By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
"This whole thing interests me," she chirps after blithely divulging that she'll be trapped in the Reykjavik terminal for a minimum of five hours longer than she had anticipated. "There's all of this rubbish about man pretending he killed nature and really feeling very guilty about it. But then, look, here comes this little blizzard, and suddenly we can't do anything. And that's good, because it makes people humble. And it doesn't bother me, because I'm sitting here eating Icelandic China rolls and drinking a German beer and talking to someone in Denver, Colorado.
"Besides, they sell Icelandic books here, and I found some by my favorite author, Halldor Kiljan Laxness," she races on, swept up in her own enthusiasm. "He's, like, the author of the century in Iceland; he won the Nobel Prize in 1955, and he's written probably 1,500 books or something. I've only read three or four of them, but I just bought five more. And I also bought a copy of Elvis Presley's Greatest Hits, even though I never really liked him. He's just a bit too obvious, and he's got so much to do with America feeling very confident in the Fifties and all that--and sometimes that kind of imperialism pisses me off a bit. Also, you have so little time. I try to listen to music all I can, but I can only do it about two hours a day. And since I'm probably only going to live until around the year 2050, if I was to get into Elvis Presley, that would take so much time away from other things. I gave him a chance today because I have a five-hour delay, but then my headphones broke down. So it looks like that's the only break he's getting from me."
If that recitation makes sense to you, then you'll have no trouble negotiating the Bjorkian universe. For those not so fortunate, a conversation with Bjork may seem like the equivalent of tumbling down one of Lewis Carroll's rabbit holes. Every time you think you've got a fix on the way her mind works, her words skitter away in unexpected directions. For instance, she says that she dealt with the out-of-the-box success of her first major-label solo album, 1993's Debut (worldwide sales: 3 million and counting) by "making up a little formula for myself. It's something like this--`The more selfish you are, the more unselfish you are.' Or maybe, `The more selfish you are, the more generous you are.'" Ask her to decipher this axiom, though, and she concedes, "Actually, I don't really get it, either. So I'm just going to do what I've been doing and see what happens."
The latter is as close to a description of the Bjork approach to life as we're likely to get. Ms. Gudmundsdottir was born in 1965 to hippie parents who plunked her into a music school as soon as they possibly could. From early on, it was clear that Bjork was, well, different. "I've been called `strange' and `cute' and `alien' since I was, like, three or something," she discloses. "So I decided a very long time ago not to really bother so much about what people say--to just mind my own business and have a laugh."
At age eleven, Bjork began her career in professional music; she recorded an album of kiddie tunes (including one of her own composition), and it briefly made her the Icelandic version of Tiffany. But instead of making the most of this opportunity, Bjork chose to join a succession of local punk and new-wave bands instead. One of them, called Kukl, eventually led to the Sugarcubes, a combo in which Bjork was joined by Kukl's Einar Orn and guitarist Thor Eldon. The act's first single, "Birthday," was released in 1987 by a minute British label, Little Indian, and within months the Sugarcubes were the subject of a bidding war. Elektra eventually won the U.S. rights and issued a 'Cubes full-length, Life's Too Good, in 1988. Critics, led by the Los Angeles Times' Robert Hilburn, rhapsodized over the album, but in retrospect, the recording seems as erratic as it does intriguing; Bjork, clearly the most interesting member of the group, was forced to fight for space with Orn, to the detriment of everyone involved. The two Sugarcubes followups, 1989's Here Today, Tomorrow Next Week! and 1992's Stick Around for Joy, gave Bjork more room, but the music itself was considerably less inspired. Certainly, there were tunes that worked--such as Joy's "Hit," which was one--but in the final analysis, the rest of the band seemed to be holding Bjork back.