GuitarBizarre

Anyway, for some unknown reason, there are these people who I want to impress and for some even-more-unknown reason, I've decided to cook them all a meal. It's all a bit confusing: I don't actually know who all these people are or why I want to impress them and I'm not very good when it comes to the whole culinary thing. So, I'm sat there in my kitchen, there's loads of ingredients on the worktop and I'm just staring at them. I'm staring at them and realising that I've just made a really stupid commitment... I can't cook and these people will all think that I'm a total fool. There's a knock at the door and my defeatist trance-like state is momentarily interrupted. I go to the door, open it, look at the person standing before me and, to my surprise, it's Björk. It turns out that she lives three doors down the road from me (apparently, she has been on tour for a while and this is why I have never noticed her knocking about) and she has run out of sugar... she wonders whether it would be OK to borrow a cupful of granulated (thoughtfully, she has even brought a modest-sized cup with her). I tell her yes and beckon her into the house.

Once inside, she surveys my kitchen. For a brief second, we both stand there in silence looking at the ingredients (which, to my dismay, have not magically transformed into delicious food by themselves whilst I was at the door). As I reach out to pick up the sugar, she asks me why all these basic foodstuffs are on the worktops rather than safely stored in the cupboards and, whilst filling her cup, I relate my sorry tale to her. She nods during the explanation and after a moment's thought offers to help me. I look at her: on the one hand, this is a very kind offer and I am in a bit of a pickle here, but on the other, this is Björk and I am worried that the food she suggests cooking will be a touch impractical and possibly pretentious. I thank her and, with some misgivings, accept her offer of help.

Björk and I spend the rest of the afternoon and the early part of the following evening preparing food. We make a good team: I do all the actual work (the cutting, soaking, kneading, glazing, baking, roasting etc - you name it... I do it) whilst Björk designs the menu, guides me and gives me practical advice when I do things incorrectly. With much hard work, a meal is prepared in time. With these mysterious people who I have some unknown reason to impress due to arrive imminently, I ask Björk whether she will stay and enjoy the food, politely she declines and departs clasping her cup of sugar (I try to mke her take a full unopened bag of sugar, but again, she declines) thanking me for lending it to her.

The meal is a fantastic success. Contrary to my initial feelings, Björk's menu is packed full of simple but tasty fare. Instead of impractical flipperies, the food is wholesome and enhanced by some imaginative, but well-judged, use of spices and other condiments. Better still, the food is all vegetarian but still more than satisfies my guests who all seem to be carnivores (boo!). During the main course, I find myself momentarily distracted from the pleasant hubbub of the dinner-table by the sight of an ill-defined silhouette amidst the gloom of the evening on outside. My momentary alarm turns to joy when the darkened figure comes closer to the window and I can make out Björk's facial features. Briefly, she looks at each diner and after about five seconds of doing this, breaks into a wide smile and disappears once more into the darkness.

Later on, as I bid my guests farewell into the balmy darkness of the night, I realise that the meal has been a roaring success: the food was good; the conversation was by turns informed, insightful, witty and warm; and best of all, I didn't come across as an utter moron. I've still no idea who these people were or why I was so keen to impress them, but I still feel good. The next day I awake still invigorated from the previous evening. I decide that I should purchase a token of my appreciation for all of Björk's efforts in helping make the meal such a success. After some deliberation, I decide that a good bottle of wine would be the best thing to get and I head off to the shops. Having bought a suitable bottle of wine, I drop in at Björk's house and present her with the bottle. Björk seems a bit distant and handles me in a slightly cool manner: she accepts the bottle, telling me that it was nothing and that I shouldn't have gone to the effort, but there is something awkward about the whole situation. After a short while we exchange passing smiles, bid each other a good day and I hastily leave.

The following morning, I wake up and, remembering that the people who live three doors away are teachers (to my left) and a plumber (to my right), realise that I have been having an odd dream about cooking a meal with an Icelandic pop star. I'm not sure why this has happened or what hidden meaning might be contained within the dream, but I do still feel some regret about the whole bottle of wine thing and particularly at seeming to piss Björk off. If Björk (either the real or dream versions) ever somehow happen to find themselves reading this, I would like to sincerely apologise for whatever it was that I did in my dream that so upset you. I hope that you enjoyed the wine (this applies to dream-Björk only) and can find it in yourself to understand that whatever offence I inadvertedantly made in my dream was unintentional.

Anyway, in a rather convoluted manner, dream-Björk's suggested menu (for those who have rejoined the review at this point having speedread the earlier sections in the hope that I would eventually get to the point - hey! it's only taken me 1,042 words so far - the menu was "packed full of simple but tasty fare" and the food was "wholesome and enhanced by some imaginative, but well-judged, use of spices and other condiments") is an oddly appropriate summary of Debut. Amongst the more satisfying offerings to be found from her first solo platter (OK - I'll stop the culinary thing now) are the desires, eastern-tinged strings and chimes of "Venus as a Boy", the militaristic bass-drum stomp of "Human Behaviour", the toned down house of "One Day", the jazz-trimmed nomadics of "The Anchor Song" and the twinned-peak popthrusts of "Big Time Sensuality" and "Violently Happy". Debut may not be Guðmundsdóttir's most adventurous or rewarding collection (Vespertine still rules for me) by any stretch of the imagination, but it's an enjoyable pop album which combines leftfield sass with mainstream accessibility ...which is nice.

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