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Mugison
Mugison
This is the story of a tiny boy and the search for his gift. It begins many years ago in Iceland’s Westfjords, a land of magic and wonder where life means seabirds on rugged cliffs, Arctic foxes in lairs and little fishing villages nestled in coves. It is here that Mugison lived. Mugison was happy at school but he found it hard to learn. Sometimes people can’t write things down properly and he was one. Though he may not have known much, he knew he wasn’t stupid and so did his Mama and Papa. He decided to find a job and they gave him a guitar to keep him company.
Mugi tried everything he could to make a living. He was a sailor off the coast of Russia, a clown for unwell children and messenger boy for a stockbroker. Eventually he found something he liked and for thirteen hours a day stood among the machines in the fish factory doing his task. So rich did it make him, he went to Reykjavik and bought one hundred CDs, a nice stereo with huge speakers, an electric guitar and a big amplifier. He loved music as much as people and more than money, and just holding his new instrument in his hands told him he could trust it to look after him.
Whenever Mugi played famous songs everyone could hear the mistakes, so he had always thought it best to write his own. When he wanted to go abroad, he put some of them onto a CD and called it útbrot, which means escape. He sold seventy copies to his friends and moved to London. There he searched for others with passion but only found landlords who wanted his savings. In time he did meet sexy folks that sang the blues but by then he was very poor. He couldn’t afford rent and slept on floors. But still he made music. When you find your gift you must try hard not to lose it.
Then something strange happened. He met a man from Malaysia, a place even further away than London, and told him all his wonderful ideas. And the man became angry, saying ‘you are a talker and not a doer’ and called Mugi a wannabe. But he also said ‘you got what it takes boy, the forces are with you. You got a nice hairdo and have to preach the message.’ The clock and compass inside Mugison pointed at one another. He made an album, Lonely Mountain, and went back to the Westfjords where his family, happy to see his gift shining, helped stitch its thousands of sleeves together.
Now nothing would stop him. He made music for a film, Niceland, and became a troubadour. (When they are heard after dark, Mugi’s melodies become very catchy and cast a kind of spell. It is like he is lying next to you, singing secrets into your ear. More and more people wanted to see him play them.) On his next record he didn’t work alone. His girlfriend with the birdsong voice, Rúna, and a fire-fingered friend, Petur, each helped. They moved to Reykjavik and made an album of dirty sing-alongs, sweet ballads and clever cuts called Mugimama, Is This Monkey Music? Sharing a gift is what keeps it alive.
Shortly afterwards, Rúna gave birth to the tiny boy, and on that day Mugi vowed to help find his gift and surround him in love until it unfurls. They’ll move back to the land of magic and wonder, where there is two of everything at most so you can do your business quickly and have more time with LPs. Earlier this year, all the most important people of Iceland gathered to tell Mugison he is the most loved performer in the country and his album is better than any of the others they’d heard. And when he got home he looked into his weird boy’s eyes and said ‘If I can do this, with only my cheap computer and a microphone, then you can do absolutely anything.’