Starting with her 1993 solo album, Debut, and continuing through her acclaimed work of the past decade, she has carved a path with her guttural voice and counterintuitive melodies, her edgy instrumentation and wise lyrics, her surreal visuals and alchemical tech. Her influence is also inescapable worldwide. At a nearby bar, I got to chatting with a middle-aged man who said that Björk had babysat him when he was a kid. The Icelandic Punk Museum, a tiny labyrinth in a converted public bathroom, is partly a shrine to The Sugarcubes, the rock band that brought Björk to international fame in the late ’80s. When I checked into my hotel in Reykjavík-a city of 135,000 that blends the vibes of a mountain-climbing base camp and a bohemian port-a song of hers was playing in the lobby. Yet at age 56, having spent three decades as one of music’s most important figures, Björk has hardly gone unnoticed in her home country. “Icelanders,” Björk explained, “are too cool for school.” But she moved through the busy café unbothered, even un-stared-at, by the other patrons.
The whole look read as fungal chic, reflecting the earthy aesthetic of her new album, Fossora, which will be out at the end of this month. Her Cleopatra hairstyle had been dyed with strips of white, pink, and mold blue, and the pendulous ruffles of her gown-like overcoat were patterned orange and gray-green. “We had to set our clock to the tide,” she said, brightly, as if I would know what that meant.ījörk looked very Björk, which is to say that she looked like no one else on this planet. Upon arriving at the plant-filled café where we’d agreed to meet, Björk thanked me for my flexibility. Just that morning, our interview had been rescheduled to an hour earlier than originally planned so that we could travel to a location unknown to me. M idday on a Monday in Iceland’s capital of Reykjavík, Björk walked into a coffee shop and gave me a riddle.
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