Icelandic Soundscapes: Jóhann Jóhannsson.

Jóhann Jóhannsson

IBM 1401, A USER'S MANUAL

(2006, 4AD)

Iceland! Just thinking of the place elicits mental images aplenty. Volcanic activity, steaming natural hot springs, wide-open rocky expanses, massive glaciers, awe-inspiring scenery, and beautiful people with a penchant for believing in fairies and elves certainly come to mind.

I had a chance to pay Iceland a visit during the Christmas of 2007, and I can confirm that all these mental images are correct. But here on this sub-Arctic island, there is a greater window into what makes the island nation tick; and that is the music that Iceland generates.

To take an atmospheric and eccentric musical voyage to the lava fields, geysers, waterfalls, and glaciers of this beautiful and majestic world takes just a listen to a singular Icelandic composition.

Showcasing a pristine minimalist approach that sounds as if it was made deep beneath the surface of the Earth – perhaps below the Eyjafjallajökull volcano itself – is Reykjavík-based composer and musician Jóhann Jóhannsson’s love letter to an outdated piece of computing machinery.

Jóhann Jóhannsson – IBM 1401, A User’s Manual. (2006, 4AD)

Iceland had a love affair with a machine; namely the IBM 1401, the first affordable, mass-produced digital business computer available on the island – imported for the first time in 1964. Its heyday lasted for seven years, until it was put out to pasture in 1971.

The chief maintenance officer of the machine, one Jóhann Gunnarsson, figured out an intriguing and novel way to make musical sounds with the IBM 1401: placing a radio receiver next to it and programming the memory of the processing unit such that the electromagnetic waves emitted from the computer could be captured by the receiver.

Iceland mourned the machine’s passing in 1971. They even held a funeral for it, playing the melancholic sine-wave sounds one last time as they threw the proverbial soil on top of the discontinued device. The ghostly notes were captured on tape, alongside the noises it made during operation.

Fast-forward 35 years. Gunnarsson’s son, Jóhann Jóhannsson, listened to the tapes of the IBM 1401’s musical notes and decided to write a five-part symphonic piece that would encompass and utilize these sounds – and, in doing so, complement them with the feel and spirit of Iceland itself.

Imagine a flurry of pristine snowflakes washing over you, with the crackle of ice crunching underfoot. A barren snow-flocked landscape, all black volcanic rock covered with ice and snow. Volcanoes lurk on the horizon, shaped like Stepford tits, plumes of steam pouring like smoke from unseen fissures in the crust of the Earth. Timeless.

Jóhannsson brings these images to mind as he gently plays a Hammond B3 organ and elicits forth a dynamic spectrum of sound that seems almost as if it were recorded underwater. He is ably accompanied by a highly skilled and emotive string quartet, the soaring notes they provide to his soundscape creating a lush backdrop of singular grace and beauty.

Add to this the IBM 1401’s peculiar drones and rattles and the occasional disembodied British voice intoning over the ominous and earthy music, instructing the listener on the basics of computer operation and maintenance, and what one has is a window into another place, another time – and the feeling is that of being transported to a mythical hinterland where humanity, nature, and technology meet.

Whether the notes were pulled from the 1401 Central Processing Unit, the 1403 Printer, the 1402 Card-Read Punch, or the 729 II Magnetic Tape Unit, the composition as a whole still feels as if it had come from fissures in the Earth. A pebble tumbles down the incline of a mountainous glacier and plunks into an icy pool of water – the ripples that emanate outwards in concentric rings splash imperceptibly on a distant shore, whilst the strings occupying the wake soar like luminescent birds.

Reminiscent of a magical cloudless evening staring at the Moon, Jóhann Jóhannsson’s starkly gorgeous IBM 1401, A User’s Manual – in my opinion – encapsulates perfectly the feel and the essence of standing on the outskirts of Reykjavík in the dead of winter, where the sky meets the land and civilization comes into contact with the soul of the Earth Herself.

But don't take my word for it! Check out this delightfully enigmatic short film for Jóhannsson's "IBM 1401, A User's Manual - Part 1".

Icelandic Soundscapes: Sigur Rós.

Sigur Rós

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon that December day in 2007, and the Sun had almost completely gone down. A huge and mysterious Moon was swollen in the sky, and all the Christmas lights and candles were lit, turning the main shopping and nightclub streets of Reykjavík – Bankstraeti and Laugavegur – into brightly lit holiday backdrops. Salvation Army volunteers were set up on every block giving out free hot chocolate for the donation of a few Kronar plunked into their little red pots. The broken glass from the previous evening's rúntur had, for the most part, been swept up and away. Little flecks of ice and snow fell from the edges of the rooftops, and the cobble stones of the footpaths tended to be a little loose in spots, resulting in the occasional stubbed toe or trip-up. Children ran about and played and laughed and shouted with little parental supervision. Shops, bars, and cafes all had little candles by their front entrances, the flames flickering in the sub-Arctic breeze. A giant glacier across Reykjavík Bay dominated the landscape as the Moon rose behind it, the clouds that partially obscured it were painted radiant shades of red, yellow and purple by the rapidly sinking Sun. A twin-engine propeller plane roared overhead on its way to the local domestic airport. People glanced furtively upward as it passed, only a few hundred feet above Austervöller Square. An elderly gentleman with crazy hair drives past slowly in the Christmas traffic, his window ajar, Zydeco music blaring from his car stereo. He grinned at me, and pumped his fist in the air. A little kid wearing a bright red jumper with white stripes down the arms and his mum smile as I danced a little jig for the old guy. I could hear his music from a block away as he took a right turn and disappeared from view. I stopped in a charming little cafe called Kaffitár; festooned with strings of hanging purple lights and sporting a dazzling selection of juices and pastries, it seemed like a great place to chill out for a few moments and collect myself. I ordered a single coffee with milk and one of the tastiest orange juices I've ever had, and retreated to the window seat and settled down into Reykjavík's English language music and culture magazine, The Grapevine, and then happened to glance at the thin gentleman sitting one seat away from me. I performed a double-take when I realised that the gentleman in question was the lead singer and guitarist of Sigur Rós, Jónsi Birgisson. I kept stealing sidelong glances, not quite sure if it was just a guy who looked a lot like him (that hairstyle and the build and the facial features – "elvin" comes to mind – seemed to be the norm). But yes, sure enough, he was blind in one eye. I didn't say anything. I was just thinking about how I'd often laugh with my friends and every now and then, with the dream of one day showing the band my Aegytus Byrjin tattoo on my back. Needless to say, I did not show Jónsi my tattoo. I finished my OJ and my second cup of coffee, folded up my newspaper, and stole away into the darkening afternoon. The shorter the days, the longer the shadows. But before I left, I captured his attention, and softly said, "Takk ..." He looked at me and smiled with a mellow shyness and went back to his reading.

sigur rós

"svefn-g-englar"

Aegytus Byrjin

Icelandic Soundscapes: Ghostigital.

GHOSTIGITAL

When I'd gone on holiday in Reykjavík, Iceland during Christmas of 2007, one of the aspects of Icelandic culture I was really looking forward to learning more about was the face of popular music up there in that beautiful northern island. After fantastically helpful trips to record stores such as the legendary 12 Tónar on Skolavor∂ustíg (the incredible employees actually sat me down on a comfy leather sofa and brought me a latté with a stack of CDs and a CD Walkman), I was hooked on what I heard. I ended up buying a nice stack of music that day (and a couple of other days after that), and frankly the music has always proved to be immensely interesting, challenging, fun, and inspirational in the time that has passed since that magical Arctic Christmas – meeting my wife while I was there was also pretty freaking great as well, come to think of it.

12 Tónar

I bring this up because I've had cause to go through my entire music library as I was packing my shit up in San Francisco for my move Down Under, and I had a chance to sift through my Iceland treasures (who have always lived in a separate shelf from my more standard selections), and I thought it would be fun over the next few days to highlight some of the more esoteric and atmospheric (and downright strange) music the kindly folk at 12 Tónar had shared with me on that cold and exciting afternoon over three years ago. I will never forget that shop; I think I still need to send them a nice letter one of these days, truth be told.

FIRST UP: Ghostigital. Their 2006 album In Cod We Trust leapt out at me for two reasons. One – I'd always wondered what Björk's right-hand man in Sugarcubes, Einar Örn Benediktsson, was up to. Second – The music was such an odd and ferociously in-your-face maelstrom of electronica, metal, hip-hop, jazz, cabaret, spoken word poetry, and ... well, frankly quite unclassifiable is how I'd describe it. Teaming up with one DJ/producer extraordinaire Curver, who performed with one of my favourite Icelandic confectionaries, Sometime, Örn has created a bewitchingly original and challenging piece of work with In Cod We Trust. Featuring guest appearances from such guests as Mark E. Smith, Mugison (who will be covered later), New York rapper Sensational, Steve Beresford, and Dalek, this album goes fucking everywhere, man. I can't begin to recommend it enough. From the everything-including-the-kitchen-sink jumbled chaos of "Sense of Reason," through to the alarmingly bizarre aggression of "Crackers," and to the distorted hip-hop paean to the Northern Lights entitled, strangely enough, "Northern Lights," this album, like I said, is quite a challenging listen. But it's rewarding! And there's a shitload of fun to be had once you get used to Örn's vocals, which I will lovingly compare to a psychotic Muppet. I always had him pegged as the more entertaining voice in Sugarcubes. Now: some music!

"Northern Lights"

"Crackers"

Saturday Fun And Memories With Sometime!

One thing I certainly appreciate about music is how firmly it entrenches itself into the spirals, loops, and overpasses of one's life. It's funny sometimes how, when you hear a song that reminds you of a certain moment in your life, it somehow transports you back to that time, for both good and ill. For instance, I can't help but start misting up whenever Phil Collins' "Against All Odds" makes an appearance around me - it not only reminds me of the massive 1989 earthquake and the perm I acquired from a friend who was training to be a hairdresser, but also my first major breakup!* All in the same day! (The perm, in case you're wondering, made me look a bit like Martin Gore.) But yeah, music is funny that way. But you didn't need me to tell you that. Everybody on the planet has a song hidden in their subconsciousness that reminds them of an important, life-altering moment in their existence. Most have many such songs. As Bryan Ferry sung on Roxy Music's "Oh Yeah,"

And so it came to be our song

And so on through

All summer long,

Day and night,

Drifting into love.

I'd like to take a moment today to share with you a song that means quite a lot to me. I remember having met my girlfriend for the third time in Paris (she'd come over from London on the Eurostar), and, having said goodbye at the Gare du Nord station, I'd come back to the flat and had put on the super-stellar Supercalfragalisticexpialidocious by the Icelandic electro band Sometime. This album is so freaking good on so many levels, it's ridiculous. That being said, when "Heart of Spades," probably my favorite track off of the album, came on, something clicked in my rather sad mind.

That internal clicking was me thinking, One day, I'm going to marry that woman. Fast forward two and a half years later, and that thought is quickly becoming reality. When Diva de la Rosa sang,

The future's undecided,

Just try to have faith.

You take your chance or you will

Never know,

I felt somehow that something good would come - I just needed to be patient. So I was, and here I am. So here, from their 2007 album Supercalafragalisticexpialidocious is the heart-warming and beautiful track "Heart of Spades." I've gotta say, the video is fantastic as well - I'm always a sucker for Alice in Wonderland references.

* By the way, it was only the breakup that made me tear up, whilst on that seat having peroxide (apple pectin, I believe) applied to my hair. The earthquake and the new hairstyle were actually quite fun, in a bizarre and strange kind of way. That hairdressing friend, by the way, goes by the name Isaac and works at a fabulous hair salon in Campbell, California called Faux. If you're in the area and wish to have your hair styled, why not give them a call and make an appointment? The number is (408)378-FAUX. Go for it!

Fun With Organs: Apparat Organ Quartet.

In case anybody out there read my May 16th gig review of Jóhann Jóhannsson's show at the Great American Music Hall and came away from it thinking, "Man, that avant-garde shit sounds boring," then do I have something to share with you today.

Yessir, it's true - Jóhann Jóhannsson has a fun, lighter side to his musical persona. It's a nifty project he founded in 1999 called Apparat Organ Quartet, and it's a delightful thing, indeed. You may notice in the album cover above that there are actually five members in the band (JJ is represented by the top-right Lego-man with the light-brown fuzz-cut), making them essentially a quintet - but one is a drummer, natch, and he supplies the beats!

So what we have here is four musical virtuosos having a field day noodling with various organs, vocoders, and voice manipulators whilst a steady rock and roll drumbeat backs the sounds up with aplomb and vigor. And it's all good. As I've said before, I've become a big fan of the Icelandic music scene, for I feel it aptly reflects the island's personality - a fair amount of quirkiness, unpredictability, and a sense of magic that can only come from living on one of the most fascinating and beautiful chunks of land on the planet.

And it was in this construct that Apparat Organ Quartet was originally founded. Kitchen Motors, a Reykjavík-based think tank, music label, and art collective (of which JJ is one of the founders) set about in the late 1990's to curate a series of collaborative efforts utilizing musicians and artists from disparate backgrounds in order to create new and exciting variations of the Icelandic artistic spectrum. Other members of the consortium include musicians from bands such as Sigur Rós and Múm.

Apparat Organ Quartet grew from this musical soup, made a fantastic record, toured Europe extensively, and got wildly popular. 'Twould be nice if they came to the United States on tour sometime, but who knows. For now, at least, we have their eponymous debut, Apparat Organ Quartet, and a collection of songs that are both clever and rocking. Who knew an organ in the right hands could sound so heavy metal? The evidence:

Here is a song entitled "Konami". Does it not remind you somewhat of Kraftwerk?

And here is my favorite track from the album, "Stereo Rock & Roll". Do yourself a favor and turn it up loud!

Gig Review: Jóhann Jóhannsson.

Jóhann Jóhannsson

14 MAY 2010

Great American Music Hall

San Francisco, California

Reykjavík, Iceland-based composer and musician Jóhann Jóhannsson touched down on San Francisco's Great American Music Hall Friday evening with a mission: To perform select pieces from his newest project, And In The Endless Pause There Came The Sound Of Bees and, in the process, showcase a pristine minimalist approach to creating music that sounds as if it was made by the Earth itself, from some underground locale deep beneath the vast glaciers of Vatnajökull. Spellbinding!

As I write this, wearing my favourite red robe and sipping a cup of English Breakfast tea, I am listening to what is, for me, the ultimate Jóhann Jóhannsson experience: 2006's IBM 1401, A User's Manual. This stands as a most curious work, seeing as it is, essentially, a love letter to the first affordable, mass-produced digital business computer available in Iceland - imported for the first time in 1964. It's heyday lasted for seven years, until it was put out to pasture in 1971, the year of my birth.

I'll take this moment to let Mr Jóhannsson explain this project in his own words. From the liner notes of IBM 1401:

"The chief maintenance officer for this machine was Jóhann Gunnarsson, my father. [...]he learned of an obscure method of making music with this computer - a purpose for which this business machine was not at all designed. The method was simple. The computer's memory emitted strong electromagnetic waves and by programming the memory in a certain way and placing a radio receiver next to it, melodies could be coaxed out - captured by the receiver as a delicate, melancholy sine-wave tone."

I don't know what's cooler - the fact that his father was the chief maintenance officer for the "Model T" of computers, or that he figured out how to make music with it. Needless to say, Iceland (always a quirky and eccentric place) mourned the machine's passing in 1971, when it was discontinued. They held a funeral for it, playing the notes from it for one last time, and capturing the ghostly sounds on tape, alongside the noises it made during operation.

And what a cool thing for Jóhannsson to do - take these sounds from nearly four decades ago and create a five-part symphony with a string quartet! Every so often during the piece, a disembodied British voice intones over the ominous and earthy music, instructing the listener on the basics of computer operation, and on the art of simple maintenance. I'm getting goosebumps right about now!

I'd first heard of Jóhann Jóhannsson when I was in Reykjavík for Christmas of 2007. I'd entered the record store 12 Tónar early one afternoon and asked the friendly clerk if he could turn me on to any Icelandic electronica that I (most assuredly) hadn't heard before. He plunked me down on a black leather couch, poured me a cup of coffee, gave me a CD Walkman along with a nifty little pile of CDs, and told me to listen to my heart's content. And so I did. And ...

Enough digression, already! So, how was the show?

I'm glad you asked.

There was a slow-building intensity, gaining momentum in the Great American Music Hall's intimate womb as Jóhannsson and his colleagues took the stage bathed in dark blue light. There was Jóhannsson, perched behind a couple of Apple MacBooks and an electric piano; a string quartet assembled from three violins and a cello; and a bespectacled man off to the right, who performed the evening's percussion on an array of buttons, knobs, laptops, and keyboards.

It's hard to describe the music - but I'll try. Imagine a flurry of percussion washing over you: the gravelly crackle of pebbles tumbling down a field of ice and rock - increasing in volume and intensity until it is a veritable avalanche of boulders coming loose from their summit and raining down on the entire audience, accompanied by the soaring crescendos and notes of the highly skilled and emotive string quartet. Jóhannsson's bald pate shines in the violet and indigo lights as he massages his computers and elicits forth a dynamic spectrum of sound that seems almost as if it were recorded underwater.

A pebble falls down a mountainous glacier and falls into a pool of water - the ripples emanate outwards in concentric rings, splashing imperceptibly on a distant shore, whilst the strings occupying the wake left in mythical angels' wings streak overhead like the airstream from a ridiculously fast aircraft.

In the liner notes for IBM 1401, A User's Manual, Jóhannsson stated the encapsulation of what he was looking for: "man-machine interaction; obsolete, discarded technology; nostalgia for old computers; ... the relationships between human and artificial intelligence ..."

That was back in 2006. There I was, seated at a small table with a faux-marble finish, and drinking champagne out of a can (Sofia, by Francis Ford Coppola), watching this musical magician conjure these elemental dreams with his cohorts on an intimate stage on the fringe of the Tenderloin in downtown San Francisco; what I heard and experienced was a step beyond what he'd stated only four years ago. I think he's delved into a close and beautiful examination of the relationships between human and nature itself.

setlist.

tu non me perderai

englabörn

flight from the city

rocket builder

miracle.mystery.authority

corpus camera

sálfrae∂ingur

drömme i københavn

ibm 1401 part one: processing unit

englabörn - variations

melodia (guidelines for a space propulsion device)

odi et amo

---------

fordlandia

Let me close on this: I'm sure it's hard to get a gist of what I'm talking about in regards to the music. Don't worry! I'd like to share a sample of his music with you -- and who knows? If you'd like, you can look up some of his art; frankly, I think it makes fantastic afternoon music. Check it out, by all means. In the meantime, here is "IBM 1401: Processing Unit" off of ... well, I think you know that by now. Enjoy!

Review: Supercalafragalisticexpialidocious.

You know the old saying, "The candle that burns twice as bright only burns half as long," don't you? In the classic film Blade Runner, the phrase is uttered to Roy Batty by his creator, Dr Eldon Tyrell, in answer to a query regarding a short life-span. "And you have burned very, very brightly," he says, before having his head crushed and eyes gouged out.

And so, in the drawer of extraordinarily bright candles, pop-music-wise, might I draw your attention to the cream of the crop in Iceland (where candles burn everywhere, by the way), a short-lived Reykjavik supergroup known as Sometime.

Formed in (I believe) early 2007 by veterans of the Reykjavik music scene, they released but one album and a handful of singles, played just a slew of local shows, and then, inexplicably, packed up their bags and went quietly into that good night. However, they quickly became legendary, and their music lives on even though the four of them went their separate ways. It's simple to see how they gained such notoreity during their brief life-span. First, they had Danni, a hyper-technical and disciplined drummer from the indie rock band Maus; DJ Dice, from Iceland's largest rap group Quarashi; a veritable super-producer, Curver, who also performed with Einor Orn (you may remember him as Bjork's sidekick in the Sugarcubes) in Ghostdigital (who I will be highlighting in a future entry); and the beautiful and talented jazz singer Diva de la Rosa, who's voice can alternate between sharp and soft with the deftness of an expertly wielded strop razor.

I am here today to tell you about their sole album, the challengingly named Supercalafragalisticexpialidocious (henceforth referred to as SCFXPD).

To put things into a rather simplistic spin, the first word that pops into my head when I think of SCFXPD is "fun." The opening track, "Getting Ready," does just that - it gets you ready for the hour-long aural ride you're about to take. Rolling along a bit like a freight train, its deceptively monotonous rhythm pulls you with it, introducing multi-layered tracks as it chugs along, with sampled string plucking, an energetic snare, otherworldly sound effects, some brilliant scratch-work by DJ Dice, and, floating over everything is de la Rosa's unearthly vocals - and she's scatting! Like I said, "fun."

And then we have as a follow-up the love song "Heart of Spades." "Do you want to follow me around?" asks de la Rosa. Yes, at this point we certainly do, and we follow along on this glorious paean to the undecided future of a love affair that has, decidedly, turned into something a bit deeper, a bit more serious. "You take your chance or you'll never know," she purrs. It's lovely, without being too mawkish, and the electronic soundscape swirls around you like a meteor shower.

Things turn a little mean and spooky with the dark and jangled "Catch Me If You Can." Documenting the mental goings-on of a lady who's fed up with an abusive relationship, it's certainly the most hard-edged track on SCFXPD, and you can hear it in de la Rosa's voice as she confronts the "big and tough" man: "You can beat me up, huh? Catch me if you can." At the end of the track, she intones, "Don't you worry about me, don't you worry about me. Look at yourself."

Other stand-out songs include the slow-building (and rightful heir to Malcolm McClaren's "Buffalo Gals"'s scratching glory) "Take A Ride," "Faeri Fjöllin," the only song on the album sung in Icelandic and meaning, I think, Fallen Fairy (which would make sense - the Icelandic people are very much in-tune with the Hidden Folk), and the French track "Samedi," in which the multi-lingual de la Rosa has, apparently, woken up and knows not where:

"Je me réveille ce matin

Mais je ne sais pas ou

Endormie dans un sofa

Hier."

There is also an excellent and quite dreamy cover of The Penguins' 1954 doo-wop track "Earth Angel." It really must be heard to be believed. If I ever end up getting married, I'd definitely consider playing this song for the first dance!

So there you have it. Supercalafragalisticexpialidocious is fun, infectious, dazzling, and as full of glittery moments as Times Square on New Year's Eve. True, Sometime didn't last too long; in fact, I'd go so far as to say they were around for a criminally short time. But they left us this, and I hereby say that it's an astounding feat of shimmery electronica. By all means, check it out.

UPDATE (24 January 2010): I have just received word from Danni himself that not only have Sometime NOT broken up, but they are currently in the studio RIGHT NOW, busy recording their second album. Don't know about you guys, but I'm SERIOUSLY looking forward to hearing it! I now return you to the blog in progress...

And here, for your enjoyment, is Sometime performing "Catch Me If You Can." Peace out.

Bláa Lónið.

From my Christmas 2007 visit to Reykjavik, Iceland.

The shuttle picked me up from Hotel Borg at 15.30, and loaded me into a chartered bus with a few other people at the Reykjavik Excursions station near the massive Perlan. It's a 45 minute drive to the Bláa Lónið -- better known simply as "The Blue Lagoon." (Not the dreadful 1980 film starring Brooke Shields and Christopher Atkins, mind you.)

It was a fascinating trip. I watched the barren snow-flocked landscape hurtle by, all black volcanic rock covered with ice and snow. Large volcanoes lurked on the horizen, shaped like Stepford tits, plumes of steam pouring like smoke from unseen fissures in the crust of the Earth. Timeless. One can easily imagine NASA practising the moon landing in this terrain (which they did). Chances are good that Aldrin and Armstrong were vaguely disappointed by the Moon after taking in this landscape. Ha ha, I kid - but not too much. It's fascinating to watch as it drifts past, and it gets your mind and imagination racing, visualizing the explosive power of exploding rock and magma as it violently pushes upward and out, creating this alien world of volcanoes, geysirs, fissures, and steam. The Sun said its bless and winked out, leaving behind a pastiche of purple clouds. It was night, and the bus turned off the major highway 1 onto a weavey winter road. Ice crackled underneath the tires. The engine rumbled like an old man and my seat vibrated ever so slightly. I thought Bjork would be nice, and I plugged her into my ears. "It's so quiet ... shh, shh ..."

We arrived. I walked through the FREEZING COLD (it was 23 degrees with a blustery wind - felt like 5) past hulking lava boulders to the entrance. You can rent a towel and a bathing suit, and you get a nifty bracelet with a computer chip embedded in to lock and unlock your locker (and also purchase beverages at the little cafe next to the lagoon). Change, shower, and enter the indoor introduction to the water. And then ...

... Speechless. I just ... it's so ... I ... I have never in my life experienced anything like it. Ever. There were no words or thoughts with valid meaning in my brain except a single, sustained whisper that echoed back and forth for minutes. Wowwowwowwowwowwowwow My mind returned to a somewhat normal level of reasoning, and I went out into the hot water to explore the place.

It's rather large, and on average is about three to four feet deep. The water, true to its name, is a bright milky blue in color, from the thick soup of minerals and algae that leach in from the porous lava. 70% ocean water and 30% fresh water from glacial ice, it has a distinct salty tinge should any of it get into your mouth. On average, the temperature hovers between 100 and 110 degrees, though every now and then a mildly cold or a wince-inducing boiling current will brush up against your body. Your skin feels slick and healthy as it absorbs the ingredients, and steam filters from the surface, making everything around you transform into dark silhouettes from time to time. I found that I liked to walk on my hands, the mud and black gritty lava sand squooshing between my fingers as I pulled myself through the water. There was not a single cloud in the sky, and the moon looked as if somebody had rubbed it vigourously with sandpaper. Bordered on all sides by lime-encrusted black rock that somehow still managed to maintain a solid dusting of their Christmas snow. Passed the mud pots and pulled out a semi-frozen lump of silica mud and clay with little flecks of rock inside and smeared it on my face like a warrior of old. It was freezing, but my skin was thanking me as it tingled. Out past those pots was the most interesting feature of the Lagoon - the steam vent!

Rising out of the centre at a height of about three feet, it burbled, spat and sputtered boiling-hot water from its peak, each little drop leaving a wake of steam behind it as it hit the rock and became one with the lagoon. Being in its close proximity was quite a bit hotter than the rest. Sometimes it was a little too hot, but I was willing to suffer momentarily. It made an interesting sound - I likened it to little brittle marbles of sugar being flayed alive by a dying vacuum cleaner. I relaxed my body in the water, surrounded by nature and the weird and somewhat ominous lights of the industrial power plant that provides Reykjavik with all its power (steam, it's the way to go!). People from all over the world drifted about here and there, and a bright spotlight turned back and forth over the scene, turning everybody into black silhouettes. The monumental amount of steam from the vent (I'm talking monumental in every sense of the word) changed directions every now and then and would sometimes pass over you, coming like a freight train. Everything would become white, and that, I imagine, is what being inside of a cloud is like. I floated on my back and pushed off into the centre of the waters. I stared up at the sky. And - just like that - pfoosh, pfoosh, two little shooting stars rocketed through the sky. Hmm. Maybe I was on the Moon.

Made it home, hugging myself slightly on the bus. Come to think of it, do you know how I feel right now? You know that sort of dreamy, sigh-y, lackadaisical feeling you get after earth-shatteringly awesome sex, and you're just laying about, maybe smoking a cigarette or drinking a coupe de champagne? Just an overwhelming sense of well-being? That's how I feel. Maybe I just had sex with Iceland! Maybe ...