Eskimo
Food & TARDCORE
or
The
Eighth Entry:
by
Mykel Board
My
first morning on Disko Island, Greenland: I came in last night and
was treated to incredible cookmanship. My current host, Georg-- like
Inuaraq, my host in Aassiaat-- is as good as any high-class chef in
any hoity toidy bar in New York. My cod & rice dinner was
prepared so expertly, that I felt like leaving a tip! (I didn't.)
Maybe its native. Maybe it comes from the Danish FOOD CHANNEL, on TV
everywhere here. But lemme tell ya... New York needs an Eskimo
restaurant! Thank you Georg! You're hired!
Right
now, I sit in a large livngroom on a plush brown leather couch. My
computer rests on a hard wooden table... Danish design... To my right
is a large screen Philips TV. It rests on a wooden cabinet with one
open shelf and a drawer. On the open shelf are video game
controllers, old cartridges and other-- unidentifiable-- electronics.
To
my left is a bookcase.. On the lower shelves are mostly cookbooks..
Kom og Spis (Come and Eat), Supper & Grydersetter
(Soup and something I don't know in English) and a few others.
There's also a delux version of the Guinness Book of Records-- in
Danish-- and a coffee table book of ZEN. On the upper shelves are a
few family photos, what looks like a framed bedtime prayer (in
Greenlandic), and some Tupilaks...
a unique-- and my favorite-- sculpture style that belongs only to the
Inuit people. 
On
the walls are paintings and prints. Possibly done by my host, Georg.
Lots of orange... small brush strokes... very Van Gough-ish. In the
corners are plants... two hanging, two potted. The floor is natural
wood smooth as a baby's ass. Two lights hang over the coffee table.
They look cheaply installed, each on a single cord with the
connecting cord to the ceiling wrapped ugily in the center. But the
lamps themselves are frosted glass, elegant, with silver fittings.
They probably cost as much as my plane ticket to Greenland.
The
whole house has an air of San Francisco suburbs about it... tasteful
in an expensive way. Except the bathroom. And not the whole thing,
just THE TOILET! ...
It's
a camping toilet... a plastic-lined bucket in a gray casing... with a
lid. When the plastic bag fills, you put a baggie tie around the top,
take it out of the bucket.... take the offal somewhere, dump it and
put in a new plastic bag.
Yes,
it's disgusting:
To
be sure, my musician pal Georg only lives here part time. It's a
September rental. Though he's originally from here in Qeqertarsuaq,
this town of 800 people on Disko Island, he and his girlfriend have
since moved to northern Iceland. His girlfriend, who's also the
singer in his band, is still in there.
I
can't figure out who exactly lives in this house. I think it's Georg,
his girlfriend's sister, his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend (a
friendly giant of a guy), a very attractive Eskimo girl who sleeps in
Georg's bed. “She's just a friend... not a girlfriend.” And me.
Various
people walk in and out of the place at various times of the day. Most
asking for Georg. It's something I've seen in other places in
Greenland. People know their neighbors, leave the doors open,
neighbors walk in and out like customers at a Korean deli... AND
Greenlanders have guns! They sell 'em at the equivalent of 7-11. Wow.
I
make coffee... enough for myself and the other three people who I
think are living here.
Drinking
the coffee I'm again reminded of my intestines. Besides the coldsore,
I've been farting and shitting up a storm. I can't walk a block
without letting out a blaster. It's not from the food, that I can
tell you. It's been this way ever since I started taking my stomach
medication again. I quit tomorrow. I can't stand 2 minutes without
having to evacuate bowel or bladder or both. Hold on while I...
WOW!
A monster... in this unflushable camp-style toilet. A thick brown
potato soup of a turd pile-- in a black plastic bag... like being
pregnant and giving birth to a huge loaf of liquifying pumpernickel.
I pop an immodium. But I know I'm not done yet.
In
ten minutes, I'm back on the plastic bag... neither as productive nor
satisfying as the last time... but necessary nonetheless. I take
another Imodium.
Still,
no one around... I guess they all left for work. It's about 10AM, I
want to see the town. I write a note to Georg:
I
have no key, so please don't lock the door. I also don't have your
phone number to test. My number is +1[sorry, private for you
readers], Text me so I'll have your number. Thanks, Mykel
I
bundle myself up and go outside... just a few steps... then it hits
again. I force myself to go on. I find the “tourist center” Georg
told me about. It's closed. A restaurant next door... closed too.
Some sort of office with a sign like LYGGITEEMIT on the outside. It's
open. It looks like a restaurant, with one guy in there working on a
computer. A chubby native woman sits behind a terminal.
Can
I get breakfast? I ask.
“Until
ten o'clock,” comes the answer.
“What
time is it now?” I ask.
The
woman stares through me. I pull my phone out and check the time:
10:26. The pain in my bladder increases. I leave. I pass a several
named buildings that start with the letter P. I remember that the
town's supermarket (there is one) starts with P... I try the door.
One opens.
It's
a kind of convenience store with some supplies for the cold and some
Dorito-like snacks. I speak to the woman behind the counter in bad
Danish. I translate here for those few readers who don't speak bad
Danish.
“Is
there a restaurant near here?” I ask.
“There's
one down the street,” she replies.
“Is
it open now?” I ask.
She
stops, seeks guidance from God and answers, “No, it isn't.”
“Where
can I get something to eat?” I ask. “Maybe a shop that sells
wienerbrod.”
She
nods and gives me detailed instructions in Danish. I understand about
a third of what she's saying. I think she's directing me to the
supermarket. Meanwhile, the pressure in my bladder builds. I thank
her and leave. On the way out I see another door. A toilet? I try the
handle. It's locked.
FLASH
AHEAD TO THE FERRY FROM DISKO ISLAND BACK TO ASSIAAT: No whales, but
several beautiful icebergs. I was in Qeqertarsuaq a day and a half.
No aurora. No dogsled. A couple spectacular meals... a lot of shit.
Here's
an iceberg while you're waiting. It's hard to get a sense of scale,
though. Figure it's as tall as a 20 story building.... and they say
it's only a third above water.
To
be sure, my musician pal Georg only lives here part time. It's a
September rental. Though he's originally from here in Qeqertarsuaq,
this town of 800 people on Disko Island, he and his girlfriend have
since moved to northern Iceland. His girlfriend, who's also the
singer in his band, is still in there.
I
can't figure out who exactly lives in this house. I think it's Georg,
his girlfriend's sister, his girlfriend's sister's boyfriend (a
friendly giant of a guy), a very attractive Eskimo girl who sleeps in
Georg's bed. “She's just a friend... not a girlfriend.” And me.
Various
people walk in and out of the place at various times of the day. Most
asking for Georg. It's something I've seen in other places in
Greenland. People know their neighbors, leave the doors open,
neighbors walk in and out like customers at a Korean deli... AND
Greenlanders have guns! They sell 'em at the equivalent of 7-11. Wow.
I
make coffee... enough for myself and the other three people who I
think are living here.
Drinking
the coffee I'm again reminded of my intestines. Besides the coldsore,
I've been farting and shitting up a storm. I can't walk a block
without letting out a blaster. It's not from the food, that I can
tell you. It's been this way ever since I started taking my stomach
medication again. I quit tomorrow. I can't stand 2 minutes without
having to evacuate bowel or bladder or both. Hold on while I...
WOW!
A monster... in this unflushable camp-style toilet. A thick brown
potato soup of a turd pile-- in a black plastic bag... like being
pregnant and giving birth to a huge loaf of liquifying pumpernickel.
I pop an immodium. But I know I'm not done yet.
In
ten minutes, I'm back on the plastic bag... neither as productive nor
satisfying as the last time... but necessary nonetheless. I take
another Imodium.
Still,
no one around... I guess they all left for work. It's about 10AM, I
want to see the town. I write a note to Georg:
I
have no key, so please don't lock the door. I also don't have your
phone number to test. My number is +1[sorry, private for you
readers], Text me so I'll have your number. Thanks, Mykel
I
bundle myself up and go outside... just a few steps... then it hits
again. I force myself to go on. I find the “tourist center” Georg
told me about. It's closed. A restaurant next door... closed too.
Some sort of office with a sign like LYGGITEEMIT on the outside. It's
open. It looks like a restaurant, with one guy in there working on a
computer. A chubby native woman sits behind a terminal.
Can
I get breakfast? I ask.
“Until
ten o'clock,” comes the answer.
“What
time is it now?” I ask.
The
woman stares through me. I pull my phone out and check the time:
10:26. The pain in my bladder increases. I leave. I pass a several
named buildings that start with the letter P. I remember that the
town's supermarket (there is one) starts with P... I try the door.
One opens.
It's
a kind of convenience store with some supplies for the cold and some
Dorito-like snacks. I speak to the woman behind the counter in bad
Danish. I translate here for those few readers who don't speak bad
Danish.
“Is
there a restaurant near here?” I ask.
“There's
one down the street,” she replies.
“Is
it open now?” I ask.
She
stops, seeks guidance from God and answers, “No, it isn't.”
“Where
can I get something to eat?” I ask. “Maybe a shop that sells
wienerbrod.”
She
nods and gives me detailed instructions in Danish. I understand about
a third of what she's saying. I think she's directing me to the
supermarket. Meanwhile, the pressure in my bladder builds. I thank
her and leave. On the way out I see another door. A toilet? I try the
handle. It's locked.
FLASH
AHEAD TO THE FERRY FROM DISKO ISLAND BACK TO ASSIAAT: No whales, but
several beautiful icebergs. I was in Qeqertarsuaq a day and a half.
No aurora. No dogsled. A couple spectacular meals... a lot of shit.
Here's an iceberg while you're waiting. It's hard to get a sense of scale, though. Figure it's as tall as a 20 story building.... and they say it's only one seventh above water.
FLASH
BACK TO AARHUS
Pedro
works in a home for retarded criminals. What better job for a punk
rocker? But it gets even better. Denmark, being a civilized country,
uses jails to rehabilitate not to punish. So, what do you do
to help the inmates? You ask them what THEY want... to make their
lives better... how to let them function in society so they won't get
in trouble again... This would never occur to Americans who believe
that torture is the way to handle transgressors.
It
turns out in Aarhus, several of convicts want to make music. What
better music for the aggressive retarded than PUNKROCK? Yes! With
Pedro's help, they put together a band. Here's a
video.
I have since found there are several other bands... one in Finland, one (the most famous, called HEAVY LOAD) in England. It's a genre, that I immediately christen: TARDCORE.
I have since found there are several other bands... one in Finland, one (the most famous, called HEAVY LOAD) in England. It's a genre, that I immediately christen: TARDCORE.
In
the 1980s, there was an American fanzine made by a Mongoloid. I read
about it in Maximum Rock'n'Roll. The zine was called TARD. It
was exhilerating to be so direct... so non-PC... so punk. I wrote for
a copy, but never got one. (If you have one and are willing to copy
it... or have any information on it, email it to me at
god@mykelboard.com.)
Lately,
I've beenso inspired by Pedro's work and the bands he introduced me
to, that I'd love to start a network... a series of venues... that
specialize in Tardcore bands. Right now, this is a side project, but
anyone interested, please contact me and we can get the ball rolling.
Oh yeah!
Speaking
of Tardcore... Pedro has asked me if I could record a cover version
of BEER with
his band THE CLEAN BOYS. I've done this song so much, with so many
different bands, it should be easy, right? Yeah right. I'm senile...
I forget the words.
Sid
Yiddish has a copy. He sends it to me and I immediately go about
remembering the lyrics with all kinds of mnemonics. A beer will
always give you good head. It goes down easy in bed. The label comes
off with no fight. It never says “headache tonight.” Okay, I
picture the label as a huge blanket on the bed, and a corpse...
headless... lying bloody on the blanket... nah, that won't do it.
I'll work on it.
Meanwhile,
in Aarhus, Pedro talks about a guy named Ut. Strange name... though
there was a band with that name in New York in the 80s. My old band,
ART, was often confused with them. UT was all girls, as I remember...
and they could actually play their instruments. Much different from
us.
So,
it's Pedro's day off., we're going with Ut to meet his (Ut's) friends
in the countryside. Pedro drives... first to pick up Ut, then to
Graceland.
I shit you not.
It's
in Randers rather than Memphis (though the place calls itself
Memphis). It's an augmented-reality copy of the original Elvis
home. Through hidden speakers, In The Ghetto welcomes you to
the place. There's a statue of The King himself in front, and a huge
gift-shop as you walk in.
My
sister is such an E.P. fan, that she named her daughter Presley.
I've got to find something small but relevant as a gift for her. What
a terrific souvenir from Denmark... something Elvis.
Ut,
Pedro and I enter the gift-shop. Hundreds of records, CDs, Elvis
beer, Elvis combs, Elvis condoms. Oh yeah.
“I've
heard about this place for a long time,” Ut tells me, “but I've
never been here. It would take something really special to get me to
enter this kitchy place. You did it Mykel. But I don't see any Elvis
Hitler CDs.”
I
smile.
After
Graceland, we go to an old hippie farm to meet some of Ut's friends.
The distance from Graceland to the farm is short in space, but very
long in time... about 45 years... backwards.
At
the farmhouse, Pedro introduces himself and me to Ut's friends...
people my age... with more flannel than a pajama factory. There is a
real record on the real record player. It's not punkrock... but folk
music. American folk music from the 1960s.. The Weavers.
There
are a few other sixties albums... mostly soft... I think they played
Country Joe and the Fish. There were several albums... maybe
Ut brought them... that no one had ever seen before.
“See,”
says Pedro, “he really is Ut.”
“Okay,”
I say, “now, I'm really going to ask. What the hell does Ut mean?”
The
whole crew looks at me with wrinkled foreheads and noses.
“It's
an English word,” says Pedro. “You know it. It means strange,
weird, unusual... UT.”
“Holy
shit,” I say. “You mean ODD?”
Pedro
nods. “That's what I said: UT.”
On
the farm, we take a tour of the land, share some very 1960s
vegetation, then pack off. We drop ODD off, pick up Morks and Frugie
and head for the studio.
The
four of us drive to a studio someplace also in the countryside. It's
a live-in studio, where you can work on a record for days in a row,
without traveling... eat-sleep-shit-piss-record. A great way to make
a record. I hear my friends in MDC
stayed there when they were in Denmark.
Frugie,
a big blond tattooed, jolly guy... is the drummer and youngest of our
group. He may not be out of his twenties... let along his forties...
or fifties... like the rest of us. He has no smartphone, no facebook
page... he's the least techie of all of us.
Morks
is the guitarist and engineer. He's a Polish-Dane with great
technical skill and an artist daughter who's proud her dad is a punk
rocker. Morks sets up the mics, and gets the sound levels. Then the
rehearsal starts. I just hope I've got the BEER lyrics in the right
order.
“Hey
guys,” says Frugie [Note: everybody speaks English... even to each
other... for my benefit. It doesn't help my Danish, but it sure is
considerate.], “let's forget the cover version. Let's make a
completely new song.”
I'm
flummoxed.
“It
takes a month to write a song,” I say. “I gotta come up with
lyrics. You gotta come up with music. Then we have to make 'em fit. I
can't stay here a month.”
Pedro
laughs.
“It's
punkrock, Mykel,” he says.
I shrug, pull out my notebook and start scribbling lyrics. The name of the song? It's punkrock.
I shrug, pull out my notebook and start scribbling lyrics. The name of the song? It's punkrock.
In
the meantime, the gang is working on a suitable tune. They're working
by themselves, having no idea what my lyrics are. I
have no idea what my lyrics are.
When they're finished... maybe an hour or so... I “sing” along with what I have and everything matches perfectly... yeah, right.
Make that several hours.
When they're finished... maybe an hour or so... I “sing” along with what I have and everything matches perfectly... yeah, right.
Make that several hours.
Finally,
after writing the lyrics in ever-bigger print... smoothing out a few
chord changes... cutting a measure here... a measure there. We get
it. As often with my songs, this one ends in a little story, the last
line of which is BEND OVER BOY.
So,
THE BEND OVER BOYS becomes the instant name of our band. Quick! A
publicity photo:
--to
be continued
FINAL
NOTE:
Pedro
has provided several TARDCORE references for me. I think you'll agree
how great they are. Here's his list:
=======================================================
|
John
D Band, Harlev, Arhus, Denmark. 310 likes · 6 talking about this.
Handicap garage-rock band fra Østjylland! Opkaldt efter en flot
grøn traktor ;)
|
 |
"Fee
Fest" med handicap garagerock orkester "John D Band"
Text & musik - John D Band - fra CD'en "Harlev rødderne
kører uden airbag" produceret af fede Frede...
|
Pertti Kurikan Nimipäivät (Finland)
Video:
https://youtu.be/v4Y0HOPL5GU
 |
Live
performance in the first Semi-Final of Aina Mun Pitää
representing Finland at the 2015 Eurovision Song Contest.
|
Video: https://youtu.be/fiEfkNtpYCM
 |
Heavy
Load's first single off the third album 'WHAM' - a cover of The
Ting Ting's hit single changed to deal with disability hate crime.
Featuring guest appe...
|
 |
Heavy
Load's Wild Things project - showcasing the work of musicians with
learning disabilities from all over the world. The story of Wild
Things
|
https://www.facebook.com/StayUpLateUK/?fref=ts
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Notes:
If,
for some reason, you like my writing and want to see more
(opinionated, political, punkrock), you can check out my other blog
here.
You
can also subscribe to my writings (get email when something new is
posted), by sending a subscribe email to:
readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com.
