My Struggle: Book One (14 page)

“This is crap, Karl Ove,” he said. “This is a joke. Why are you bothering me with this? Why should I listen to this stuff? Are you kidding me?”

“Crap? What do you mean crap?”

“You can't play. And you don't sing. There's nothing in it!”

He threw out his arms.

“I'm sure we can improve,” I said.

“Give up,” he said.

Do you think your band is so great then? I thought of saying, but I didn't.

“Okay, okay,” I said instead. “Thanks, anyway.”

He laughed again and sent me a look of astonishment. No one could fathom PÃ¥l because of his whole speed-metal thing, and the clueless side of him which made the class laugh, and which did not square with his shyness at all, which in turn did not square at all with the almost complete openness he could display making him unafraid of anything. Once, for example, he showed us a poem he had had published in a girls' magazine,
Det Nye
, which had also interviewed him. Outspoken, brazen, sensitive, shy, aggressive, rough. That was PÃ¥l. In a way it was good that it was PÃ¥l who heard our band because PÃ¥l's response didn't mean anything, whatever made him laugh didn't matter. So I calmly put the Walkman back in my pocket and went into class. He was probably right that we weren't very good. But since when was it important to be good? Hadn't he heard of punk? New Wave? None of those bands could play. But they had guts. Power. Soul. Presence.

Not long after this, in early autumn 1984, we got our first gig. Øyvind had set it up for us. Håne Shopping Center was celebrating its fifth anniversary; the occasion was to be marked with balloons, cakes, and music. The Bøksle Brothers, who had been famous all over the region for two decades with their interpretations of Sørland folk songs, were going to play. Then the center owner also wanted something local, preferably with some youth interest, and, since we practiced only a few hundred meters from the mall, we fitted the bill perfectly. We were to play for twenty minutes and would be paid five hundred kroner for the job. We hugged Øyvind when he told us. At long last it was our turn.

The two weeks before the gig, which was scheduled for eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning, passed quickly. We rehearsed several times, the whole band and Jan Vidar and I on our own, we discussed the order of our set list to and fro and back and forth, we bought new strings well in advance so that we could break them in, we decided what clothes we would wear, and when the day arrived we met early in the practice room to go through the set several times before the performance, for even though we were aware there was a risk we would peak too soon, we figured it was more important to feel at home with the songs.

How good I felt as I strolled across the parking lot of the shopping center, guitar case in hand. The equipment was already set up on one side of the passage leading to the square in the middle. Øyvind was adjusting the drum set, Jan Vidar was tuning his guitar with the new tuner he had bought for the occasion. Some kids were standing around watching. Soon they would be watching me too. I'd had my hair cut very short, I had a green military jacket on, black jeans, studded belt, blue-and-white baseball cleats. And of course the guitar case in my hand.

On the other side of the passage the Bøksle Brothers were already singing. A small crowd of people, maybe ten in all, was watching. There was a steady stream of passersby on their way to or from the shops. The wind was blowing, and something about it reminded me of The Beatles' concert on the roof of the Apple building in 1970.

“Everything alright?” I asked Jan Vidar, put down the guitar case, took out the guitar, found the strap and hung it over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Shall we plug in? What time is it, Øyvind?”

“Ten minutes past.”

“Ten to go. Let's wait a bit. Five minutes, okay?”

He went over to the amplifier and took a swig of Coke. Around his forehead he had tied a rolled-up scarf. Otherwise he was wearing a white shirt with the tails hanging over a pair of black trousers.

The Bøksle Brothers were still singing.

I glanced at the set list stuck up behind the amplifier.

Smoke on the Water
Paranoid
Black Magic Woman
So Lonely

“Can I borrow the tuner?” I asked Jan Vidar. He passed it to me, and I plugged in the lead. The guitar was tuned, but I fiddled with the knobs anyway. Several cars drove into the parking area and slowly circled, looking for an empty spot. As soon as the doors were open the children on the rear seats crawled out, ran around a bit on the tarmac and grabbed their parents' hands on their way towards us. Everyone stared as they went by, no one stopped.

Jan Henrik plugged his bass into the amplifier and twanged a string hard.

It resounded across the tarmac.

BOOM
.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM
.

Both the Bøksle Brothers glared over at us while they were singing. Jan Henrik stepped over to the amp and fiddled with the volume button. Played a couple more notes.

BOOM. BOOM
.

Øyvind tried a few thumps on the drums. Jan Vidar played a chord on the guitar. It was incredibly loud. Everyone in sight stared in our direction.

“Hey! Pack that in!” shouted one of the Bøksle Brothers.

Jan Vidar stared them out, then turned and took another swig of Coke. There was sound in the bass amp, there was sound in Jan Vidar's guitar amplifier. But what about mine? I lowered the volume on the guitar, struck a chord, raised it slowly until the amplifier seemed to leap at the sound and then raised it some more, all the time staring at the two guitar-strumming men on the other side of the passage, with legs akimbo and a smile on their faces, singing their droll ballads about seagulls, fishing boats, and sunsets. The moment they looked across at me, with glares it is difficult to describe as anything other than ferocious, I lowered the volume again. We had sound, everything was okay.

“What's the time now?” I asked Jan Vidar. His fingers were gliding up and down the neck of the guitar.

“Twenty past,” he said.

“Retards,” I said. “They should have finished by now.”

The Bøksle Brothers represented everything I was against, the respectable, cozy, bourgeois world, and I looked forward to turning up the amplifier and blowing them off the block. So far my rebelliousness had consisted of expressing divergent opinions in class, resting my head on the desk and falling asleep and, once when I had thrown a used paper bag on the pavement and an elderly man had told me to pick it up, I told him to pick it up himself if it was so damn important to him. When I walked off, my heart was pounding so hard in my chest I could scarcely breathe. Otherwise, it was through listening to the music that I liked, uncompromising, anticommercial, underground, bands that made me a rebel, someone who did not accept conventions, but fought for change. And the louder I played it, the closer I came to that ideal. I had bought an extra-long guitar lead so that I could stand in front of the hall mirror and play, with the amplifier upstairs in my room at full blast, and then things really started to happen, the sound became distorted, piercing, and almost regardless of what I did, it sounded good, the whole house was filled with the sound of my guitar, and a strange congruence evolved between my feelings and these sounds, as though
they
were me, as though
that
was the real me. I had written some lyrics about this, it had actually been meant as a song, but since no tune came to mind, I called it a poem when I later wrote it in my diary.

I distort my soul's feedback
I play my heart bare
I look at you and think:
We're at one in my loneliness
We're at one in my loneliness
You and me
You and me, my love

I wanted to be out, out in the great, wide world. And the only way I knew how, the only way I had, was through music. That was why I was standing outside this shopping center in Hånes on this day in early autumn, 1984, with my white-lacquered confirmation present, an imitation Stratocaster, hanging from my shoulder and my forefinger on the volume control, ready to flick it the moment the Bøksle Brothers' last chord faded.

The wind suddenly picked up across the square, leaves whirled past, rustling as they went, an ice cream ad spun round and round, flapping and clattering. I thought I felt a raindrop on my cheek, and peered up at the milky white sky.

“Is it starting to rain?” I asked.

Jan Vidar held out his palm. Shrugged his shoulders.

“Can't feel anything,” he said. “But we'll play whatever. Even if it pisses down.”

“Yes,” I said. “You nervous?”

He resolutely shook his head.

Then the brothers were finished. The few people who were standing around clapped and the brothers gave a slight bow.

Jan Vidar turned to Øyvind.

“Ready?” he asked.

Øyvind nodded.

“Ready, Jan Henrik?”

“Karl Ove?”

I nodded.

“Two, three, four,” said Jan Vidar, mostly to himself, and he played the first bars of the riff on his own.

The next second the sound of his guitar tore across the tarmac. People jumped with alarm. Everyone turned toward us. I counted in my head. Placed my fingers on the fret. My hand was shaking.

ONE TWO THREE – ONE TWO THREE FOUR – ONE TWO THREE – ONE TWO.

Then I was supposed to come in.

But there was no sound!

Jan Vidar stared up at me, his eyes frozen. I waited for the next round, cranked the volume up, came in. With two guitars it was deafening.

ONE TWO THREE – ONE TWO THREE FOUR – ONE TWO THREE – ONE TWO.

Then the hi-hat came in.

Chicka-chicka, chicka-chicka, chicka-chicka, chicka-chicka
.

The bass drum. The snare.

And then the bass.

BOM-BOM-BOM bombombombombombombombombombom-BOM

BOM-BOM-BOM-bombombombombombombombombombom-BOM

It was only then I looked at Jan Vidar again. His face was contorted into a kind of grimace as he strained to say something without using his voice.

Too fast! Too fast!

And Øyvind slowed down. I tried to follow suit, but it was confusing because both the bass and Jan Vidar's guitar kept going at the same tempo, and when I changed my mind and followed them they suddenly slowed down, and I was the only one left playing at breakneck speed. Amidst this chaos I noticed the wind blowing through Jan Vidar's hair, and that some of the kids were standing in front of us with their hands over their ears. The
next moment we had reached the first chorus and were more or less in synch. Then a man in tan slacks, a blue-and-white striped shirt and a yellow summer blazer came marching across the tarmac. It was the shopping center manager. He was heading straight for us. Twenty meters away he waved both arms as if trying to stop a ship. He kept waving. We continued to play, but as he stopped right in front of us, still gesticulating, there was no longer any doubt that he was addressing us, and we stopped.

“What the hell do you think you are doing!” he said.

“We were asked to play here,” Jan Vidar answered.

“Are you out of your tiny minds! This is a shopping center. It's Saturday. People want to shop and have a good time. They don't want to listen to that goddawful racket.”

“Shall we turn it down a bit?” Jan Vidar asked. “We can easily do that.”

“Not just a bit,” he said.

A crowd had gathered around us now. Maybe fifteen, sixteen people, including the kids. Not bad.

Jan Vidar craned around and lowered the volume on the amplifier. Played a chord and sent the shop owner an inquiring look.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

“Lower!” said the manager.

Jan Vidar lowered the volume a bit more, struck a chord.

“Is that alright then?” he asked. “We're not a dance band, you know,” he added.

“Right,” said the manager. “Try that, or even lower.”

Jan Vidar made another adjustment. He seemed to be fiddling with the knob, but I saw he was only feigning.

“There we are,” he said.

Jan Henrik and I also adjusted our volume.

“Let's start again,” Jan Vidar said.

And we started again. I counted in my head.

ONE TWO THREE – ONE TWO THREE FOUR – ONE TWO THREE – ONE TWO.

The manager was walking back towards the main entrance to the shopping
center. I watched him as we played. When we got to the part where we were interrupted he stopped and turned. Looked at us. Turned back, took a few steps toward the shops, turned again. Suddenly he came toward us, once again gesticulating furiously. Jan Vidar didn't see him, he had his eyes closed. Jan Henrik, however, did and raised an eyebrow.

“No, no, no,” the manager yelled, stopping in front of us.

“It's no good,” he said. “Sorry, you'll have to pack it in.”

“What?” objected Jan Vidar. “Why? Twenty-five minutes you said.”