With our uniquely eponymous band name, “the Christenson Family Singers”, my family of 8 embarked on our inaugural European singing tour of 1974. I assume that my parents were trying to one up The Grateful Dead as they had just put out their triple live album “Europe ‘72” which was an “ok” album but we slayed it with our vinyl retort, later named “Plaid”. The critics at Rolling Stone and Creem Magazine were unanimously in our favor of course. We were fighting for the same fan base so I don’t blame my folks for competing with Jerry and the boys, setting their sights on Europe and booking venues beyond Rochester, Minnesota or Menominee, Wisconsin. But let’s face it, The Dead were never good enough to play the Lutheran church circuit or festivals like the Svensk Hyllningsfest in Lindsborg, Kansas. But they tried.
Right after the last day of school in late May, we flew Icelandic Air from Chicago’s O’Hare all the way to Norway with a few boxes of “Plaid” to sell and, to stay on theme, 8, artisan, plaid printed suitcases in tow. My father’s yearly salary as a small town Lutheran pastor was equal to or possibly less than the cost of those 8 round trip flights so it would be safe to assume that that airline was chosen for the distinction of being wonderfully cheap. The bonus though, was that they offered an optional layover in Reykjavik for interested parties and we were certainly interested in a party. Always hustling to make an extra $50 and a free meal, my folks organized a concert to be sung at the Bustadakirkja, a modern, state Lutheran church in Reykjavik. I was just about to turn 7 at the time and what I recall about that concert was two fold.
First, I remember talking to a cute Icelandic girl after we sang. I developed an instant crush on her despite the two of us only exchanging 20 or so words. My firm belief was that these budding feelings of lust were directed towards none other than Bjork. She had to have been there. Please let it be true. She grew up in Reykjavik, we’re roughly the same age and she was performing as a child herself so probably out doing her homework. When we randomly run into each other in Berlin or Ibiza some day, I’m going to point blank ask her, “Bjork, tell me the truth. Were you there?” That will be the second question. The first will probably be an icebreaker like, “Since pixies are scientifically difficult to prove, how can you truly believe in yourself?”
The other memory of that show was that after I met someone who looked and acted like Bjork, I was talking to some guy in the lobby who was wearing a very un-Scandinavian turban and for some reason, I told him I thought it was really cool. (By the way, turbans were rare as hen’s teeth in Iowa back then. Now, farmer’s farm in them). Upon hearing this, he immediately offered it to me straight from his head to mine. I freaked out because being gifted anything, let alone a turban, from a complete stranger can trigger a freak out, especially if you’re a child of Scandinavian descent from the Midwest. Also, is it even possible to win while playing kickball if you’re wearing a turban? How do you run? Does it make your head sweat? I think I said “Thanks but no thanks!” and turned away looking for Bjork. I always thought that this particular turban memory (of course everyone has their own turban memory) was an imaginative dream until I zoomed in on the above photo. Train your eye towards the lower left hand corner near my piano playing father. Turban! I see this as a vindication from my inner doubting Thomas. The larger question of course is what the hell was a guy wearing a turban doing watching a family from Iowa sing songs from the Sound of Music and Oliver! in a Lutheran church in Reykjavik in 1974? In hindsight, I’m thinking he was perhaps a spy or at least a special agent who was calculating the optimal time and place to drop a bomb on the land of fire and ice and blow apart the Marshall Plan from the top down. Then again, he could’ve just been another kind, visiting professor of vulcanology who had a big heart and an extra turban at home.
* I just used the word “turban” 9 times if anyone is counting. I may use it again.
We were in Copenhagen and Norway last May and decided to fly home via Iceland to experience yet another one of those memorable layovers, 50 years later, almost to the day. The main destination on our one full day was to visit the Blue Lagoon. It had just reopened after the Hekla volcano erupted for the millionth time the week prior. We did the very touristy thing of soaking in those stunningly blue waters which lay in the shadow of that ancient, belching volcano. There were busloads of tourists anxiously holding their phones over the water, hoping to get that perfect group photo to remind themselves of how great life can be if you stay in thermal water forever.
After soaking in the silica, algae and mineral laden waters for nearly 5 hours, we got in our little tin can of a rental car and headed towards Reykjavik for a bite to eat, feeling like we had both de-aged 20 years, so 40 years between the two of us. Technically, we probably only de-aged a couple of days but I’ll take anything I can get at this stage. The old downtown section of the city was pretty hopping and we ordered some food at Funky Bhangra at Posthus (the old post office) which has been converted into a lovely, vibrant food hall. We finished up and began to head back to our AirBnB in Keflavik. We took the backroads of Reykjavik stopping at a super market for some supplies for our morning flight to San Francisco and then opted to swing past one of the other urban hot springs called Sky Lagoon. This has a very different setup than the Blue Lagoon. It’s pretty posh, kind of clubby and exclusive with potentially more Instagram models walking around. Sadly, we didn’t have enough time for another soak so we continued on our way. The area was slightly industrial, nestled in between two major freeways and as we snaked through these neighborhoods, I got that sense that we were really close to the Bustadakirkja where we sang in ‘74 and then again in ‘77. I had no idea what the name of the church was at the time and the only one who did was my 90 year old father who was back in Minnesota either sleeping or drinking coffee or, attempting to do both simultaneously. As it turns out, we were probably but a rune stone’s throw away from the church that night. We got on the freeway towards Keflavik and at some point, had to pull off to the side of the road to marvel at the volcano glowing and burping off in the distance. We could’ve watched it for hours.
When we got back to California, my father told me the name of the church and after a quick search, this article popped up. It turns out that in the midst of the Cold War paranoia of the 50’s and 60’s, especially post Bay of Pigs, Icelandic authorities began surveying suitable real estate to build civilian bomb shelters and the Bustadkirkja happened to have fit the bill perfectly, an unsuspecting structure of love and peace to rest upon the perfect bunker. Had Dr. Strangelove pushed the button and launched a bomb towards Iceland during our show stopper, “So Long Farewell”, I can imagine us being whisked down below like the Von Trapps in the “Sound of Music” to be hidden deep inside its reinforced steel belly where I’d be sharing pre packaged cheese and crackers with my friend, the spy with the turban and my new girlfriend, Bjork. Thanks to the pixies and the Huldufólk, no bombs were dropped.
Stay artful…
I LOVE THIS!!!
Love this story. I was at the Sky Lagoon in June. One of my favorite places ever.
Great writing!