“Would you teach me to play bass?” I asked.
He was up for it, so we sat down and he showed me his bass, a handsome black Fender. He showed me how I should hold it and how to pluck the strings. Everything went great, and I quickly realized that the sound of the bass changed depending on where on the neck you pressed the strings. I was a natural and would definitely be playing like a chief in no time. Then Óli put a record on the turntable and told me to listen to the bass on the song and play along. I tried to listen but couldn’t hear anything no matter what I focused on. Óli tried to help me out with gestures and facial expressions. No luck. I just heard a jingling, like someone was shaking an iron tin full of screws. At first, Óli thought I was pulling his leg, but when he realized that I was serious, he said that I had to go to study music.
“You need to learn the basics of music.”
I was up for that. But what did it mean?
“Can I learn the bass?”
“No, I don’t think they teach bass anywhere.”
“But I just want to learn the bass.”
Óli stressed that I needed to learn the fundamentals of music and added that I should go to Óli Gaukur’s Guitar School. There, I’d get training in the basics and learn the guitar, and as soon as I’d mastered the basics of guitar I’d automatically be able to play bass. This sounded like a rather tortuous path, but since Óli said that it was the way, it probably was. I quite liked the idea and went straight home to my mother with my message.
“Can I go to Óli Gaukur’s Guitar School?”
“Why?”
“To learn the bass.”
Mom reacted pretty well to the idea and found it constructive that I wanted to learn something. So I got permission to enroll in a six-week course. My father took me to Rín, the musical instrument shop, to buy the cheapest acoustic guitar they had. I thought it was an ugly, stupid, hippie guitar. I had never seen a punk with an acoustic guitar. I was, however, willing to use it in private to practice and sat up all night inside my room and strummed on the guitar. I had no nails, so instead I used one of those plastic things they put round the necks of bread bags. I put my index finger flat across the strings, the way the guitarist in Crass did, and moved it up and down the neck while I struck the strings relentlessly with the plastic neck-tie. Perhaps this was the beginning of a phenomenal music career. Maybe I was about to become a world-famous punk guitarist.
I went to guitar school for the first time the next day. The students sat in a booth with headphones on their heads and electric guitars in their laps. Óli Gaukur walked among us, giving instruction. We all had to do the same song. He taught us a specific chord and made us practice it again and again until we knew it. Then he taught us another chord. I confused the chords with one another and found it extremely difficult to find the right place for my fingers. At the end of the session, he had us playing “Old Noah.” We didn’t use our nails, but we had to use our index fingers to strum the strings. I found it dead boring. I both found the chords difficult and the song pointless and annoying. Even worse, however, was that I hurt my fingers. I got a cramp in my hand from holding the neck tight and had sore fingertips from strumming the strings. I’d rather learn cross grip since that was more what punks used, and I asked Óli about cross grip. He said he didn’t teach any such thing and we would not need it if we learned real chords.
The second time was even more of a test than the first. Óli assumed everyone could do what we’d learned the first time around and had been diligently practicing at home. Most of the others clearly had practiced. However, I had no interest in this and had forgotten the chords. Óli tried to go over them with me while I informed him about the pointlessness of any kind of stupid chord when you just wanted to play in a punk band.
“To be able to play in a band, you have to know the instrument.”
I told him the importance of a person not knowing too much, and that a good guitarist could easily ruin a proper punk band and subsequently turn it into a New Wave band. Óli Gaukur had no interest in or sense of punk but nodded patiently, then tried to focus my attention back on the chords.
The third time, we were once again playing “Old Noah.” Each in their own booth. I didn’t. I nodded my head while he gave us instructions, but as soon as he turned away, I took the plastic piece and strummed the guitar. The sound that came through the headset was great. I closed my eyes and enjoyed strumming the strings. I strummed so hard that I snapped a string. Óli came over with a disappointed expression and took my headphones and guitar from me. When the session ended, he asked me to stay behind.
“Why are you here, Jón?” he asked, with a friendly tone.
“To learn to play the guitar.”
“Then why don’t you do the things I teach you?”
It was a good question. I, of course, hadn’t come to learn the guitar, but to learn the fundamentals of music and how I should play bass.
“I want to learn to play punk.”
“I don’t teach punk, Jón.”
That was incomprehensible to me.
“Why not?”
“I teach people to play traditional guitar, the important chords, so they can play popular songs.”
That was something I had no interest in. I was clearly in the wrong place. Chords and songs sounded about as exciting to me as long division and Danish. I was definitely not going to sit around a campfire with an acoustic guitar like an idiot, singing “My sweetheart, come to me.” I wasn’t going to sit in the kitchen and play “Old Noah” for Mom and Dad like some moron. I wasn’t a dork.
Óli suggested that I quit guitar school and even offered to repay me. We were both extremely happy with the outcome. My dad had already paid up front, so I could even pocket the cash. I told Mom and Dad, on the other hand, that everything was going extremely well in guitar school and that I’d become really good at guitar. Neither of them had any interest in it, and I knew they would never come and ask me to play for them.
I gave up on trying to play an instrument. If I was going to be in a band, I’d just have to be the singer. It was my only hope, since I was devoid of any musical talent. Alli was a guitarist, so now we were only missing a drummer, a bassist, and some rehearsal space. We were aware of one guy who knew the bass. He was called Maggi. We didn’t really know him well, but nevertheless we went to his house and rang the bell. His mother came to the door.
“Is Maggi home?”
After a little while, Maggi came to the door, a bit unsure.
“Want to be a bass player in a band?” we asked.
“What sort of band?” Maggi asked.
I was quite certain about the fact that it was a punk band we were forming. This wasn’t a comedy ska or New Wave outfit. This was not, importantly, any old rock band. This wasn’t only going to be a punk band, it was supposed to be the best punk band in all of Iceland. Alli, however, was less certain. He listened to punk and dressed like a punk, but he was still not particularly interested in the philosophy of anarchism or punk rock. He was more in it for the music and the look. I knew for a fact he listened to New Wave: to Gang of Four and the B-52s.
“A punk band!” I announced resolutely so that there would be no confusion.
Maggi wasn’t a punk. He was quite far from being a punk. He had little interest in music and didn’t know the difference between Duran Duran and the Sex Pistols. He was mainly interested in motorcycles and spent all his spare time building motor scooters in his garage at home. He was allergic to something that meant his nose was running nonstop, and he was constantly sniffing and blowing his nose. But he’d learned bass from his older brother and was willing to join us.