CLASS

4
THE REYKJAVÍK GRAPEVINE ICELAND AIRWAVES SPECIAL
LORD PUSSWHIP'S
SECRET, MACABRE
HISTORY OF
FUCKED UP
REYKJAVÍK SPOTS
WORDS BY LORD PUSSWHIP
PHOTO BY ANNA MAGGÝ
"In psychogeography, a 'dérive' ("drift") is an unplanned journey
through a landscape, usually urban, on which the subtle aesthetic
contours of the surrounding architecture and geography subconsciously
direct the travellers, with the ultimate goal of encountering
an entirely new and authentic experience." (Wikipedia)
The art of “reading houses” was described by fabled Icelandic
author Þórbergur Þórðarson in his 1940s masterpiece ‘Ofvitinn’. It
is a meditative act that entails sensing a house’s past life, he writes:
"I wanted to inform my readers of these fountains of knowledge
and atmosphere, closed off to those who remain so occupied with
the miniscule banalities that float on life's surface that they never
found the time to learn how to read houses."
Skeljagrandi
Situated near Reykjavík’s westernmost
point, the Skeljagrandi area is like
Iceland’s very own miniature Twin
Peaks. You’ll know you’re there when
you see a row of buildings that locals
affectionately refer to as "jólatrésblokkirnar"
("The Christmas tree buildings”),
due to their distinctive shapes.
Urban explorers could do worse than
trailing the numerous, winding back
passages that snake through the area.
The Skeljagrandi area stands on a
landfill. It is slowly sinking into the
ocean.
Reportedly, people from the the
Skeljagrandi area have a tendency to
develop psychic abilities. Others fall
prey to insanity, and yet others set
about diligently carving out illustrious
careers in the field of violent crime.
The latter camp’s main poster boys are
the so-called Skeljagrandi brothers,
who managed to amass a Freddy and
Jason-level of infamy through the various
ultraviolent sociopathic misdeeds
that have been their bread and butter
since childhood.
In Skeljagrandi, people sometimes
get thrown down flights of stairs by inexplicable
gusts of wind. Your neighbours
might become upset by your new
satellite receiver, lodging formal complaints
about the devil-rays that are
being pointed at their house. Neighbourhood
kids might get bags of coke
for a confirmation gift from their dads.
I have no explanation for any of this.
They’re just stories in the air. That I
happen to know are true.
The Catholic Church
Back in the day, the Catholic Church
and its accompanying school were
tightly in the grips of a gruesome twosome,
Father Georg and groundskeeper
Margrét Müller. Decades later,
locals still whisper horror stories of
the pair and the abominable ways they
would treat some of their students and
young parishioners.
Even as she took her own life, Margrét
still couldn’t pass up a chance to
traumatize some students—opting to
kill herself by leaping from the school’s
top floor, on a school day (of course),
thus ensuring her splattered remains
would leave the kids something to remember
her by. Rumours persist that
Margrét had carved out a number
of secret passageways in the schoolhouse,
which she would use to spy on
the children. Perhaps her spirit still
lingers.
Despite being repeatedly made
aware of the pair’s crimes, local
church authorities, nuns and priests
stood silently by as several young lives
were damaged beyond repair by those
sadist monsters. To add insult to injury,
Father Georg was inducted into the
Order of the Falcon by Iceland’s president
in 1994.
But hey—there's a nice little spot
behind the church’s west side, ideal for
getting fucked up and maybe pissing
on some graves.
Leifsgata
A beautiful, postcard-pretty street in
downtown Reykjavík, quiet little Leifsgata
has been a home to many an
artist and person of talent. Strangely,
it has also been the site of quite a few
murders—many of them occurring at
the end of debauched drinking and
drugging parties. The sheer number of
murders that have taken place in that
tiny area has caused many to theorize
that the street is somehow haunted in
a way that can drive people to commit
unspeakable acts. Besides all the artists
and murder victims, Leifsgata also
played host to an infamous brothel and
shady halfway house for drunks and
junkies.
They have some beautiful houses
though!
Hlemmur
The central bus station has proudly
served as Reykjavík’s official grime
and grittiness HQ. In the early 80s, it
served as a gathering spot for young
punk rockers, who would convene
there to play arcade games, sniff glue,
harass commuters and defiantly stuff
hot dogs into their faces, rather than
eating them like a normal person (see
Friðrik Þór’s amazing documentary
‘Rokk í Reykjavík’ if you haven’t already).
Weird and violent stuff will go
down at Hlemmur on a regular basis.
Like that woman who lost an eye after
being attacked with a chisel.
Heiðmörk
Close by the Rauðhólar pseudocraters,
you’ll find a serene conservation area
that doubles as the site of Reykjavík’s
reservoirs and drinking wells. Aside
from being a popular spot to take in
some nature on a good day, Heiðmörk
is also quite popular with local drug
dealers and debt collectors, who like
to bring boys who owe a lot of money
up there and mess them up real good.
This was amply demonstrated in the
90s, when a pair of brothers were
sentenced for murder after smashing
some guy’s head to bits. In case you’re
toying with heading up there for some
murder, do note that I have no idea
where’d you’d go to dump the body
après homicide. Maybe Hvassahraun,
on the way to the Keflavík Airport?
Don’t ask me, bruh.
Fellahverfið
Breiðholt’s Fell housing projects are
perhaps Icelanders take on Atlantastyle
traps (a one way in, one way out
type deal, with lots of dead ends and
overgrown streets), with all that entails.
Indeed, prior to the 2008 collapse
that wound up inspiring lots of folks to
set up the hydroponic growhouses that
keep Iceland’s abundant weed supplies
constantly replenished, you’d often
have to drive up to Fellahverfið to cop
a nug of hash. It’s not crack, but that’s
still pretty trap.
Fellahverfið’s infamy skyrocketed
in the 1990s, due to the minor gang
wars that went on there. Those involved
groups of Asian immigrants
and locals who would regularly clash
on the streets, often resorting to bats,
machetes and home invasions to get
their points across.
There are no gang wars in Fellahverfi
these days, but it remains the
kind of place where you might see
someone's mom hitting on a gravity
bong in the living room.
Yuh. My début album, 'Lord Pusswhip
is wack', is coming out sometime before
Airwaves, first on the Internet, and
then as the first official cassette release
of a fresh new label called Cosmic
Seagull Records. www.soundcloud.
com/mantisfromdamudgang