Bjork, beneath the feathers

Her image has been fluffy and flighty, but under it all Bjork's reality is substantial, uniting classic musicianship with a deeply thoughtful path to innovation.

By GINA VIVINETTO

© St. Petersburg Times,
published September 2, 2001

[Photo: Electra Records] Diminutive and dynamic, impish and iconoclastic, Icelandic singer Bjork is beginning to garner American enthusiasm.

Thank goodness for Bjork's unique fashion sense. Now, whenever I want to discuss the Icelandic pop singer with my less music-obsessed colleagues, folks in line at the 7-Eleven or my mom, all I have to say is, "She's the lady who wore the swan to the Oscars."

But really, Bjork is so much more, as we're all learning. Never one to inspire huge record sales, Bjork has managed somehow to get into the world's collective consciousness by merely emitting her very Bjorkness. Folks in Europe have long been hip to wacky Bjork, who already was a child star in Iceland before scoring universal success with the avant-pop art collective the Sugarcubes in the mid-1980s.

But lately, the glittery in Hollywood, edgy fashion designers such as Alexander McQueen and, it seems, the whole cultural cognoscenti have become beguiled by Bjork.

Consider:

Bjork last month sold out a limited engagement U.S. tour, her first in three years, in 10 minutes. (Two dates at Radio City Music Hall sold out in five.)

Bjork won the Best Actress award at the Cannes Film Festival for her role in Dancer in the Dark, her one and only foray into acting. (Because of the grueling emotional demands of the role, which also nabbed a Golden Globe nomination, Bjork vows never to act again.)

Bjork is the subject of the recently published Army of She: Icelandic, Iconoclastic, Irrepressible Bjork by music critic Evelyn McDonnell.

Set your watches! Bjork appears at 11:30 tonight with Radiohead's Thom Yorke on the Cartoon Network's Space Ghost Coast to Coast, a program aimed at young adults.

But let's face it, Bjork is so impish, wee and cartoony, she could have her own kids' show faster than you can say Pee-wee Herman. Hey, don't cringe. I'm making a point here, and it's a point McDonnell's book makes, too. While many dismiss Bjork as a playful, naive little elf, she's actually an artist of deep introspection, a classically trained musician who, like the band Radiohead, continues to work on the cutting edge.

Vespertine, Bjork's fourth proper solo album since splitting from the Sugarcubes, was released last week. It rivals Radiohead's Kid A and Amnesiac in the experimental, off-the-chain department. Recorded last year in Iceland, much of Vespertine is remote and chilly, barren. Yet, several of its tracks resonate with the thaw of intimacy.

Vespertine veers from minimalist techno, with precious few beats, to the almost rococo vocal overdubs of Pagan Poetry. The album bristles with electricity and uncertainty. Bjork calls it "modern chamber music."

Back to Pee-wee Herman. Like him, behind Bjork's persona of goofy elfishness and pixielike naivete, she is very much a frisky adult. Bjork's music, if you listen closely, brims with as much sexuality as that of Marvin Gaye and Prince.

She's no shy girl about sex. Bjork left her parents' progressive hippie home when she was 14, gave birth to son Sindri when she was an unmarried 19-year-old and later caused a sensation among the British press by having high-profile romances with black recording artists Goldie and Tricky.

Bjork, 35, writes songs of immense carnal urgency. The new album features the risque Aurora, entirely devoted to the pleasures of sensuality. Bjork's lyrics are certainly more randy than Madonna's, and yet, no one seems to notice.

Perhaps because of the delivery? Bjork has a funky accent, a hybrid of Nordic and British Cockney, from her years in London. Not to mention she doesn't sing so much as shriek, squeal, stammer and emit jubilant yelps. She is capable of a disarming falsetto -- her range is wonderful -- but often you can't tell what the heck she's singing about.

Bjork may feel a connection with the mischievous poet E.E. Cummings. As any student of American literature can attest, Cummings wrote passionately of love and sex, but most folks paid attention only to his arty, playful approach. Significantly, Bjork borrows from Cummings on Vespertine's too-brief Sun in My Mouth.

Bjork, because she's tiny, because she's goofy, because she'll attempt a Dada prank like wearing a swan to Hollywood's most important event, can get away with such provocation. The mainstream press is bewitched by her oddness. But, music lovers know the truth. She's no imp. She's not an elf, and she's not to be dismissed. Bjork once described herself as an "art terrorist." Yet, she knows she's pigeonholed because of her stature, her "otherness" as an Icelandic person with an accent and by her sheer force of personality.

"I could tell everyone that I have four breasts on my back," Bjork once told Melody Maker, "and everybody would believe me because I'm a weirdo from Iceland."

Of course, Bjork is everywhere now. America is enthralled, intrigued, at least. Despite Bjork's modest sales compared with the 'N Syncs and Britneys of the pop world, critiques of Vespertine lead the review sections of all the major magazines here and abroad. The buzz is: It's genius.

Is it just a matter of time before Bjork, now a bona fide celebrity in the United States, a musician who influenced Radiohead and wrote a sexy song for Madonna, gets play on radio here?

Bjork isn't interested in fame. When the British press got too intrusive -- one well-documented incident involved the little pixie attacking a female journalist who tried to get too close to her and Sindri in a Bangkok airport -- Bjork moved from London to New York, where she lives with the artist Matthew Barney. The New York Times calls Barney "the most important artist of his generation." The scrutiny in London had become too much.

"You can't write a song if everybody knows what color socks you wear," Bjork told Q magazine.

Let's hope things in New York work out better for Bjork. Catty Joan Rivers may have not liked the singer's Academy Awards swan outfit, but it seems the rest of mainstream America might join the world in wanting a peek at Bjork's socks.

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