinized punks and tried to imitate them in the way I dressed. I found safety pins that I pinned to my T-shirt, and then I scrawled the Anarchy sign on it with a ballpoint pen. I scrubbed the knees on my jeans with an emery board until they were ripped and destroyed. Then I knotted a hangman’s noose from soft rope like I’d learned in the Scouts and put it round my neck. Finally, I cut off the torso below my ribs and also the sleeves. People on the farm watched, fascinated by the transformation, by the birth of punk amid the rural calm. They were particularly pleased with the hangman’s noose. The farmer was pretty cool, even lent me his marker so that it was easier to see what I’d written on the T-shirt, and the farmer’s wife got me some bigger safety pins, like I wanted.
Mom’s brother smoked Camel cigarettes. Inside the panty was a cardboard box full of cigarette packs. I snuck into it and stole a single pack. I hid the pack out in the barn and slunk out occasionally to smoke. I trained myself to smoke like a real tough guy, to let the cigarette hang carelessly down from my mouth, to blow smoke rings. I practiced flicking flaming butts with my finger. (I made sure I didn’t flick them into the hay.)
Since I couldn’t go see The Clash, as compensation, I went to a youth concert in Akureyri. I was extremely excited that I was going to Akureyri alone. I got myself ready, put on lots of pins, and wrote Nina Hagen’s name on my canvas shoes with the farmer’s marker. Although it was raining, I refused to wear an overcoat. I would rather freeze to death from the cold and rain than be seen in some ridiculous windbreaker. I was just in my school shirt with the rope hanging around my neck. The farmer took me to Akureyri, dropped me off, and said that he’d come get me after the concert. Once he was gone, I took a big safety pin I’d kept in my pocket. The next step I had prepared and planned very carefully. I undid the pin, pinched my right ear lobe, stuck it through, and fastened it. I was ready. I went to the venue. I immediately attracted considerable attention. I was both an out-of-towner and, moreover, they thought I was a bit odd-looking. Some openly gaped in astonishment. I pretended I was accustomed to drawing attention and didn’t let it affect me but walked around in front of the stage and looked out for other punks. I got out the Camel pack and carelessly lit myself a cigarette.
It wasn’t a punk concert. The bands were dressed normally. Some played heavy metal, and others didn’t even have a singer, just solo guitar. The lyrics were usually about girls or the weather. Shitty music. Few of the songs were original; most were rock versions of old Icelandic melodies. In addition, some tried taking popular foreign songs and adding Icelandic lyrics. What a disappointment! No songs about anarchism or how unbearable it was to live in the shadow of the atomic bomb. No “fuck the system.” Most of the musicians wasted more time adjusting their instruments than playing them.
The rain pounded on me, and I was freezing cold and wet through by the time the last band came onstage. The headliners are always last; the other bands are just warm-ups. The band ending the concert was called Just Party. They were a bit older than those who’d played before. The singer sang original compositions in English. I thought that was pretty cool. Finally, a little recompense for missing out on The Clash. I was filled with joy, nodding in rhythm to the music and clapping between the tunes. Maybe Just Party were punks?
“Nice!” said a thin, gangly guy next to me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Are you from Reykjavík?”
“Yes!” I replied proudly.
After the concert, I walked to a convenience store. I was starting to shiver from the cold and the weather. I positioned myself at the window and kept a lookout for the farmer. Several kids who were inside the convenience store were paying me close attention. They were clearly talking about me and whispering and laughing; they were a few years older than I was.
“Are you a punk?” one of them asked.
“Yes.”
“Can I spit on you, then?”
“No,” I replied, indignant.
The others laughed.
I’d experienced similar situations a few times before.
“If you’re a punk, I can spit on you!”
I was silent. Was that really true? Can you really spit on punks? When did that happen? I refused to believe it. People would hardly go and spit on Nina Hagen when she went to the convenience store.
The kid walked right up to me.
“What’s that around your neck?”
“A hangman’s noose. It’s the same knot you use to hang people.”
He gripped the end of the rope and pulled. The kids laughed.
“Stop it!” I said.
“What, aren’t you a punk?” asked another kid.
“Leave me alone,” I muttered.
I was a little scared. I kept looking desperately for the farmer.
“Leave him alone,” said the girl in the store.
“Can’t I talk to him?” asked the boy.
I wanted to tear myself free and run behind the counter.
“You have to leave if you’re going to act like that,” she continued.
The boy let me go and went to his friends. The kids laughed and looked at me. I smiled, grateful to the girl who’d saved me, and moved closer to her.
“Are you from Reykjavík?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m staying in the country, nearby.”
“You listen to punk?”
“Yes!”
The question was pleasantly surprising. She knew about punk?
“You’re into Nina Hagen?”
I could scarcely believe my ears. Nina Hagen! This girl really knew who she was? Perhaps she even knew Nina?
“Yes,” I replied cheerfully, pointing at my shoes as proof.
We both looked down at my shoes and then she looked questioningly at me. The ink had run in the rain and become a faint, black blob.
“I wrote Nina Hagen on my shoes with a marker,” I said, to make it clear.
“Oh, okay.”
“Nina Hagen’s my favorite singer,” I said boastfully. “I’ve got a poster of her at home.”
The truth, though, was that I’d never heard a song by Nina Hagen. I’d just seen some pictures of her. I thought she was so beautiful and cool.
“I’ve got one of her albums,” the girl said. “Unbehagen.”
I nodded like I knew exactly what she was talking about. In fact, I had no idea. Unbehagen? What did that mean?
“My favorite band is The Clash,” I said, to say something.