Reykjavík Grapevine - 28.08.2015, Blaðsíða 24

“If things are that
much better here
than everywhere
else,” Júlía tells me,
“I mean how fucked
up is everywhere
else?”
Finally Júlía, the bassist, steps up. “We got
to Börn,” she says somewhat conspiratori-
ally, “after a violent feud with a local black
metal band.” “Norn,” drummer Fannar im-
mediately clarifies, so there’s no mistake,
“They stole our name.” Anna Guðný, the
guitarist, rolls her eyes at the others. Re-
served and undramatic, she calmly adds,
“No, we both started around the same
time.” “No!” Júlía, who is clearly the most
audacious, disagrees. “We were first!”
This starts a little bit of an argument as ev-
eryone tries to figure out the semantics of
the timeline. Finally, singer Alexandra sets
the story straight, relaying it all empirically.
“We put out stuff first, but they were play-
ing more shows, so they got better known
as Norn.” “I like the new name better
though,” Fannar adds with a shrug.
Norn means “witch,” by the way.
Little moments like these are the nörm in
Börn. Hanging out with them, I feel like
I’m observing a group of siblings; that’s
how tight their relationships are. Holding
nothing back, the four have an obvious
love for each other that’s infectious. They
finish each other’s sentences and practise
standing in a circle, looking directly at
each other—feeding off each other’s raw
energy. They are just the warmest peo-
ple—perhaps not what you’d expect from
a group of dirty death-punkers.
Birthing Börn
“We wanted to start a metal band,” Fannar
relays, “and we wanted to make it a po-
litical band.” Alexandra, Fannar, and Júlía
had previously played together in a group
called Tentacles of Doom. For Börn, they
enlisted their friend Anna Guðný, who they
knew to play a little guitar. What is Börn’s
ideology? “Personal politics. Feminism
and ableism,” Alexandra says seriously.
“Just our lives, you know.”
“We wanted,” Fannar continues, “to
talk about body politics—body policing—
because that is something we all have in
common.” All members describe body
policing as the intersection of feminism
and ableism—other people claiming own-
ership over their bodies. “We’ve all had ex-
periences with people touching us when
we don’t want to be touched.” Júlía ex-
plains, “or people com-
menting on our bodies
that shouldn’t be com-
menting on our appear-
ances.”
Alexandra looks at
me seriously. “It’s so
imprinted in our society,
the imperative to look a
certain way.” It’s obvi-
ous that none of Börn’s
members acquiesce to
that. Fannar is not only
physically disabled, but
he’s also covered in tat-
toos and dresses like a
hardened punk. Alexan-
dra has a shaved head,
and Júlía sports some
luridly blue hair. One song of theirs is
called (in translation) “You Owe Me Your
Sexiness.” It’s loud with strong guitars, a
heavy bassline, and Alexandra’s brazen
sing-song screams overwhelming it all.
The song is about being a woman in public
spaces, about how, Júlía explains, “men, or
other people, feel that you owe them, that
they’re entitled to your appearance to be
good.” She boils it down for me, “You owe
me to look sexy for my eyes.”
Setting the record straight
“No!” They all start shaking their heads
and laughing when I ask about Iceland
being a so-called feminist paradise, as it’s
often referred to in the media, but there’s
an underlying seriousness and cynicism to
their smiles. “If things are that much bet-
ter here than everywhere else,” Júlía tells
me, “I mean how fucked up is everywhere
else?”
The group starts discussing Iceland’s
notorious drinking culture, and how peo-
ple forego personal responsibility when
drunk. They mention the annual West-
mann Islands festival (see page 18). “It’s
just kind of scary that this festival is partly
known for sexual assault,” Fannar states.
They mention Eistna-
flug—the metal festival
in the east—where there
were only six women
playing the main stage.
Albeism is another
story. “No one really talks
about it,” Fannar tells me,
before revealing some-
thing shocking: there are
no venues in Reykjavík
that are fully wheelchair
accessible. “So people
ask, ‘I wonder why there
are no people in wheel-
chairs who come to our
shows?’” Júlía says,
“You’re not going to feel
welcome if you can’t get
in through the door.”
Pure punk
But it’s Börn’s music and style on stage—
rather than their Icelandic lyrics, which I
cannot understand—that first hooked me
onto the band at Eistnaflug. Their gritty,
raw, and emotive punk is weirdly relatable.
Their music is angry, despairing, yet con-
fident. It’s cathartic. Now, understanding
their ideology, I get it. The punk is thera-
peutic. For them, too.
So, what’s next for Börn? They tell
me they’re working on an album, which
should be out by the beginning of the year,
and are planning a subsequent European
tour. They all seem relaxed and comfort-
able with the direction the band is taking.
Börn will be good for you. It’s time to
jump on the Börn-wagon.
www.borndeyja.bandcamp.com
Börn. It means “children.” This wasn’t the original name of the Reykjavík-based death-punk
outfit, I’m told. So I ask where it came from. All four members laugh and look at each other
expectantly, as if silently working out who is going to spill some juicy beans.
Photo
Martin Sorrondeguy
24 The Reykjavík GrapevineIssue 13 — 2015MUSIC
BÖRN REBELS
These punks won’t stay silent and
they are here to stay.
Words
Hannah Jane Cohen
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