My first encounter with Björk happened while watching the Opening Ceremony of the 2004 Olympics on a tiny TV in my friend’s basement. I was 14 years old, and I remember distinctly when Bjork came on and started singing. My friends snickered, made some disparaging pre-teen insult, and left the room to go refill their bowls of Cheez-Its or something.
But I was enraptured. I was glued to the screen, wide-eyed and frozen still, absorbing everything I possibly could about this otherworldly woman.
She stood rooted to the ground, swaying her arms sinuously like a cat’s tail, as her intricate dress billowed and flooded the entire stadium floor. She was small and seemed delicate, but her voice was powerful and confident.
Björk was a musician unlike any I had ever seen before. She was beautiful but weird, tiny but huge, gentle but intense. She was not just a singer, she was an artist.
And I was obsessed.