“GOD IS A BATHTUB !”
IT must be the full moon.
It was all going along quite comfortably for, ooh, about nine seconds. I’d asked what the album will be like, like it tells me to in the manual. And Björk had replied, “all sorts of things”, just like pop stars are supposed to, hereby suggesting a diverse and colourful spectrum of conversational topics. It was around now I opened the floodgates of chaos, perhaps, by saying “What sort of all sorts of things?”
“How it would be to sleep with God,” says Einar. It helps, once again, if you do the Icelandic accents. “I don’t know, because He’s never done it to me. If God is a stud with sideburns, I wouldn’t fancy Him. But if…”
“It started out like this,” interrupts Björk, who wrote the lyric under discussion. “I was walking down a street in Iceland and I just felt in the kind of mood that – as has always been my belief – that God do no exist. But then I thought, ‘He would be this figure in the sky, sitting in the fattest cloud, keeping it very tidy and clean. In a white shirt, and always very perfect.’ And so when I been walking down the street – if He did exist – He would come down from His cloud, with marsupial fingers and marble hands. And they would glide over my shoulders, into my dress, and go down and down and down and down, and then… the song ends.”
Is this a fantasy of yours?
“It just fell into my
