It was some time after Righeira’s summer hit, ‘Vamos a la Playa’. The Sugarcubes had caught our attention with ‘Birthday’ and various flatmates and assorted friends had started collecting their releases, both in Icelandic and in English.
I was briefly named after their record company ‘One Little Indian’. For a while, the ‘cubes were OUR band.
Most of the boys drooled over Bjork – the little girl act really does work. It was the mad, funky, angular music that gave me a thrill, at least until I saw them live.
We were all there, in the Paradiso in Amsterdam. As close to the stage as we could get, and I was wielding my camera as usual. While the lads’ eyes were glued to the waif, mine were on Einar, the Sugarcubes’ other frontman.
Slim and compact, dressed in a black turtleneck and black jeans, a belt with a bat-buckle around his hips, Einar teased, taunted and quite frankly annoyed the fuck out of the entire audience.
I loved it. He ranted and raved, said ‘Good evening, Spain’ and shouted ‘Vamos a la Playa’ again and again. He blew a tiny trumpet or bugle and swung from the balcony.
I didn’t get a single decent picture of him.