Read Online Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen - Free Book Online
Authors: Lars Saabye Christensen
Ads: Link
decent
howl
,’ Seb said. ‘Just like on “I Wanna Be Your Man” and “Twist And Shout”.’
I thought about the school singing lessons. ‘The Hills and the Mountains’. ‘Three Small Drums’. ‘Dawn is Breaking’. Perhaps my voice had never had any decent material to work with. Perhaps Jensenius could teach me to sing.
‘Alright. I’ll be the vocalist!’
Gunnar re-lit the cigar and passed it round. Tears flowed, but no one could see through the smoke. And then we played all the Beatles records, starting with ‘Love Me Do’.
In the middle of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ the door burst open. Gunnar was so taken aback that he scratched the record. It was just his brother, Stig, but he wasn’t just a brother, he was about to start
gymnas
at the Cathedral School, he was one metre eighty-five and his hair came halfway down his ears. He glanced in from the doorway and said:
‘Fidel Castro dropped by, has he?’
We didn’t understand, but we laughed anyway, that much we did understand. Stig closed the door and joined us, he folded up his long body and sat on the floor. We were mute with awe, hardly dared open our mouths because we knew we would fill our pants as soon as our pained tongues uttered a sound. Gunnar looked a little embarrassed but proud, too. Not everyone had a big brother who could be bothered to mingle with little tubers whose shoots had only just emerged from the soil.
Stig looked at us and took a sudden, deep drag on the cigar. Not a wisp of smoke came out of his mouth. We waited and waited, but it stayed down. That was as bad as anything we had seen.
‘You playin’ The Beatles?’ he asked in a friendly tone.
We nodded and mumbled, yes, we were, The Beatles were great, and especially the latest single ‘Ticket To Ride’.
‘Have you heard this?’ he asked, showing us an LP he was carrying. The picture on the cover was of a gawky-looking kid, stiff curls, huge crooked nose, skinny frame. We hadn’t heard it.
‘Bob Dylan,’ Stig elucidated. ‘Best thing ever to have hit this earth.’
He took out the record, carefully placed it on the player, changed the speed to 33 rpm and told us to be quiet, though we were as still as driven snow.
‘Listen to this,’ Stig whispered. ‘Masters Of War’. ‘And think about Vietnam at the same time.’
‘V-V-Viet what?’ Ola burst out. His flushed face stood out like the Northern Lights. Stig had to educate him.
‘Vietnam,’ he explained. ‘A small country on the other side of the planet. Where the Americans are bombin’ innocent people. They’re usin’ somethin’ called napalm. Do you boys know what napalm is?’
The record player started up. He held the stylus a millimetre above the grooves. We didn’t know what napalm was.
‘It’s a liquid that sticks to your skin and burns. You haven’t got a hope in hell. It burns under water! Listen to me: Napalm burns
under water
.’
He snapped his mouth shut. There was a hiss in the loudspeaker, the hard acoustic guitar followed straight after, chords I will never forget and the voice that lacerated your head like a razor blade. We didn’t understand everything, but we understood the gist. It was eerie, and a chill went down my spine.
And I’ll stand over your grave till I’m sure that you’re dead
. We understood that. And we felt like going out onto the streets and beating up some adult bastards. It was a solemn occasion because now we could never be the same again. Now we knew better.
Stig put the record back in the sleeve and stood up. He towered above us and we would have done whatever he had asked us to do. We longed for him to give us an order, a vitally important, highly dangerous mission and we would go through fire and water for him.
But he just said, from the corner of his mouth:
‘Air the room well before Mum and Dad come back, boys.’
I cycled home and tried to sing the new song, but I couldn’t get hold of the melody. Every time I started it slipped out of
howl
,’ Seb said. ‘Just like on “I Wanna Be Your Man” and “Twist And Shout”.’
I thought about the school singing lessons. ‘The Hills and the Mountains’. ‘Three Small Drums’. ‘Dawn is Breaking’. Perhaps my voice had never had any decent material to work with. Perhaps Jensenius could teach me to sing.
‘Alright. I’ll be the vocalist!’
Gunnar re-lit the cigar and passed it round. Tears flowed, but no one could see through the smoke. And then we played all the Beatles records, starting with ‘Love Me Do’.
In the middle of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love’ the door burst open. Gunnar was so taken aback that he scratched the record. It was just his brother, Stig, but he wasn’t just a brother, he was about to start
gymnas
at the Cathedral School, he was one metre eighty-five and his hair came halfway down his ears. He glanced in from the doorway and said:
‘Fidel Castro dropped by, has he?’
We didn’t understand, but we laughed anyway, that much we did understand. Stig closed the door and joined us, he folded up his long body and sat on the floor. We were mute with awe, hardly dared open our mouths because we knew we would fill our pants as soon as our pained tongues uttered a sound. Gunnar looked a little embarrassed but proud, too. Not everyone had a big brother who could be bothered to mingle with little tubers whose shoots had only just emerged from the soil.
Stig looked at us and took a sudden, deep drag on the cigar. Not a wisp of smoke came out of his mouth. We waited and waited, but it stayed down. That was as bad as anything we had seen.
‘You playin’ The Beatles?’ he asked in a friendly tone.
We nodded and mumbled, yes, we were, The Beatles were great, and especially the latest single ‘Ticket To Ride’.
‘Have you heard this?’ he asked, showing us an LP he was carrying. The picture on the cover was of a gawky-looking kid, stiff curls, huge crooked nose, skinny frame. We hadn’t heard it.
‘Bob Dylan,’ Stig elucidated. ‘Best thing ever to have hit this earth.’
He took out the record, carefully placed it on the player, changed the speed to 33 rpm and told us to be quiet, though we were as still as driven snow.
‘Listen to this,’ Stig whispered. ‘Masters Of War’. ‘And think about Vietnam at the same time.’
‘V-V-Viet what?’ Ola burst out. His flushed face stood out like the Northern Lights. Stig had to educate him.
‘Vietnam,’ he explained. ‘A small country on the other side of the planet. Where the Americans are bombin’ innocent people. They’re usin’ somethin’ called napalm. Do you boys know what napalm is?’
The record player started up. He held the stylus a millimetre above the grooves. We didn’t know what napalm was.
‘It’s a liquid that sticks to your skin and burns. You haven’t got a hope in hell. It burns under water! Listen to me: Napalm burns
under water
.’
He snapped his mouth shut. There was a hiss in the loudspeaker, the hard acoustic guitar followed straight after, chords I will never forget and the voice that lacerated your head like a razor blade. We didn’t understand everything, but we understood the gist. It was eerie, and a chill went down my spine.
And I’ll stand over your grave till I’m sure that you’re dead
. We understood that. And we felt like going out onto the streets and beating up some adult bastards. It was a solemn occasion because now we could never be the same again. Now we knew better.
Stig put the record back in the sleeve and stood up. He towered above us and we would have done whatever he had asked us to do. We longed for him to give us an order, a vitally important, highly dangerous mission and we would go through fire and water for him.
But he just said, from the corner of his mouth:
‘Air the room well before Mum and Dad come back, boys.’
I cycled home and tried to sing the new song, but I couldn’t get hold of the melody. Every time I started it slipped out of
Similar Books
