Jón Gnarr - The Pirate

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.

“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.