Eskimo Food & TARDCORE or Mykel's Journey to the North #8

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.

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.

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.

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 | Facebook www.facebook.com John D Band, Harlev, Arhus, Denmark. 310 likes · 6 talking about this. Handicap garage-rock band fra Østjylland! Opkaldt efter en flot grøn traktor ;)

Video: https://youtu.be/_xSzID-sBe8

John D Band - FEE FEST - offcial video 2015 youtu.be "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

Pertti Kurikan Nimipäivät - Aina Mun Pitää (Finland) - LIVE at Eurovision 2015: Semi-Final 1 youtu.be Live performance in the first Semi-Final of Aina Mun Pitää representing Finland at the 2015 Eurovision Song Contest.

Heavy Load (UK)
Video: https://youtu.be/fiEfkNtpYCM

That's Not My Name - Heavy Load youtu.be 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...

http://www.disabledinfo.co.uk/dis/1945-the-story-of-wild-things.asp

The story of Wild Things - DisabledInfo.co.uk www.disabledinfo.co.uk Heavy Load's Wild Things project - showcasing the work of musicians with learning disabilities from all over the world. The story of Wild Things

The "Stay up late" campain started byHeavy Load:
https://www.facebook.com/StayUpLateUK/?fref=ts

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Notes:

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