She recites tales of truculent volcanoes and viking exploits in a tone that is captivatingly banal-half nerdy school-trip guide, half Arctic Zeus in front of the bedroom mirror, rehearsing a TED Talk on thunder.Īs the Land Rover growls through the valleys, each bend and bump scatters black dirt around the foot mats, mingling with assorted hair bands, candy wrappers, and soccer trading cards left behind by a friend’s son. The paragon of experimental pop is proving a predictably magical tour guide, sprinkling the black brooks and lava plains with her Old Norse stardust. Behind black shades, her swept-pastel eyeliner conjures an air of the carnivalesque. In patchwork tights and a layered red dress full of gaping oval cutouts, she mechanically licks her lips and scrunches her features, as if behind her face were a factory of pipes and pistons to generate her industrial brainpower. Well, it’s a very Icelandic thing : It was our mountain that caused the French Revolution.”ījörk’s voice is a little husky, but she is as effervescent as ever. “That volcano over there,” she says, pointing through a mountain pass, “one of its most famous eruptions caused the crops in France to get destroyed, and people say that’s why the French Revolution happened. Back in lane, she slides off her coat and casually resumes her ode to her island nation. “Cheeky cheeky !” she trills, nearly demolishing a roadside post. Wrinkling her nose, Björk eyes a tight opening ahead and stamps the throttle to perform a perilous passing maneuver. The unexpected obstacle presents a chance for a spot of mischief. Rumbling down a two-lane highway in her hefty white Land Rover, Björk is chatting away in meandering tribute to Iceland’s volcanic landscape when a digger truck lumbers into view.
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