Reykjavík Grapevine - 25.07.2003, Blaðsíða 5

F R O M T H E E D I T O R S
- the reykjavík grapevine -4 july 25th - august 7th, 2003 - the reykjavík grapevine - 5july 25th - august 7th, 2003
Name: Stefan Ties (on the right)
How do you like Iceland? It is one of
my favourite countries, I’ve seen many
and it’s one of the best.
Where are you from? I’m from Italy,
near the Swiss border, a place called
Süd Tyrol.
What in the name of Thor are you
doing here? I really like to take pictures
(shows off his rather impressive camera),
and to discover new countries.
Have you been here long? No! Just
a week. I managed to travel more than
1000 km around Iceland so far, mostly
along Highway no 1. Still, I am leaving
tomorrow.
Have you tried any Icelandic
delicacies? Well, I didn’t eat much out
since it is so expensive, and when I did
I ate mostly junk food, hamburgers and
stuff, the junk food isn’t exactly cheap,
actually it costs as much as a decent
meal at a restaurant back home, but it is
cheaper than eating real food in Iceland.
Whaling: right or wrong? Do not shoot
them, instead watch them. I think whale
watching makes much more sense than
whaling, I myself went to watch whales
and very much enjoyed it.
Should North America be returned
to its rightful owners, the Icelanders?
Yes of course, the president of Iceland is
without doubt 10 times better than the
current president of the US; therefore
surely Iceland should take over and
make the rest of the world happier.
Do you know who David Oddsson is?
Unfortunately, no I don’t. Well I know who
Vigdis Finnbogadóttir is, the ex-president
of Iceland and the first.
Do you know who Bubbi Morthens
is? WHO?
Do you know who Keiko is? Yes! The
whale from Hollywood!
TEARS OF
THE CLOWN
I was having dinner at Casa Grande
when a portly Paraguayan came up
and started serenading me with his
guitar. Duly serenaded, he invited me
for dinner. He said his name was Don
Felix, he claimed to be a member of the
band Dos Paragayos, and said he had
played Antonio Banderas’ guitar parts in
Desperado. What, exactly, he was doing
playing in a medium budget restaurant in
Reykjavík I did not know, but I had to find
out, and so I accepted. At the very least,
I hoped, the man was a decent cook.
We set the time for Sunday.
Meanwhile, I had a country ball to go to.
The country ball is almost as much of a
tradition as is the drunken camping trip,
the idea being that drinking in different
surroundings will be a vastly different
experience from being drunk in the usual
ones.
The band playing was Stuðmenn,
by far the best goodtime band in the
country, and has been for about 30
years. Whereas most pretenders since
have contented themselves with singing
soppy love songs or simple exhortations
to party, the Stuðmenn songs, although
often on the same themes, have always
seemed a little more profound. In
between the good time anthems there
is always the sense of looming tragedy,
the tears of the clown that makes
his laughter all the more necessary.
Perhaps their tragicomic masterpiece
is the song Slá í gegn, which has the
fist in the air chorus about making it,
until it concludes that for some reason
it has always been out of reach, a
sentiment every aspiring artist (and
who in this country isn’t?) knows all too
well. Another song that straddles the
often narrow divide between joy and
grief is Blindfullur (Dead Drunk), which
again has a chorus singalong tailormade
for country balls, before warning about
the inevitable end of such revelry with
the repeated line “I’m going to give up
drinking tomorrow.”
Grapevine had one of its rare moments of
euphoria on the dancefloor, an area that
under any other circumstances is best left
to those more agilely built. Afterwards,
we joined the backstage party. Sadly,
giggling groupies and mountains of
cocaine are absent, and even the
fridge isn’t well stocked. Instead, I
find myself having a conversation with
singer Egill Ólafsson. He starts talking
about the constant need of Icelanders
to document the past, and wonders why
the Sagas were written in Iceland rather
than, say, Norway or Denmark, as many
have done before him. His solution,
however, is a novel one. He draws a
parallel with Kenya,
where he once worked
as an actor for a French
company (for a while
Egill was the Gerard
Depardieu of Iceland,
it seemingly written
into the constitution
that not a film could
be made here without
him having some sort
of role). He said the
area he was residing
in was brimming over
with Stasi refugees,
who had come over
in droves with the
money they stole in office when the wall
came down. They seemed to have an
almost pathological need to document
everything, and most of them had
built some sort of museum about East
Germans in Africa. He likens this to
Icelanders, themselves refugees who
could never return, and hence busied
themselves writing the sagas.
Grapevine is not quite sure what to make
of the idea that it is descended from
the 9th century equivalent of corrupt
East German officials, so it is perhaps
for the best that the conversation now
turns to music. Grapevine’s memory
is getting a bit hazy by this time, but
it clearly remembers Egill saying that
Stuðmenn were definitely (and defiantly?)
low-culture, despite Grapevine’s
protestations. If such is the case, then
they are without a doubt the kings of low-
culture. Long may they reign.
Back in town, hangover receeding,
I went to look up the Don. I found
the prescribed address, which
happened to be a community house
for the handicapped in Fossvogur. He
answered me dressed in a jogging suit,
and ushered me into the kitchen. “You
look, I teach, I very good teacher,”
he told me. Not only that, he is also
one of the most impressively hung
men Grapevine has ever
been in the presence of,
and his jogging suit made
little attempt to conceal
this. Images of aluminium
wrapped cucumbers
started springing to mind,
but Grapevine, always
wanting to take people in
good faith, did not pursue
this line of thought.
“A Felix production,” he announced
proudly as he presented me with
something that resembled a tiny, hard
pizza, which in fact tastes better than
it sounds. “I very rich,” he proclaimed
as I munched on it. He told me he
had a house in Hveragerði and on the
Canaries, and that Aristotle Onassis
had once presented him with a guitar.
Sadly, the guitar no longer exists. I
wondered why an international man of
mystery such as him had chosen to live
in a state-owned condo in Reykjavík. He
answered that when he had been in India
in 1972, playing at a Hotel, he had met
Mother Teresa and seen the error of his
ways, realised that money does not bring
happiness and swore off the pursuit of
earthly riches. This, apparently, had led
him on the path to Fossvogur.
His career started at age 11. Growing
up on a farm on the border between
Argentina and Paraguay, he was
discovered by minions of Evita Peron
who personally presented him with an
award. He then shows me a picture
of the Spanish royal family, presented
to him for his humanitarian work,
which is something he has continued to
pursue here, playing for those in need
without asking for compensation. In
hushed tones he tells me “my wife is
very sick,” with arthritis, it transpires,
for which she is having an operation in
the autumn. We have a chicken dinner
and then the Don sits down to play for
his guests. He shifts in his chair, and
his magnificent bulge comes into view.
Felix the musician plays an instrumental
he composed to honour Iceland, before
Felix the political commentator tells
me that the politicians here aren’t
doing anything for the country. I agree
wholeheartedly before Felix the social
critic points out that the problem with
Iceland is that it’s run by about 25
families. “Glöggt er gestsaugað,” goes
the saying, which might translate as
“sharp is the eye of Felix.” He says that
on the Canary Islands, they managed to
increase tourists from 2 to 12 million.
Felix the tourism entrepreneur says that
it is important that the police smile at
visitors. I doubt the advantage of living
in the Gran Canaries of the North, where
tourists are escorted to bars by smiling
policemen, but given the choice between
this and those who want to turn Iceland
into the Sheffield of the even farther
north through the mass industrialisation
of the highlands, I might feasibly opt for
the former. I counter that Björk has done
a lot to put Iceland on the map. At this
suggestion, the mighty Felix gets out of
his chair, his bulge flowing, in all its glory,
downwards into the trouser leg. “Björk
not important,” he says. “Felix much
more important. Felix always speak well
of Iceland.” Grapevine, even if it were so
inclined, would not dare object. I promise
Felix that together we will make Iceland
great. We shake hands and Grapevine
goes home to sleep off its hangover,
leaving Felix, he of the big heart and
even bigger trouser bulge behind.
TOURIST OF THE DAY
The upper part of Don Felix. Lower part not pictured.
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