The Miserable Punk at the Museum – Jay Mitra

 

I take a sharp left downstairs to ask the opening times (the chalk had been rubbed off outside). I’m greeted with a poster-boy-punk. Mohawk jelled into sharp green spikes. A row of silver hoops dangle from his ears. Tiny grey hairs erupt between the wrinkles around his mouth. He looks prickly. His jacket is studded and patched up with a various hardcore bands and his eyebrows are knitted into a permanent frown.

I try a friendly smile. ‘What time are you open tomorrow?’ I ask.

‘The same time as today’ the middle-aged punk says. I look around, searching desperately for a clue on the walls around me. I ask him again: ‘What time is that exactly?’

‘The same time as yesterday.’ He is stone-faced, unrelenting, not budging in the slightest.

‘And what times was that?’

‘The same time as the day before yesterday.’

I sigh. This punk was really committed to the bit of being an aggravating shit.

‘which was…?’ I’m not backing down either.

‘the same as the day before the day before yesterday’

I stare at him.

‘10-6’ he says—finally.

‘Thank you’ I say, struggling to hide my exasperation. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’ He doesn’t even nod.

The next afternoon, I enter the punk museum by myself. I push open a saloon-style black door into a cramped corridor. He’s sat on a chair in the room to the left of me, battered black combat boots on the desk.

I unzip my puffer jacket, exposing my Black Flag hoodie as if to say, I’m one of you. Perhaps if he knows that I’m not just some clueless tourist, he’ll be a bit more receptive. Reykjavik is minus 2 degrees but he’s still colder.

If he does recognise the artist, he doesn’t show it. I whip out my Monzo debit card and he instinctively picks up the card reader. ‘1500 krons,’ he says, without skipping a beat. I tap my card. Beep. Satisfied, he goes back to reading a magazine.

I take a right into the converted public toilets, passing the saloon style entrance. The words ‘TÓMA RÝMID’ are painted in white on the wooden paneled door. My Icelandic friend tells me ‘empty space’ is the English translation. But empty is not how I would describe the museum—inside was a minimalist’s nightmare. The walls are plastered with torn bits of paper stamped with typewriter font punk history. Thousands of eyes stare at you from an array of posters and newspaper clippings of punks playing in Iceland. Half of the photos are of The Sugarcubes. In one, a young Bjork in a plaid skirt is open-mouthed over a microphone—she looks suspiciously young to be surrounded by what appear to be much older men. A bullet belt is draped across a TV that plays live performances on loop. Headphones hang from the ceiling by silver chains, each one playing a different band. Fake plants and a stuffed python erupt from a urinal. Studded and patched up leather jackets are displayed with pride and some of the visitors try them on, pose for a picture. I wonder what happened to punks that originally owned them. I wonder if the guy at the counter used to wear them in moshpits and now had to watch tourists don them and make the rock n’ roll hand sign as an iPhone snaps away. I wonder if that’s why the punk who runs the punk museum is so miserable.

As I’m browsing the history, learning about Bjork’s love for Manchester duo 808 State, the miserable punk comes up to me.

‘I need to kick you out. I’m going to get a coffee.’ he says.

As we walk up the steps, I shoot my shot: ‘If I buy you a coffee would you be up for answering a few questions about the museum?’

‘I don’t pay for my coffee’ he says, lighting the cigarette hanging between his lips.

I look at him confused. He doesn’t elaborate. His trouser chains jangle as he storms off down the high-street. I’m left alone, somewhat stunned, the taste of his tobacco smoke, settling on my tongue.