“Did you go to the gig?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“They were awesome,” the girl said.
“Did you go?”
“Yes,” she said, as if nothing could be more natural.
I looked at her curiously. She didn’t seem to be a punk. Her jeans weren’t ripped, and she was just in a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her hair was normal and in a ponytail. She didn’t look punk, but she listened to punk. Then again, Óli wasn’t a punk, but he still had more punk albums than I did. I didn’t have any. I was filled with awe at being confronted with someone who had gone to see The Clash live.
“I have their album, too,” she added. “What albums do you own?”
I couldn’t admit to this wonderful person, who was not only a guardian angel to the persecuted but also a passionate punk, that I didn’t own a single album.
“I don’t have any albums with me. There’s no record player where I am in the country.”
“Bummer! I couldn’t stay anywhere there wasn’t a record player.”
“Yes, but at least ‘London Calling’ was on the radio the other day.”
“Is there a cassette player out at yours?” she asked.
There was in fact a combined cassette player and radio in the living room — kind of like the one Mom had.
“Well, but I don’t have any tapes,” I added, as an excuse.
“Bummer!” she said again.
“Yes,” I mumbled awkwardly.
“I can record it for you!”
“Really?”
Three days later, the farmer drove me back to Akureyri. I went back to the store and got a cassette. It was in a box. On the outside she’d written in blue ink: NINA HAGEN. UNBEHAGEN. What a beautiful thing! We drove back home, and I borrowed the cassette player and took it into my room. With quivering hands I opened the capsule and pulled out the jewel that stored the mysterious songs of the most beautiful girl in the world. UNBEHAGEN. On a black TDK cassette, high position type 2. Sixty minutes of wonderful punk. I opened the cassette player, put the tape in, shut it, took a deep breath, and pressed play. “African Reggae” filled the room. I was hypnotized by love. I had never heard anyone sing like that. My sweetheart variously muttered in a deep voice or shrieked like an old woman, then suddenly broke into being an opera singer. She was wonderful in every way. The only problem was that she sang in German. All I could understand about the song was that she wanted to go to Africa.
I listened to the whole album. Over and over again. The tunes ran together, one long and incessant sequence of screechings and deep-voiced falsettos. She spoke rapidly and in a torrent. I couldn’t even distinguish words. I tried to listen specifically for whether she ever said “anarchy,” but I never heard it. The musical instruments sounded great, too. The men in her band were great musicians but didn’t look like they were punks. They were just dressed normally, based on the pictures I’d seen in Bravo. It was like Nina Hagen was the only punk in the band. In most of the songs, there was a guitar solo. I had not heard many punk songs, but somehow I still knew that there’s a rule against guitar solos in punk. My disappointment was huge. I found it very sad. This wasn’t really punk, but something else. Why was she always changing her voice? Nina Hagen appeared to have no interest in anarchism or in overthrowing the system. She just wanted to go to Africa. I could hardly see the punk in that. Was there something punk about Africa? Were there punks in Africa? Why didn’t she go to London instead? I just didn’t get it. The music got on my nerves. I found it boring, and I didn’t understand the lyrics. I turned off the music, took the cassette out, and put it back in its case. What a disappointment. Nina had failed me. But love is blind. I looked at the poster, ashamed. She was beautiful and she was tough, real cool. I decided to forgive her for her bad music. No one is perfect. I couldn’t stop loving her even if she was really boring. I decided to hold out hope. Maybe she would release another album that would be better and that would be called Anarchyhagen — and be in English. Maybe she just needed a new band. Maybe someone needed to point out to her that the guys in the band with her were lame and needed replacing. Maybe she could sing with the Sex Pistols. Her look would fit in. I definitely wouldn’t be ashamed if she were my girlfriend. I would happily go around town with her. But my first love was superficial. I loved Nina Hagen just for her appearance.
VALLEY LIFE
I’m just a victim of your wildest lies
Send in my photo with another name
I’m society’s victim
Nobody has to get you to buy it now
That’s your concern and I don’t vote
I’m society’s victim
I’m just the subject of discussion now
The one no one admires
I’m society’s victim
I’m not just sufferin’ from paranoia
It’s invented by you and them
I’m society’s victim
I came back home from out in the country the same day Vigdis Finnbogadóttir became President of Iceland. It was also the same day that Italian terrorists blew up railway stations in Bologna, killing 85 people, reducing the earth’s population to four billion, four hundred and thirty-four million, six hundred and eighty-two thousand. Icelanders numbered two hundred and twenty-nine thousand, one hundred and eighty-seven of that. Jimmy Carter was president of the United States but was about lose to Ronald Reagan in the presidential election. The Soviets had invaded Afghanistan. The US supported and trained the terrorists who fought against the Soviets. The terrorists would later evolve into the Taliban and seize power in Afghanistan. War would break out between Iran and Iraq. The United States would support Iraq and give them food, money, and weapons. With their support, Saddam Hussein would invade Iran.
Icelanders were just beginning to use credit cards and would go on to take the lead in their use around the world. The Social Democratic Party, which later turned into the Alliance, was in power. The prime minister was called Benedict Gröndal. Inflation in Iceland was at one hundred percent and showed no signs it would stop rising.
None of these issues mattered to me. For me, the world was going to hell no matter what. I had no future. I was unsuccessful. I didn’t fear the future; I just didn’t care about it. I avoided thinking about it. I was killing time. The atomic bomb was waiting to be used and could explode at any moment. It was just a matter of time before the end of the world. Americans had thrown atomic bombs down on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It could happen again. People talked about it. The US military base in Keflavík put us at risk. If there were a war between the US and Russia, the Russians would shoot a nuke at Keflavík Airport. The whole of Reykjanes would burn up. Everyone would die. A shock wave would hit Reykjavík and the houses would collapse. Then the radioactivity would kill those of us who hadn’t died in the explosion.
By now, I’d become a complete punk. One of my first tasks as such had been to go to the pet shop on Grensásvegur and buy a dog collar with spikes — I put it on my neck instead of a hanging rope. Since I had always hated my hair color, I wanted to dye my hair green. Mom forbade that. But because I had repeatedly stuck safety pins through my earlobes and kept getting infections as a result, she agreed I could get a piercing on the condition that I go to a professional in a beauty salon. That was my next task. With a stomachache of anxiety, I sat in a chair in a salon. The beautician first cooled my earlobe with ice. Then she pinched a “gun” on my lobe.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
I held my breath, closed my eyes, and clenched every muscle in my body. I nodded my head.