It was at the Sigur Rós gig at the Roskilde festival: my first time first time first time. I had never been that into them before that, I downloaded what's-it-called... Ný Batterý onto my computer when I moved into my student room, rain pattering the window slap splat and those dolorous horns leaking into metal strokes keyboard voice. I liked the shade of that voice, the tangy hoarseness ah. Hoppipollahippies some scathing critic called us, but I rather liked that myself. Steely-eyed elves from the last remaining forests. There is always a cry there, always always, there's a cry. It was at the Roskilde festival, we had travelled there by train, across the sound of the sound and had expensive veggie burgers at the Hovedbanegård, København H, it took me years to learn what that H stood for. Now I say it as an incantation, a warding-off: hovedbanegård hovedbanegård hovedbanegård. Copenhagen just a stopping point, filling-up, orange juice with ice cubes in, before we slid down the stairs to the slipperyfull Roskilde train, quaint guards in coagulated jackets, shade of red, ugh. My hair was in braids and I had a scarf over my head. Some Swedes were late for the train, they wouldn't let them on, well, two of them got on and they said: vi ses där, we'll see you there, see you, can't get off now, too late. Stockholmers of course, though the girl was cute, sturdy, with a flowery dress and a big square bag. She was with some guy, I can't remember, can't remember him now. We were going to Roskilde, to the festival, yes.

It was at the Sigur Rós gig at the Roskilde festival: tent and eventide, whisperlights hush. When troll mother's tucked in her eleven little trolls and tied them to her tail... We'd been in the sun all day, dismally, big stage a disappointment every year yet every year we go there. Shrug and sigh. Now we were tucked into the tent with elven others, aching skins, waiting for the Icelanders to come. Then the Icelanders came.

I had never seen them before and I didn't see them now, there was some screen, fabric in front, and lights and smoke and hush. Hush and then the sound, the fizzy noise carpet of electric smoke yes. Oh. Trees haunted the screen and then jónsi trickled that bow and oh and oh. The audience shiverswayed. It was at the Sigur Rós gig that we all came together owleyed beaknosed we were mushroom tall and bigger than Valhalla. They had played there the week before. As the screen rose a pixiegirl slanteyed nestled into me it was too much and her arm a stalk around my waist down my jeans. Source of the rose.

e.g. Jönsson was born outside Malmö, Sweden in 1981 and lives in Glasgow, Scotland. In 2008 she graduates from the Creative Writing MLitt at the University of Glasgow. She has previously studied The Gothic Imagination at the University of Stirling, and English at Lund University. There is also a short biog available on her website, here.

© 2009 Laura Hird All rights reserved.