But I want to prove that there should be. A cassette player, containing a rough mix of cuts from the album, sat nearby.Īfter all the diverse influences you’ve reflected in the past, is Homogenic more of a pure Icelandic expression ?įirst of all, there is no such thing as Icelandic music. But this time around, it’s all in the service of a single idea, which Björk spelled out for us as we sat on the veranda. It contains the cascading, ecstatic vocals and wildly unorthodox rhythm programming that have become hallmarks of her style. As the title suggests, it’s mainly one thing : an ambitious project based loosely on Icelandic literary tradition to create an impression that’s more focused than any of her earlier projects. Well, talk about unpredictable : Homogenic proved us wrong. The only thing one could have predicted for her third studio album (not counting Telegram, a collection of remixes) was that it would be even more diverse than the previous two.
And she’s one of the few artists whose albums can catch you totally by surprise : From saxophone quartets to big bands to electronic racket, Björk will draw from any source to animate her songs. Her singing, like her demeanor, is utterly uninhibited : When a melody peaks at a certain high note, some quick impulse prompts her to aim even higher. That post-nasal skronk, followed by a pixieish grin and a delicate shrug, reflects one element of Björk that seems crucial to her as a person and an artist. “I mean, I fell asleep with a book in my lap.” Without warning, she uncorks a buzzsaw snore. “It’s like the best thing before bed,” she enthuses. Everyone around the table exchanges good-mornings as she reaches for the fruit bowl. After a while, Björk Guðmundsdóttir appears, in white slacks and blue short-sleeved shirt. A patio, lined with colorful tiles and bordered by Cordovan pillars and arches, leads toward the open front door.Ī few musicians gather at the dining room table, sipping coffee, munching cereal, talking quietly in a medley of languages and accents. In the distance, looking south toward the Mediterranean, the sky melts into a watery horizon. Morais, an expatriate drummer from the U.K., lives in and owns this place, a hacienda perched high above a swimming pool and a deep, scrub-filled ravine. The valley spreads before us flooded by sunlight as El Cortijo comes into view. And so we return this brilliant afternoon, near the southernĬoast of Spain. The road hack home from Trevor Morais’ El Cortijo studio dipped and slid along a sheer hillside except for the swirl of stars over-head and the rush of ruts and dirt in the headlight glare, we drove in darkness, following the hint of ocean in the air exhilarated by what we had heard enticed by the promise of hearing more the following day. It was a late night of music and anisette and seductive breezes.
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