To be honest, although I love me some football (especially Barcelona, especially the Champions League), I don’t know shit about Úrvalsdeild, Iceland’s top soccer division. But last year, posted a couple videos of Stjarnan’s goal celebrations, which, as you’ll see, are nothing short of Edda Epic.

Despite playing on a middle school field in front of 50 people, this is actually from the Úrvalsdeild, Iceland’s premier division. The players of Stjarnan have made it their mission to celebrate every goal with a pre-planned routine.

There’s the now-famous “Going Fishing.”

But don’t forget “And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead.” [aka “Rambo”]

The traditional Icelandic Waltw. [aka “Dancing and Marching”]

And of course, a uniquely North Sea version of Walking It Out.

And as a special bonus, here’s the most recent one that I’ve come across—“The Human Toilet,” which further illustrates just what the NFL is missing amid all its “no planned celebration” rules.

If you’re not familiar with Eurovision, you must read this. (And then get ready for next year’s competition.)

Sjonni’s Friends was Iceland’s 2011 entry, which somehow managed to make it all the way to the semi-finals. It’s not that this is a bad song, it’s just, well, very Eurovision-y. But what’s most notable about this song is the story behind it.

This song was written by Sigurjon ‘Sjonni’ Brink, who died before the Icelandic national final for the Eurovision Contest. Rather than pack up and give up, his friends decided to perform Sjonni’s song anyway, eventually becoming Iceland’s official Eurovision representative. Which, in the end, is a very nice tribute for their friend.

And this being Eurovision and all, I have to include a bit of odd, so here’s the official band description from the Eurovision website:

This is a group of six individuals who have one thing in common. Palmi is the old and wise one, Hreimur is the innocent and sincere one, Matthias provides the comic relief, Benedikt is the good-looking, cheerful one, Vignir is the silent, mysterious type and Gunnar is the bad boy. Together they are Sjonni‘s Friends.

This novel takes place at a “temporary home for children” called Children in Reindeer Woods, where eleven-year-old Billie lives. The book opens with an intense clash of styles, as a very pastoral description is uprooted by the sudden arrival of a group of paratroopers who kill everyone—except for Billie. Rafael, one of the soldiers, then turns on his compatriots, kills them, and decides to get out of the war and become a farmer with Billie.

What war is this? It’s very unclear. Initially it might seem like WWII (which doesn’t make a great deal of sense), but people use cell phones, a nun passes through on her way to buy a computer, etc. This sort of murkiness adds to the fable-like quality of the novel.

is the author of several books of poetry, short stories, novels, and plays. She received Gríman, the Icelandic playwright award, in 2005 fo the play Tell Me Everything.

Here’s an excerpt from Children in Reindeer Woods, her first book to be published in English translation.

vii. Rafael shouldered the weapon and took the crockery into the kitchen. Then he aimed the gun at the girl. “You can play for an hour before you go to bed. You’ll play here.”

With the toe of his army boot, he gestured to an empty spot on the living room floor. Billie got up from the table, pulled down the hem of her dress, and curtsied.

“Are you tall for your age?” he asked.

Tall like my father was, she was about to say, but stopped her motormouth dead.

“You said you were . . . eleven years old.” Billie nodded her head. “Then you’re tall for your age. Do you still play or not?”

�Ԩ���.”

“How does the daughter of the house spend her time?”

“I’m not the daughter of the house.”

“How does a bright young thing spend her time?”

“With Barbie dolls,” replied Billie, bowing because she felt she was replying to a king and kings like being replied to with bows at the end of sentences. “I am not a precocious child. I am late-developing, almost retarded, though I am not dyslexic. I
believe in God, the Father, the creator of heaven and the earth.”

Billie bowed. Rafael smiled without effort, and just as effortlessly the smile vanished from his face. His ordinary facial expression was in keeping with his physical strength and his deliberate movements.

“Where are the Barbie dolls?” he asked inquisitively. She pointed to the red plastic box on the bookshelf. He rummaged around in the box. “You know what? It was a pleasure to dine with you.”

That’s how a fully-grown man talks to a fully-grown woman, not to a girl, little or big. She stretched her back. Perhaps she’d gotten big. “The pleasure was all mine,” she replied, and curtsied.

“Play,” he commanded, setting the red box on the floor. Billie sat down. She had heard offhand comments that eleven-year-old girls were too big for Barbie. Perhaps she was retarded. Her father and mother had said, they were always saying, the two of them together and each of them separately:

Billie dear, don’t constrain your inner child.

Be a child as long as you want, even if you become the object of ridicule.

What does object of ridicule mean, Mom and Dad, what does object of ridicule mean?

When you get laughed at.

Why will I get laughed at, why will I get laughed at, Mom and Dad?

We don’t know you will get laughed at, but if, if, you get laughed at, you have our word that you can be the way you want to be, so long as it doesn’t hurt others. Other people’s laughter is not a death sentence. You can’t let others change your habits.

If she asked them whether she was retarded, they laughed like baboons. And so she took note of this, she would learn the truth for herself later. When she got bigger she would go to an institution, perhaps, and get the confirmation she currently lacked. The phone rang. Rafael, who was standing at the front door holding the cat, breathing in the evening breeze and the warm country air, turned in a half-circle and stared at the telephone. It was like he hadn’t seen a phone before. Like it made a difference to stare at it. You have to answer it. Then he looked at Billie. Back at the phone. He let the cat fall from his arms and went towards the machine, which stood on a pillar in the hall. It might be Soffia. She usually rang about that time, after dinner. The phone’s ringer fell silent. The army boots continued past the girl, and the man sat down in the rocking chair.

“Does the phone ring much?” he asked, massaging his forehead.

“It sometimes rings in the morning. Sometimes in the evening. Not often.”

“Who calls?”

“Someone or other.”

“Do you know any names?

She shrugged her shoulders; she couldn’t possibly say, my Mom. Perhaps the man would be sorry to hear her mom wasn’t dead. She dressed the Barbie dolls in new clothes, she combed their hair. The phone rang again. She acted as though the machine didn’t exist. The phone went dead. Rafael’s eyes closed.

The cat slunk slowly across the f loor, nuzzled at the rocking chair and the army boots, then jumped up onto the soldier’s lap. With his eyes still closed, he made room for the animal and put a hand on its fur. The other hand grasped the weapon, which rested on his chest like a bow and violin on a sleeping fiddle player’s chest. While he slept, because he snored, the playing girl took charge, and the dolls began to speak, competing to speak as though they had eaten lots of eggs, talking in soft voices:

viii. Ragga: I’ve gotten into even more trouble because I’m pregnant and going to have a child. I’ll leave it on the doorstep of some rich folk. I wouldn’t let anyone suffer my poverty and hardship.

Sara: I’ll take the child, dear Ragga; I cannot have children because in truth I have metalbelly.

Ragga: What is metalbelly, Sara babe?

Sara: Ugh, let’s not talk about it at this elegant party. Thank you for coming, my darling angel.

Ragga: Are you going to see Gugga? Teddy cut off her hair and sold it.

Sara: Let’s go and steal something from Teddy. Quick.

Ragga: Good idea! I likewise am dead tired of this party. It’s much more entertaining to go and play outside.

Sara: I had to host this party, my darling cinnamon bun, so no one would think that I’m retarded. Sara whispers to Ragga: I am, you see, retarded.

Ragga: Me too. Don’t tell anyone. Come and steal something from Teddy, Guggalugga’s husband.

They arrive at bald Guggalugga’s home.

Ragga: Guggalugga, you’re quite the sight! You’re bald.

A bald Barbie doll is added to the group.

Gugga: Don’t say that, Ragga, please, be nice to me.

Ragga: It’s best to speak the truth my angel, my raisin bun, I hope you’re not ill, dear Gugga. Where is that guy? Where’s that jerk of a guy?

The new Barbie doll, a boy-doll, who has been added to the crowd: I’m good. I’m good. As the saying goes: everything’s hay in hard times. I’m good. God bless us, God bless us all. I’ve sinned and now I repent. All the worst things humankind has
done had gathered inside me. I repented. God bless us, my child. Everything’s hay—

Sara and Ragga beat Teddy to pieces.

Gugga: Girls, be nice to Teddy. It’s not like you think, my hair will grow back.

Ragga: It won’t grow back, you donkey, you’re a doll.

They stop beating Teddy, who cries like an old crone.

Gugga: Girls, listen, please. Teddy’s momma ordered him to steal my hair because she said she would disinherit him if he didn’t and she gave him a lot of money for the hair. We were starving. Our stomachs howled. We would have died of hunger.
Didn’t you notice that we were beginning to lose weight?

Ragga: Is it better to be rich and bald?

Ragga punches Teddy.

Gugga: You’re one to speak, Ragga, pregnant and about to sell some rich people your child.

Ragga: I’m not going to sell it. I’m giving it away. That’s quite different. My offspring won’t be bought and sold like your hair.

Sara: I shall give Gugga my hair. I’m giving Guggalugga my hair.

“Wait a moment, I need to fetch the scissors,” said Billie, standing up.

Here’s the

“The Icelandic series from AmazonCrossing will ensure that the guest country will still be present on the international book market once the Book Fair has come and gone,” said Halldór Guðmundsson, director of Fabulous Iceland, at a press conference given to announce that AmazonCrossing, a new imprint of Amazon Publishing dedicated to foreign works in translation, had resolved to publish ten Icelandic titles in the near future.

The series will kick off with The Greenhouse by Auður Ava Ólafsdóttir and Hallgrímur Helgason’s The Hitman’s Guide to Iceland. Both authors appeared at the conference. Also slated for publication are works by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson, Árni Þórarinsson, Vilborg Davíðsdóttir and Steinunn Sigurðardóttir, with more to be announced in early 2012.

Translated books comprise less than three percent of titles published in the United States and United Kingdom. “This figure is too small, by a long shot,” Jon Fine of AmazonCrossing said, adding that the imprint’s aim was to improve the ratio of foreign translation on the English-speaking market. “There are wonderful stories in Iceland and around the world that are not accessible to English speakers. We want to translate these extraordinary international literary works and authors and introduce them to new audiences worldwide.”

Worm Is Green started as the bedroom electronica project of Arni Asgeirsson, who soon enlisted longtime friends from his hometown of Akranes, Iceland (population 5,500) to flesh out his melodic soundscapes. Solidifying into a group, Worm Is Green began recording the songs that would become Automagic, released overseas in 2004 on Iceland’s Thule Musik (home of múm and The Funerals) and now available in the U.S. on Arena Rock.

Critically praised throughout Europe, Automagic is a wondrous album that pairs Asgeirsson’s intricate sound constructions with a potent rhythm section and the haunting, otherworldly vocals of Gudridur Ringsted. Her ethereal singing peppers a record that flits between ambient dream pop and slightly menacing electro-organic music with beats.

Ringsted shines brightest on a risky cover of Joy Division’s beloved “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” a dramatically different take on a classic that was recorded as a request from Thule Musik’s owner. “He wanted to hear a chillout version with female vocals,” Asgeirsson notes. “The result was very surprising, and everybody liked it, so we decided to put it alongside the other tracks we’d previously recorded for Automagic.”

And here’s their cover of the Joy Division classic:

When I ask artists Dísa Björnsdóttir and Ingvar Högni Ragnarsson about running Útúrdúr,¹ a Reykjavik bookstore and publisher, Dísa tells me they “started by answering a need for a more diverse book community.” It’s a theme they’ll repeat again and again: filling a hole, giving society what it’s asking for. For an American it’s a somewhat dizzying prospect; whatever it is that my society wants or needs or asks for, I can’t say I’ve ever had the feeling it was books. Nor have I ever interviewed anyone who said anything similar.

It’s a need that can exist in Iceland for two reasons. First, Iceland has a real, living literary culture with significant historical roots that results in people reading a lot today. Second, the 2008 financial collapse and subsequent governmental revolution made room for discussion in public forums, and made it necessary. Icelanders have a lot to talk about, and they’ll probably be doing it for a long time.

Útúrdúr is located a bit off the main drag in downtown Reykjavik, and when I walk in for our interview a customer is enthusiastically talking to Dísa and Ingvar Högni in English about the Occupy Wall Street demonstrations. The conversation doesn’t sound anywhere near over, so I listen in and browse the books on the front table and displayed face-out on the racks.

They’re art books, chapbooks, hardcovers, many of them hand-made, some photocopied, in English, in Icelandic, in German, some published by Útúdúr, some by others, all of them in some way or another fascinating. I recognize a few books I’ve seen in the sexier bookshops in Berlin, plus a few copies of McSweeney’s, and an odd Believer. Other than that it’s all new to me.

(photo by Ingvar Högni Ragnarsson)

There are a few pieces of art here and there from an exhibition with Kling & Bang Gallery next door: an enormous felt hand hanging on the wall, a wine-rack stocked with nearly empty Coca-Cola bottles, a wood-framed plexiglass doghouse-thing filled with an inch or so of postcards and newspaper clippings and outfitted with pink neon lighting.

We take a seat at the desk next to the plexiglass doghouse and I receive a cup of the strong Icelandic coffee everyone serves when I interview them. At 28 and 30 Dísa and Ingvar Högni have both recently completed their bachelor’s (Iceland’s system operates along long-studying Scandinavian lines). Ingvar Högni, who also works as a photographer, attributes getting the chance to run an organization like Útúrdúr to the small society they live in: “What’s so interesting about Iceland is we can have these opportunities and get involved just by having that energy and enthusiasm.” Still he and Dísa seem like the kind of intelligent, bright-eyed people who would be doing exciting things anywhere.

Útúrdúr was actually founded as a bookstore in by six artists in 2007, but during their tenure, Dísa and Ingvar Högni are shifting its focus. As Dísa says, “What Iceland is asking for is books relevant to society.” Which is not to say that Útúrdúr didn’t provide that before, but its earlier publications, while often political, were expensive art books with long lead times. Its newer publications will be published more quickly to connect better with current events, and they’ll be more affordable.

Meeting the needs of a community means being in touch with the people who constitute it. “We don’t think of Útúrdúr as just a store or a publishing house,” says Ingvar Högni. “We think of it as a place where you can come and meet people, read, and listen to recordings.”

Later that week I return, this time at night, for a 100,000 Poets for Change event Útúdúr is hosting. I admit I was nervous before showing up — in a city of 120,000 people, how many capable performers can there be, and how many people will want to watch them? At eight there’s a crowd of 20 or so that grows during the next hour until the shop is packed. The audience is convivial but attentive, listening through hours of readings and musical performances. The performers have real talent, and overall the event is really impressive. When I leave at 11, it shows no sign of slowing down.

If it’s community-focused, Útúrdúr is anything but inward-looking. Ingvar Högni and Dísa are enthusiastic about partnerships with bookstores and publishers overseas, and they were positively excited about their upcoming trip to the New York Art Book Fair (now past). For ambitious young people trying to develop an innovative organization on a small island just below the Arctic Circle, the opportunity to meet with their peers face to face and to “make that connection and develop that trust” is invaluable, according to Dísa.

¹ Útúrdur means “detour.”

And since I love you, here’s an added bonus—Kronos Quartet covering “Flugufrelsarinn”:

And as you may know, or have already guessed, this is Jón Þór “Jónsi” Birgisson of Sigur Ros . . . It all comes back to Sigur Ros, always.

Up now is which was started by Sindri Már Sigfússon (who also records as ) but expanded into a full seven-piece band when Seabear was asked to open for The Books (another all-time favorite band of mine).

In the category of “Iceland Is So Small Everyone Knows Everyone,” Seabear member Kjartan Bragi Bjarnason is also in a band called Kimono that has released three albums on Bragi Olafsson’s label, Smekkleysa (which translates as “Bad Taste”).

There are a number of songs that I’d like to include from Seabear’s We Built a Fire, including and but decided to go with “I’ll Build You a Fire.” Enjoy!