Fönstret #3
![]()
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
People & Places
Text by:
Johan Arrias, Elsa Bergman, Nadine Byrne, Erik Carlsson, Scott Cazan, Jon Collin, Mats Dimming,
Niklas Fite, Marta Forsberg, Joel Grip, Mats Gustafsson, Carl Michael von Hausswolff, Isak Hedtjärn, Karin Hellqvist, Per Åke Holmlander, Martin Küchen, Andreas Hiroui Larsson, Anna Lindal, Eva Lindal, Kajsa Magnarsson, Sten Sandell, Em Silén, Marja-leena Sillanpää, Susana Santos Silva, Mattias Ståhl, Cara Tolmie, Elena Wolay, Torbjörn Zetterberg.
Photos by Mats Äleklint.
Bilingual: English & Swedish
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
Text by:
Johan Arrias, Elsa Bergman, Nadine Byrne, Erik Carlsson, Scott Cazan, Jon Collin, Mats Dimming,
Niklas Fite, Marta Forsberg, Joel Grip, Mats Gustafsson, Carl Michael von Hausswolff, Isak Hedtjärn, Karin Hellqvist, Per Åke Holmlander, Martin Küchen, Andreas Hiroui Larsson, Anna Lindal, Eva Lindal, Kajsa Magnarsson, Sten Sandell, Em Silén, Marja-leena Sillanpää, Susana Santos Silva, Mattias Ståhl, Cara Tolmie, Elena Wolay, Torbjörn Zetterberg.
Photos by Mats Äleklint.
Bilingual: English & Swedish
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
Available Now !
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
I left London eight years ago today. It was time to go. I was completely exhausted by the job I’d been doing — running the concert programme at Café OTO — and couldn’t really imagine finding something better to do there whilst simultaneously being pushed further out of the city by the crazy cost of living.
Stockholm seemed to be the best option. We could get somewhere affordable to live. I got a grant that paid off my debts. And so we moved.I always rejected the idea that I would start some kind of OTO-equivalent here in Stockholm, but that hasn’t stopped me trying to imagine what such a place could be. There is a special confluence of things that makes OTO work in its own strange way and there is little point in trying to copy it. But one thing I keep coming back to are the windows onto the street. Everything that happens there is visible (and often audible) to the outside world. There are no secrets. The windows suggest an opening to and connection with. That it is possible to participate.
I decided that my fantasy space would also need to have such windows out to the street and it would be called Fönstret (The Window). A physical space will remain fantasy, but I decided to make Fönstret real, to make space via a series of online and physical publications, and do if but a small cut of the work that a physical space might do.
Stockholm seemed to be the best option. We could get somewhere affordable to live. I got a grant that paid off my debts. And so we moved.I always rejected the idea that I would start some kind of OTO-equivalent here in Stockholm, but that hasn’t stopped me trying to imagine what such a place could be. There is a special confluence of things that makes OTO work in its own strange way and there is little point in trying to copy it. But one thing I keep coming back to are the windows onto the street. Everything that happens there is visible (and often audible) to the outside world. There are no secrets. The windows suggest an opening to and connection with. That it is possible to participate.
I decided that my fantasy space would also need to have such windows out to the street and it would be called Fönstret (The Window). A physical space will remain fantasy, but I decided to make Fönstret real, to make space via a series of online and physical publications, and do if but a small cut of the work that a physical space might do.
At the same time, I’d been reading Fred Moten and Stefano Harney’s The Undercommons, trying to think through the meaning of such spaces and the meetings and relationships they facilitate. How informal, unaccredited knowledge is made through these connections and what/how much that means for how we live in the world (as artists, as people). For the first of these missives, I made three short ‘portrait’ films where the subjects talked about someone else or some place else: Lisa Ullén about Fylkingen, Leif Elggren about Lennart Af Larsson and Raymond Strid about Roland Kejser.
I also asked a whole stack of people I felt have some connection to Stockholm if they could write something along these lines. It should be someone or place they knew personally rather than a remote influence, but that otherwise they could be as loose as they liked with the brief. 29 people took me up on the ask and these contributions have finally been collected in a book — a mix of memoir, oral history, love letters, and poetry — a small window into a small part of Stockholm. Forever grateful to everyone for their honesty and for trusting me with their texts and happy to now make them available to the outside world.
— John Chantler, Stockholm.
24 November 2022
3.4 » Erik Carlsson
This text is part of Fönstret #3
![]()
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
This text is part of Fönstret #3
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
The Swamp
First semester of high school. Five subjects: mechanical workshop, welding and gas cutting, Swedish, English and sport.
On with the overalls and knuckle down. For two years we would have to put up with each other, those of us who had failed in different primary schools around Lerum municipality.
My father had taken the same path. In his time it was called the vocational school, and after undergoing two years it almost guaranteed you a job in the shipbuilding industry, which in my father’s time, before the shipbuilding crisis in the late 1960s, was a secure job where you could stay until retirement.
Of course, Dad thought it was a good idea to start on the engineering line, my friends who grew up with me on “the swamp” chose between Vehicle Building and Workshop, and my grades made clear which it would be for me. It would be workshop for Carlsson.
Damn how I hated it. Mortally dangerous classmates. None of us knew when we would next get a hammer in the back, our heads pounded with an anvil or
a welding flame in the backside. It was everyone against everyone else and some kind of competition as to who could be the worst. As luck would have it, I had a foul temperament, which resulted in setting some physical boundaries that meant I was soon left in peace from these anarchist penal games.
On Fridays, Swedish was in the schedule. Initially my classmates hated it. Swedish? So damn stupid. Why?
I remember that we sat in the hall before Carsten — as the teacher was called — came in. “Carsten — what a fuckin gay name!” Carsten was tall and lanky,had an incredibly well-groomed hairstyle and velvety skin, so smooth and freshly shaved that we suspected he was shaving and moisturising right before each lesson. He walked like a woman and spoke in a fine deep voice. I remember my first thought was: “He will be lynched and eaten alive in the first lesson.”
Carsten brings out the thickest book I have ever seen and begins to read aloud. The class falls silent and we all start listening intensely. The following lessons continue in the same way — a kind of storytelling session for teenagers. And we longed to hear Carsten read. Everyone sat quietly and listened. After the lessons we pretended that nothing had happened, we were ashamed of our pleasure in listening to Carsten’s fine deep voice.
A few weeks into the semester, after reading aloud for half the lesson, Carsten announces that now it is Mikael’s turn to read. Of all of us, Mikael is probably the one with the best self-esteem and self-confidence. Mikael reads one or two pages then it’s the next person’s turn and so it continues. I remember that Fredrik, who came somewhere in the middle of the reading circle, could not speak clearly. He had not yet mastered the sound of the letter R; we were surprised, Fredrik had never spoken before and now we knew why.
When Fredrik began to stumble in the text, Carsten’s presence grew, he em- braced us spiritually in some strange way. No one ever harassed Fredrik for his speech deviation, either during class or outside of it. Now we each had to borrow a copy of
the book we read Utvandrarna, invandrarna, nybyggarna och det sista brevet till Sverige (The Emigrants, Unto a Good Land, The Settlers and The Last Letter Home).
The topics of conversation during breaktimes ranged from the easiest way to steal a car and where to buy the cheapest hashish to how far through the book you had read and what would actually happen to Karl Oskar Nilsson.
The swamp was Lerum’s high-rise area built in 1964, sandwiched between the villa houses. And when the swamp’s first litter grew old enough to start school, so began an intense debate in the municipality about where these children should go to school. The obvious choice for the parents of the swamp was the school located 500 metres away, which meant only crossing one street. This would mean that the “swamp children” would mix with the Aspenäs villa children. Aspenäs housing association was strongly opposed to this and informed the municipality that this would be bad for both parties, and that Knappekulla school 3 km away on the other side of the town centre might well be better for us — at that school there would be more like-minded children for the swamp children to play with. After a year of strikes and a visit by Västnytt from the TV channel TV2, the municipality of Lerum had to bow to the pressure and apply the proximity principle, which was a nationally accepted standard.
Back home in the swamp, it was not possible to talk about Karl Oskar Nilsson. There were no bookworms living on the swamp. We were fully occupied with the task of managing ourselves. A sort of navigation around tricky adults: today we can’t go over to Dennis’ as his mother’s ex had trashed the apartment for the third time, Johny’s father had just begun a new period of drinking and Magnus’ mother had slept with no-arse-Gert five doors down, so there wouldn’t work either. We mostly spent our time outdoors because it was calmer. And what happened in Carsten’s lessons and the intense desire to read became something to keep to yourself. But when in Carsten’s lessons, those who wanted to, were able to blossom in full.
I loved the language, the sound, the rhythm and somewhere, the idea grew that it was possible to do something other than turn something on a lathe, weld, drink and sleep with your neighbour. I didn’t have a clue what that was going to be, but really, it was all the same shit.
Thank you Carsten.
(Translation: Jasmine Hinks)
First semester of high school. Five subjects: mechanical workshop, welding and gas cutting, Swedish, English and sport.
On with the overalls and knuckle down. For two years we would have to put up with each other, those of us who had failed in different primary schools around Lerum municipality.
My father had taken the same path. In his time it was called the vocational school, and after undergoing two years it almost guaranteed you a job in the shipbuilding industry, which in my father’s time, before the shipbuilding crisis in the late 1960s, was a secure job where you could stay until retirement.
Of course, Dad thought it was a good idea to start on the engineering line, my friends who grew up with me on “the swamp” chose between Vehicle Building and Workshop, and my grades made clear which it would be for me. It would be workshop for Carlsson.
Damn how I hated it. Mortally dangerous classmates. None of us knew when we would next get a hammer in the back, our heads pounded with an anvil or
a welding flame in the backside. It was everyone against everyone else and some kind of competition as to who could be the worst. As luck would have it, I had a foul temperament, which resulted in setting some physical boundaries that meant I was soon left in peace from these anarchist penal games.
On Fridays, Swedish was in the schedule. Initially my classmates hated it. Swedish? So damn stupid. Why?
I remember that we sat in the hall before Carsten — as the teacher was called — came in. “Carsten — what a fuckin gay name!” Carsten was tall and lanky,had an incredibly well-groomed hairstyle and velvety skin, so smooth and freshly shaved that we suspected he was shaving and moisturising right before each lesson. He walked like a woman and spoke in a fine deep voice. I remember my first thought was: “He will be lynched and eaten alive in the first lesson.”
Carsten brings out the thickest book I have ever seen and begins to read aloud. The class falls silent and we all start listening intensely. The following lessons continue in the same way — a kind of storytelling session for teenagers. And we longed to hear Carsten read. Everyone sat quietly and listened. After the lessons we pretended that nothing had happened, we were ashamed of our pleasure in listening to Carsten’s fine deep voice.
A few weeks into the semester, after reading aloud for half the lesson, Carsten announces that now it is Mikael’s turn to read. Of all of us, Mikael is probably the one with the best self-esteem and self-confidence. Mikael reads one or two pages then it’s the next person’s turn and so it continues. I remember that Fredrik, who came somewhere in the middle of the reading circle, could not speak clearly. He had not yet mastered the sound of the letter R; we were surprised, Fredrik had never spoken before and now we knew why.
When Fredrik began to stumble in the text, Carsten’s presence grew, he em- braced us spiritually in some strange way. No one ever harassed Fredrik for his speech deviation, either during class or outside of it. Now we each had to borrow a copy of
the book we read Utvandrarna, invandrarna, nybyggarna och det sista brevet till Sverige (The Emigrants, Unto a Good Land, The Settlers and The Last Letter Home).
The topics of conversation during breaktimes ranged from the easiest way to steal a car and where to buy the cheapest hashish to how far through the book you had read and what would actually happen to Karl Oskar Nilsson.
The swamp was Lerum’s high-rise area built in 1964, sandwiched between the villa houses. And when the swamp’s first litter grew old enough to start school, so began an intense debate in the municipality about where these children should go to school. The obvious choice for the parents of the swamp was the school located 500 metres away, which meant only crossing one street. This would mean that the “swamp children” would mix with the Aspenäs villa children. Aspenäs housing association was strongly opposed to this and informed the municipality that this would be bad for both parties, and that Knappekulla school 3 km away on the other side of the town centre might well be better for us — at that school there would be more like-minded children for the swamp children to play with. After a year of strikes and a visit by Västnytt from the TV channel TV2, the municipality of Lerum had to bow to the pressure and apply the proximity principle, which was a nationally accepted standard.
Back home in the swamp, it was not possible to talk about Karl Oskar Nilsson. There were no bookworms living on the swamp. We were fully occupied with the task of managing ourselves. A sort of navigation around tricky adults: today we can’t go over to Dennis’ as his mother’s ex had trashed the apartment for the third time, Johny’s father had just begun a new period of drinking and Magnus’ mother had slept with no-arse-Gert five doors down, so there wouldn’t work either. We mostly spent our time outdoors because it was calmer. And what happened in Carsten’s lessons and the intense desire to read became something to keep to yourself. But when in Carsten’s lessons, those who wanted to, were able to blossom in full.
I loved the language, the sound, the rhythm and somewhere, the idea grew that it was possible to do something other than turn something on a lathe, weld, drink and sleep with your neighbour. I didn’t have a clue what that was going to be, but really, it was all the same shit.
Thank you Carsten.
(Translation: Jasmine Hinks)
Träsket
Första terminen på gymnasiet. Fem ämnen: mekanisk verkstad, svetsning och gasskärning, svenska, engelska och idrott.
Påmed blåstället och plugga. I två år skulle vi stå ut med varandra, vi som misslyckats i olika grundskolor runt om iLerums kommun. Min pappa hade gått samma linje. På hans tid hette det yrkesskolan, efter genomgångna två år var man nästintill garanterad ett jobb inom varvsindustrin som på pappas tid innan varvskrisen i slutet av 1960-talet var en tryggarbetsplats där man kunde stanna tills pension.
Pappa tyckte givetvis att det var en bra ide att börja på verkstadsteknisklinje, mina vänner som växte upp med mig på träsket valde mellan Bygg Fordon och Verkstad, och mina betyg talade sitttydliga språk. Det skulle bli “verksta” för Carlsson.
Fy fan vad jag hatade det. Fullkomligt livsfarliga klasskamrateringen av oss visste när en skulle få en hammare i ryggen, sitt huvud dunkat i ett städ eller en svetslåga i röven. Det varalla mot alla och en slags tävling om vem som va värst. Som tur var hade jag ett sjuhelsikes temperament vilketresulterade i fysiska gränssättningar som gjorde att jag snart fick vara ifred från dessa anarkistiska penalismlekar.
Påfredagen stod det svenska på Schemat. Mina klasskamrater hatade initialt eventet. Svenska så jäkla dumt, varför då? Jagminns att vi satt i salen innan Carsten som läraren hette kom in. “Carsten — vilket jävla bögnamn!”. Carsten var lång ochgänglig, hade en oerhört väl om- händertagen frisyr och en hud som sammet, så len och nyrakad att vi misstänkte att hanrakade och smorde sig precis innan varje lektion. Han gick som en kvinna och talade med djup vän röst. Jag minns att minförsta tanke va; “han kommer bli lynchad och uppäten på en lektion”.
Carsten tar fram den tjockaste bok jag någonsin settoch börjar läsa högt. Klas- sen tystnar och vi börjar alla lyssna intensivt. De följande lektionerna fortsätter på sammasätt en slags sagostund för tonåringar. Vad vi längtade till att höra Carsten läsa, alla satt tyst och lyssnade. Efterlektionerna låtsades vi som att inget hänt, vi skämdes över vår njutning av att lyssna på Carstens väna djupa stämma.
Några veckor in i terminen efter att ha läst högt en halv lektion meddelar Carsten att nu är det Mikaels tur att läsa. Mikael är nog den av oss med bäst självkänsla och självförtroende. Mikael läser en eller två sidor sen är det nästas tur ochså fortsätter det. Jag minns att Fredrik som kom någon- stans i mitten av läsecirkeln inte kunde prata rent, han hade ännuinte satt ljudandet av bokstaven R, vi blev förvånade, Fredrik hade aldrig pratat innan och nu visste vi varför.
När Fredrik började staka sig fram i texten växte Carstens närvaro, han omfamnade oss själsligen på något märkligt sätt. Detblev aldrig någon som trakasserade Fredrik för hans talavvikelse varken under lektion eller utanför. Nu fick vi lånavarsitt exemplar av boken vi läste Utvandrarna, invandrarna, nybyggarna och det sista brevet till Sverige.
Samtalsämnenapå rasterna växlade från hur man enklast tjuvkopplade en bil eller vart man köpte billigast hasch till hur långt man lästi boken och vad som egentligen skulle ske med Karl Oskar Nilsson. Träsket var Lerums höghusområde byggt 1964 insprängtmellan villorna. Och när träskets första barnkull blev stora nog att börja i skolan startade en intensiv debatt i kommunenvart dessa barn skulle gå i skolan. Det självklara valet för föräldrarna på träsket var skolan som låg 500 meter frånområdet med endast en gata att korsa. Det skulle betyda att träsketbarn blandades med Aspenäs villabarn.
Aspenäsvillaförening var strakt emot och meddelade kommunen att detta vore dåligt för båda parter, men att knappekullaskolan 3 kmbort på andra sidan centrum kunde vara en bättre väg för oss att gå och att på den skolan skulle det finnas merlikasinnade barn för träsketbarnen att leka med. Efter ett år av strejk och besök av Västnytt från TV2 fick även Lerumskommun foga sig och tillämpa närhetsprincipen som var nationellt beslutad.
Väl hemma på Träsket var det inte möjligt attprata om Karl Oskar Nilsson. Det var ju inga “läshuvuden” direkt som bodde på träsket. Vi var fullt upptagna av att klaraoss själva. Något sorts navigerande runt knepiga vuxna: idag kan vi inte vara hos Dennis hans morsas ex hade trashatlägen- heten för tredje gången, Johnys farsa hade precis påbörjat en ny period av supande och Magnus morsa hade legat med “Gert utan stjärt” fem portar bort så där var det inte läge. Vi va mest ute för där var det lugnast. Och det som hände på Carstens lektioner och den intensiva läslusten blev något att hålla för sig själv. Men väl på Carstens lektioner fick densom ville blomma för fullt.
Jag älskade språket ljudet rytmen och någonstans där grodde tanken om att man kunde göra något annat än att svarva, svetsa, supa och ligga med grannen. Vad hade jag ingen aning om, och det är egentligen skit samma.
Tack Carsten.
Första terminen på gymnasiet. Fem ämnen: mekanisk verkstad, svetsning och gasskärning, svenska, engelska och idrott.
Påmed blåstället och plugga. I två år skulle vi stå ut med varandra, vi som misslyckats i olika grundskolor runt om iLerums kommun. Min pappa hade gått samma linje. På hans tid hette det yrkesskolan, efter genomgångna två år var man nästintill garanterad ett jobb inom varvsindustrin som på pappas tid innan varvskrisen i slutet av 1960-talet var en tryggarbetsplats där man kunde stanna tills pension.
Pappa tyckte givetvis att det var en bra ide att börja på verkstadsteknisklinje, mina vänner som växte upp med mig på träsket valde mellan Bygg Fordon och Verkstad, och mina betyg talade sitttydliga språk. Det skulle bli “verksta” för Carlsson.
Fy fan vad jag hatade det. Fullkomligt livsfarliga klasskamrateringen av oss visste när en skulle få en hammare i ryggen, sitt huvud dunkat i ett städ eller en svetslåga i röven. Det varalla mot alla och en slags tävling om vem som va värst. Som tur var hade jag ett sjuhelsikes temperament vilketresulterade i fysiska gränssättningar som gjorde att jag snart fick vara ifred från dessa anarkistiska penalismlekar.
Påfredagen stod det svenska på Schemat. Mina klasskamrater hatade initialt eventet. Svenska så jäkla dumt, varför då? Jagminns att vi satt i salen innan Carsten som läraren hette kom in. “Carsten — vilket jävla bögnamn!”. Carsten var lång ochgänglig, hade en oerhört väl om- händertagen frisyr och en hud som sammet, så len och nyrakad att vi misstänkte att hanrakade och smorde sig precis innan varje lektion. Han gick som en kvinna och talade med djup vän röst. Jag minns att minförsta tanke va; “han kommer bli lynchad och uppäten på en lektion”.
Carsten tar fram den tjockaste bok jag någonsin settoch börjar läsa högt. Klas- sen tystnar och vi börjar alla lyssna intensivt. De följande lektionerna fortsätter på sammasätt en slags sagostund för tonåringar. Vad vi längtade till att höra Carsten läsa, alla satt tyst och lyssnade. Efterlektionerna låtsades vi som att inget hänt, vi skämdes över vår njutning av att lyssna på Carstens väna djupa stämma.
Några veckor in i terminen efter att ha läst högt en halv lektion meddelar Carsten att nu är det Mikaels tur att läsa. Mikael är nog den av oss med bäst självkänsla och självförtroende. Mikael läser en eller två sidor sen är det nästas tur ochså fortsätter det. Jag minns att Fredrik som kom någon- stans i mitten av läsecirkeln inte kunde prata rent, han hade ännuinte satt ljudandet av bokstaven R, vi blev förvånade, Fredrik hade aldrig pratat innan och nu visste vi varför.
När Fredrik började staka sig fram i texten växte Carstens närvaro, han omfamnade oss själsligen på något märkligt sätt. Detblev aldrig någon som trakasserade Fredrik för hans talavvikelse varken under lektion eller utanför. Nu fick vi lånavarsitt exemplar av boken vi läste Utvandrarna, invandrarna, nybyggarna och det sista brevet till Sverige.
Samtalsämnenapå rasterna växlade från hur man enklast tjuvkopplade en bil eller vart man köpte billigast hasch till hur långt man lästi boken och vad som egentligen skulle ske med Karl Oskar Nilsson. Träsket var Lerums höghusområde byggt 1964 insprängtmellan villorna. Och när träskets första barnkull blev stora nog att börja i skolan startade en intensiv debatt i kommunenvart dessa barn skulle gå i skolan. Det självklara valet för föräldrarna på träsket var skolan som låg 500 meter frånområdet med endast en gata att korsa. Det skulle betyda att träsketbarn blandades med Aspenäs villabarn.
Aspenäsvillaförening var strakt emot och meddelade kommunen att detta vore dåligt för båda parter, men att knappekullaskolan 3 kmbort på andra sidan centrum kunde vara en bättre väg för oss att gå och att på den skolan skulle det finnas merlikasinnade barn för träsketbarnen att leka med. Efter ett år av strejk och besök av Västnytt från TV2 fick även Lerumskommun foga sig och tillämpa närhetsprincipen som var nationellt beslutad.
Väl hemma på Träsket var det inte möjligt attprata om Karl Oskar Nilsson. Det var ju inga “läshuvuden” direkt som bodde på träsket. Vi var fullt upptagna av att klaraoss själva. Något sorts navigerande runt knepiga vuxna: idag kan vi inte vara hos Dennis hans morsas ex hade trashatlägen- heten för tredje gången, Johnys farsa hade precis påbörjat en ny period av supande och Magnus morsa hade legat med “Gert utan stjärt” fem portar bort så där var det inte läge. Vi va mest ute för där var det lugnast. Och det som hände på Carstens lektioner och den intensiva läslusten blev något att hålla för sig själv. Men väl på Carstens lektioner fick densom ville blomma för fullt.
Jag älskade språket ljudet rytmen och någonstans där grodde tanken om att man kunde göra något annat än att svarva, svetsa, supa och ligga med grannen. Vad hade jag ingen aning om, och det är egentligen skit samma.
Tack Carsten.
3.26 » Matthias Ståhl
This text is part of Fönstret #3
![]()
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
This text is part of Fönstret #3
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
Harald Hult
I cannot possibly lose to this old man, I can’t. He’s 30 years older and smokes and boozes. It cannot happen. Panic grows in my body, the racket feels heavy in my right arm. This is starting to get embarrassing now. I fall for his tricks every time, he’s feinting a clear but in some incomprehensible way he manages — with a sensitive hand and light touch — to get the shuttle to sail down just over the net, unreachable. His strategic sense of play is impressive. It feels as if he is snatching a few points through pure trickery before we’ve even begun playing. The scores rack up, I start to imagine what everyone else will think.
In the end, we manage to put together a tournament, made a serious game schedule, everyone plays everyone. Harald does not belong to our generation at all, but we invite him as a fun thing. He likes to compete, just like us. We run the old points system, where you have to win the serve before you get any points. I have not got a single point. I’ve won the serve a few times but not a single point. I try to catch my breath — focus now, come on!
He wins the first set 15-0.
My first meeting with Harald was at Blå Tornet, Drottninggatan. I bought a Gary Burton record from him; he was moderately enthusiastic about my choice. The second time we met he had moved to Rörstrandsgatan, it smelled of cigarette smoke, coffee and records. Vinyl everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Books at the very top, CDs at the checkout. I was looking for ECM records on vinyl. He pointed — “down there”, and then I had to crawl along the floor and flip through. He was pretty clear about what he liked and did not like.
Harald often blindfolded his visitors in the shop. Who can it be on tenor sax here? Which year? Who is the pianist? I remember that on one occasion I saw my chance to show that I not only listened to ECM, but actually knew a thing or two.
“Maybe Red Garland, the boxer?”
I chipped in, when he was testing another customer.
“Interesting, very interesting...”
Harald replied, looking at me with new eyes, and I felt initiated, approved.
We invited him to our own blindfold evenings. Harald was happy to come, bringing some beers in a plastic bag. We had an advanced points system with minus deductions and multiple choice questions. At first he probably thought it was a bit silly, but he soon took the game very seriously and fought tooth and nail. Always a break for apple pie and custard. Harald took home win after win while broadening the horizons for the rest of us. A high priest of jazz, keen to play and with a competitive edge. During a visit to his shop, coffee and chess were served. Always with a chess clock, otherwise it made no sense.
Music is by no means a competition but can be a cherished game. He was good at showing this, Harald. Not discounting the darkness or seriousness, he was god damn fantastic at child-like play.
In the second set, I manage to get on the front foot, finally managing to disarm his cunning game, make him start running, crack the code. I take home the second and third sets, and I can breathe again, things were about to go downhill there. Harald buys a coffee and a plastic wrapped liver paté sandwich — the best in town according to him — and sits down at the tables beside the courts, to watch better players, learn new tricks. He calls a week later, no small talk, straight to the point:
“Hi, it’s Harald. Badminton?”
(Translation: Jasmine Hinks)
I cannot possibly lose to this old man, I can’t. He’s 30 years older and smokes and boozes. It cannot happen. Panic grows in my body, the racket feels heavy in my right arm. This is starting to get embarrassing now. I fall for his tricks every time, he’s feinting a clear but in some incomprehensible way he manages — with a sensitive hand and light touch — to get the shuttle to sail down just over the net, unreachable. His strategic sense of play is impressive. It feels as if he is snatching a few points through pure trickery before we’ve even begun playing. The scores rack up, I start to imagine what everyone else will think.
In the end, we manage to put together a tournament, made a serious game schedule, everyone plays everyone. Harald does not belong to our generation at all, but we invite him as a fun thing. He likes to compete, just like us. We run the old points system, where you have to win the serve before you get any points. I have not got a single point. I’ve won the serve a few times but not a single point. I try to catch my breath — focus now, come on!
He wins the first set 15-0.
My first meeting with Harald was at Blå Tornet, Drottninggatan. I bought a Gary Burton record from him; he was moderately enthusiastic about my choice. The second time we met he had moved to Rörstrandsgatan, it smelled of cigarette smoke, coffee and records. Vinyl everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Books at the very top, CDs at the checkout. I was looking for ECM records on vinyl. He pointed — “down there”, and then I had to crawl along the floor and flip through. He was pretty clear about what he liked and did not like.
Harald often blindfolded his visitors in the shop. Who can it be on tenor sax here? Which year? Who is the pianist? I remember that on one occasion I saw my chance to show that I not only listened to ECM, but actually knew a thing or two.
“Maybe Red Garland, the boxer?”
I chipped in, when he was testing another customer.
“Interesting, very interesting...”
Harald replied, looking at me with new eyes, and I felt initiated, approved.
We invited him to our own blindfold evenings. Harald was happy to come, bringing some beers in a plastic bag. We had an advanced points system with minus deductions and multiple choice questions. At first he probably thought it was a bit silly, but he soon took the game very seriously and fought tooth and nail. Always a break for apple pie and custard. Harald took home win after win while broadening the horizons for the rest of us. A high priest of jazz, keen to play and with a competitive edge. During a visit to his shop, coffee and chess were served. Always with a chess clock, otherwise it made no sense.
Music is by no means a competition but can be a cherished game. He was good at showing this, Harald. Not discounting the darkness or seriousness, he was god damn fantastic at child-like play.
In the second set, I manage to get on the front foot, finally managing to disarm his cunning game, make him start running, crack the code. I take home the second and third sets, and I can breathe again, things were about to go downhill there. Harald buys a coffee and a plastic wrapped liver paté sandwich — the best in town according to him — and sits down at the tables beside the courts, to watch better players, learn new tricks. He calls a week later, no small talk, straight to the point:
“Hi, it’s Harald. Badminton?”
(Translation: Jasmine Hinks)
Jag kan omöjligt förlora mot den här gubben, det finns inte, han är 30 år åldre och röker och super, det kan inte hända. Paniken växer i kroppen, racketen känns tung i min högerarm, börjar bli pinsamt det här ju. Jag går på hans tricks hela tiden, han fintar clear men på nåt obegripligt sätt lyckas han med finkänslig hand och lätt touch få bollen att segla ner precis framme vid nät, otagbar. Hans strategiska spelsinne imponerar, känns som om han snor åt sig några poäng bara på rent lurendrejeri innan vi ens hunnit börja spela. Siffrorna rullar iväg, börjar tänka på vad alla de andra kommer tycka.
Vi har lyckats få ihop en turnering till slut, gjort seriöst spelschema, alla möter alla. Harald tillhör ju inte vår generation alls men vi bjuder in honom som en kul grej. Han gillar att tävla, precis som vi. Vi kör det gamla poängsystemet, där man är tvungen att vinna över serven innan man får poäng. Jag har inte fått en enda poäng. Vunnit över serven några gånger men inte en enda poäng. Försöker gaska upp mig - skärpning nu, kom igen!
Han vinner första set med 15-0.
Första mötet med Harald var på Blå Tornet, Drottninggatan. Jag köpte en Gary Burton skiva av honom, han var måttligtentusiastisk över mitt val. Vid andra mötet hade han flyttat till Rörstrandsgatan, det luktade cigarettrök, kaffe ochskivor. Vinyl överallt, från golv till tak. Böcker allra längst upp, cd vid kassan. Jag sökte efter ECM-skivor på vinyl. Han pekade - “därnere”, och så fick jag krypa längs golvet och bläddra. Han var rätt tydlig med vad han tyckte om ochinte. Harald blindfoldade ofta sina besökare i butiken, vem kan det vara på tenorsax här, vilket år? Vem är pianisten?Minns att jag vid ett tillfälle såg min chans att visa att jag minsann inte bara lyssnade på ECM, utan faktiskt kunde ettoch annat.
“Kanske Red Garland, boxaren?”
flikade jag in när han testade en annan kund.
“Intressant, mycket intressant...”
svarade Harald och såg på mig med nya ögon, och jag kände mig invigd, godkänd.
Vi bjöd med honom på våra egna blindfold-kvällar, Harald kom gärna, tog med någraöl i en plastpåse. Vi hade ett avanceratpoängsystem med minusavdrag och multifrågor, han tyckte nog först att det var lite fånigt, men tog snart leken på fullasteallvar och tävlade med liv och lust. Alltid avbrott för äppelpaj och vaniljsås. Harald tog hem vinst efter vinst samtidigtsom han vidgade vyerna för oss övriga. En jazzens överstepräst med tävlingsnerv och leklusta. På besök i hans butikvankades det kaffe och schack. Alltid med schackklocka, annars var det ingen mening.
Musik är ingalunda tävling men kan vara en kär lek. Han var bra på att visa det Harald. Utan att gå förbi svärta ellerallvar så var han ta mig tusan fantastisk på att leka.
I andra set tar jag ett steg fram i banan, lyckas till slut desarmera hans luriga spel,få honom att börja springa, knäckerkoden. Jag tar hem andra och tredje set, och pustar ut för den här gången, höll på att gå illa det där. Harald köper enkaffe och en inplastad leverpastejmacka — de bästa i stan enligt honom — och sätter sig vid borden intill banorna för attse på bättre spelare, lära sig nya tricks. Så ringer han nån vecka senare, inget småpratande, rakt på sak:
“Hej, det är Harald. Badminton?”
3.27 » Cara Tolmie
This text is part of Fönstret #3
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Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
This text is part of Fönstret #3
Book sewn with open spine. 170 x 239mm. 192pp. 1+1 Pantone 546C, 120 gsm offset paper inside, 300 gsm offset paper covers.
ISBN: 978-91-527-4170-2
165 SEK + shipping
6% VAT will be added for shipping addresses in Sweden and all other EU countries. 0% tax for all shipments outside the EU.
Just Can’t Get Enough
I am one of those despised people who takes karaoke too seriously. I used to keep a list of possible karaoke songs on my phone, just in case. To this day, I do karaoke alone at home or in my studio. Sometimes I do this because it’s the only thing that gets me out of a slump, other times because I just can’t help myself. Every time I make a new performance I have to make a concerted effort to stop myself from filling it with karaoke. On this I have failed on a few occasions.
For me it is an addiction, once I start I cannot stop. It’s like a plunge pool, binging on sugar or listening to guilty pleasures, just one more episode... I know I am not alone in this, I have witnessed the beast overtake many others throughout my years doing karaoke. In writing the follow- ing account of my early experience with this ritual, I realise that my experience of doing karaoke was probably what forged my ongoing obsession with singing. It is the epitome of a certain thrill that singing in front of an audience can give, all at once masochistic and empowering.
The first time I did karaoke (serious- ly) was at a pub called the Crossland’s in Glasgow, around 2007. I had recently been dumped and I was gutted about it. However, I was also steeped in that wild energy that often trails behind heartbreak. In other words, I was wide open to new experi- ences.
I was on the committee of the artist-led gallery Transmission in Glasgow at the time, and at one of our openings I had been chatting to another artist called George Ziffo. George was a shy painter, he had wafty fair hair and a small pencil moustache. I don’t remember how we got onto it but the topic of karaoke came up. I was surprised to discover that George was an avid fan and eager to find a bar where he could sing. I immediately piped up and said that I also very much wanted to go to karaoke.
George said he knew a place — Crossland’s — a bar in Maryhill made famous by its appearance in the film Trainspotting. If you remember the scene where Begbie throws a thick pint glass over his shoulder from the balcony of a pub and it smashes on a woman’s head, that was where George and I went to sing karaoke. George managed to gather a few others that were also keen to come along — all men, all relatively shy and dorky.
I don’t remember so many details about that first night other than the two songs that I sang. The first I did solo — Back on the Chain Gang by the Pretenders. It was a song that my dad used to play in the car when we were kids. Somehow it seemed to fit the implied criteria, just the right amount of nostalgic, intergenerational, soft rock with a feel good melody.
As is tradition with an amatuer karaoke performance I only realised half way through the song that it was very difficult to sing, I didn’t remember most of the verse and got completely stumped by the bridge. However, despite these misde- meanors I came off stage high. As I edged back into my seat at the table alongside my ill-fitting entourage, I buzzed and sipped on my pint with a ferocious glee in my eyes, my heart beating. I wanted to laugh hysterically and weep all at the same time. I was ripped open and elated.
I felt for the first time a strange and hard to describe sensation that has reeled me in many times in the years since. It’s something caught between embarrassment, pleasure, adrenaline, fear and power but perhaps most importantly, a sense of being part of a community. This “community” is complex — it is a force, a sense, an encounter that I don’t totally understand. It is not a fixed group of people. It swells and ebbs from song to song. It reaches out of the walls of the pub towards all of those other people who have sung the same songs in other rooms. It is earnest and supportive. This community often makes no sense on paper unless you understand it purely as a shared love of something that you produce together, for one another, completely outside of the regular confines of your daily lives.
After my initial revelation that karaoke was not as easy as it seemed, I sang the second song of the night as a duet with one of the boys from my table — a friendly musician with floppy hair and a wide smile. He suggested Just can’t get enough by Depeche Mode which although I wasn’t convinced I knew so well I got through with a lot more ease than the previous song. I was even bold enough to attempt a few harmonies on the chorus. It was a truly empowering feeling.
Most of us sang that first night. There was one of the group, I can’t remember who exactly, that only ever sang David Bowie songs. He used an imitation Bowie voice to sing that was both endearing and cringeworthy. Lucky, he could also hold a tune so somehow always managed to pull it off. Afterwards, our oddly shaped gang went dancing together. We danced until close, fuelled by euphoria from our night at Crossland’s. This first night together was tender, peculiar and revelatory. We were all hooked on the feeling.
After that first night we became a kind of gang with a hidden secret. We were bound together by a special power that the rest of the artists we hung out with wouldn’t suspect. We began to meet at Crossland’s every week for karaoke. Serious karaoke. We would select and practice our songs at home during the week, excited about discoveries that we knew would please the rest of the group. Occasionally new members would join, thankfully a few other women over the weeks, but in general our group remained small and dedicated.
We began to be known and even accepted by the other regulars at Crossland’s. There was one man who was there every week. I cannot remember his name but he always came alone and sat on the end of the bar, wearing the same full denim outfit every time. He was perhaps in his 60s or 70s but had the kind of face that could have aged early through alcohol consumption, he was usually visibly drunk. Every week without fail he would sing the same three songs — Little by Little by Oasis, Ruby by the Kaiser Chiefs and Losing my Religion by REM. After some weeks we all began to greet him as we entered the bar, he would cheer for us as we would cheer for him.
Our assimilation was not something to be taken for granted and we were gratified by our integration into this ritual. My experience of growing up in Glasgow was always imbued by class awareness, heightened by the fact that my father grew up in a working class Glaswegian family and my mother a middle class family in London. I was acutely aware of this dynamic in my daily encounters — from the clothes I wore to the way my accent would shape shift depending on the context. Our group could read as nothing but painfully middle class, there was no getting away from that. We all felt it the minute we walked into that bar on the first night, or at least I know we were all nervous. I’m not totally sure what of, I don’t believe any of us thought that Begbie would be waiting in there ready to smash a pint glass over our heads. I suppose we just knew that we would stick out and there was a good chance that our presence may not be welcomed. But over the weeks we integrated successfully. On reflection, I believe that was probably testament to our earnest and serious approach to karaoke. We were not there to laugh at anyone or put anyone down, we were just there to sing with the most heart and dedication that we could, like everyone else.
Some months later the word got out about our little karaoke club. A friend who was an artist and musician got excited and decided to have his birthday gathering at Crossland’s karaoke. I was hesitant but supportive. I felt protective of what we had built up there and was worried about how the other regulars that we had built rapport with would react to the bar being flooded with young artists. I remember it being awkward for us in the initiated group. Everyone at the birthday party had a great time and sang a lot, but there was a way they approached their song choices and styles of performance that felt somewhat inflected with irony. Although I would have very much enjoyed and indulged in this if we were doing karaoke together at a house party or in a booth, at Crossland’s it made me nervous. I feared that by association our small group’s place in this community would be threatened.
And in a way it was, as far as I remember this night marked the beginning of the end of our ritual together. I can’t totally remember why, perhaps our personal lives took over or it just faded out. But I also think that our place there shifted after that evening in a way that none of us could quite reconcile or put our finger on afterwards. This was not the end of my encounter with karaoke however, just the end of the start of a fervent new addiction.
I am one of those despised people who takes karaoke too seriously. I used to keep a list of possible karaoke songs on my phone, just in case. To this day, I do karaoke alone at home or in my studio. Sometimes I do this because it’s the only thing that gets me out of a slump, other times because I just can’t help myself. Every time I make a new performance I have to make a concerted effort to stop myself from filling it with karaoke. On this I have failed on a few occasions.
For me it is an addiction, once I start I cannot stop. It’s like a plunge pool, binging on sugar or listening to guilty pleasures, just one more episode... I know I am not alone in this, I have witnessed the beast overtake many others throughout my years doing karaoke. In writing the follow- ing account of my early experience with this ritual, I realise that my experience of doing karaoke was probably what forged my ongoing obsession with singing. It is the epitome of a certain thrill that singing in front of an audience can give, all at once masochistic and empowering.
The first time I did karaoke (serious- ly) was at a pub called the Crossland’s in Glasgow, around 2007. I had recently been dumped and I was gutted about it. However, I was also steeped in that wild energy that often trails behind heartbreak. In other words, I was wide open to new experi- ences.
I was on the committee of the artist-led gallery Transmission in Glasgow at the time, and at one of our openings I had been chatting to another artist called George Ziffo. George was a shy painter, he had wafty fair hair and a small pencil moustache. I don’t remember how we got onto it but the topic of karaoke came up. I was surprised to discover that George was an avid fan and eager to find a bar where he could sing. I immediately piped up and said that I also very much wanted to go to karaoke.
George said he knew a place — Crossland’s — a bar in Maryhill made famous by its appearance in the film Trainspotting. If you remember the scene where Begbie throws a thick pint glass over his shoulder from the balcony of a pub and it smashes on a woman’s head, that was where George and I went to sing karaoke. George managed to gather a few others that were also keen to come along — all men, all relatively shy and dorky.
I don’t remember so many details about that first night other than the two songs that I sang. The first I did solo — Back on the Chain Gang by the Pretenders. It was a song that my dad used to play in the car when we were kids. Somehow it seemed to fit the implied criteria, just the right amount of nostalgic, intergenerational, soft rock with a feel good melody.
As is tradition with an amatuer karaoke performance I only realised half way through the song that it was very difficult to sing, I didn’t remember most of the verse and got completely stumped by the bridge. However, despite these misde- meanors I came off stage high. As I edged back into my seat at the table alongside my ill-fitting entourage, I buzzed and sipped on my pint with a ferocious glee in my eyes, my heart beating. I wanted to laugh hysterically and weep all at the same time. I was ripped open and elated.
I felt for the first time a strange and hard to describe sensation that has reeled me in many times in the years since. It’s something caught between embarrassment, pleasure, adrenaline, fear and power but perhaps most importantly, a sense of being part of a community. This “community” is complex — it is a force, a sense, an encounter that I don’t totally understand. It is not a fixed group of people. It swells and ebbs from song to song. It reaches out of the walls of the pub towards all of those other people who have sung the same songs in other rooms. It is earnest and supportive. This community often makes no sense on paper unless you understand it purely as a shared love of something that you produce together, for one another, completely outside of the regular confines of your daily lives.
After my initial revelation that karaoke was not as easy as it seemed, I sang the second song of the night as a duet with one of the boys from my table — a friendly musician with floppy hair and a wide smile. He suggested Just can’t get enough by Depeche Mode which although I wasn’t convinced I knew so well I got through with a lot more ease than the previous song. I was even bold enough to attempt a few harmonies on the chorus. It was a truly empowering feeling.
Most of us sang that first night. There was one of the group, I can’t remember who exactly, that only ever sang David Bowie songs. He used an imitation Bowie voice to sing that was both endearing and cringeworthy. Lucky, he could also hold a tune so somehow always managed to pull it off. Afterwards, our oddly shaped gang went dancing together. We danced until close, fuelled by euphoria from our night at Crossland’s. This first night together was tender, peculiar and revelatory. We were all hooked on the feeling.
After that first night we became a kind of gang with a hidden secret. We were bound together by a special power that the rest of the artists we hung out with wouldn’t suspect. We began to meet at Crossland’s every week for karaoke. Serious karaoke. We would select and practice our songs at home during the week, excited about discoveries that we knew would please the rest of the group. Occasionally new members would join, thankfully a few other women over the weeks, but in general our group remained small and dedicated.
We began to be known and even accepted by the other regulars at Crossland’s. There was one man who was there every week. I cannot remember his name but he always came alone and sat on the end of the bar, wearing the same full denim outfit every time. He was perhaps in his 60s or 70s but had the kind of face that could have aged early through alcohol consumption, he was usually visibly drunk. Every week without fail he would sing the same three songs — Little by Little by Oasis, Ruby by the Kaiser Chiefs and Losing my Religion by REM. After some weeks we all began to greet him as we entered the bar, he would cheer for us as we would cheer for him.
Our assimilation was not something to be taken for granted and we were gratified by our integration into this ritual. My experience of growing up in Glasgow was always imbued by class awareness, heightened by the fact that my father grew up in a working class Glaswegian family and my mother a middle class family in London. I was acutely aware of this dynamic in my daily encounters — from the clothes I wore to the way my accent would shape shift depending on the context. Our group could read as nothing but painfully middle class, there was no getting away from that. We all felt it the minute we walked into that bar on the first night, or at least I know we were all nervous. I’m not totally sure what of, I don’t believe any of us thought that Begbie would be waiting in there ready to smash a pint glass over our heads. I suppose we just knew that we would stick out and there was a good chance that our presence may not be welcomed. But over the weeks we integrated successfully. On reflection, I believe that was probably testament to our earnest and serious approach to karaoke. We were not there to laugh at anyone or put anyone down, we were just there to sing with the most heart and dedication that we could, like everyone else.
Some months later the word got out about our little karaoke club. A friend who was an artist and musician got excited and decided to have his birthday gathering at Crossland’s karaoke. I was hesitant but supportive. I felt protective of what we had built up there and was worried about how the other regulars that we had built rapport with would react to the bar being flooded with young artists. I remember it being awkward for us in the initiated group. Everyone at the birthday party had a great time and sang a lot, but there was a way they approached their song choices and styles of performance that felt somewhat inflected with irony. Although I would have very much enjoyed and indulged in this if we were doing karaoke together at a house party or in a booth, at Crossland’s it made me nervous. I feared that by association our small group’s place in this community would be threatened.
And in a way it was, as far as I remember this night marked the beginning of the end of our ritual together. I can’t totally remember why, perhaps our personal lives took over or it just faded out. But I also think that our place there shifted after that evening in a way that none of us could quite reconcile or put our finger on afterwards. This was not the end of my encounter with karaoke however, just the end of the start of a fervent new addiction.
Jag är en av dessa föraktade människor som tar karaoke på lite för stort allvar. Jag brukade hålla igång en lista med potentiella karaokesånger på telefonen, bara utifall att. Jag sjunger fortfarande karaoke hemma och i min studio. Ibland gör jag det eftersom det är det enda som får mig att komma ur en tillfällig svacka, ibland bara för att jag inte kan låta bli. Vid varje ny spelning måste jag ta mig samman, och verkligen anstränga mig för att inte fylla den med karaoke. Detta har jag misslyckats med vid ett par tillfällen.
Det är som ett beroende. När jag väl börjat kan jag inte sluta. Det är som en djup, sval pool, som att sockerfrossa eller lyssna på sina guilty pleasures, bara ett avsnitt till... Jag vet att jag inte är ensam i det här. Jag kan vittna om hur otaliga andra tagits i besittning av demonen under mina år med karaoke. I denna redogörelse över mina tidiga erfarenheter av denna ritual inser jag att mina erfarenheter av karaoke troligtvis varit anledningen till min nuvarande besat- thet av att sjunga. Karaoke omfattar den särskilda spänning som uppträdandet inför en publik innebär, på en och samma gång masochistisk som en källa till kraft.
Första gången jag (på allvar) sjöng karaoke var på en pub som heter Crossland’s, i Glasgow runt 2007. Jag hade nyligen blivit dumpad och kände mig besviken och förbannad, men samtidigt driven av den vilda energi som kommer ur ett brustet hjärta. Med andra ord var jag vidöppen för nya erfarenheter.
Jag satt i kommittén för det konstnärsdrivna galleriet Transmission i Glasgow på den tiden, och kom på ett vernissage att prata med en konstnärskollega som hette George Ziffo. George var en blyg bildkonstnär med vågigt, ljust hår och en tunn mustasch. Jag kommer inte ihåg hur vi kom in på ämnet, men vi pratade om karaoke. Till min överraskning var George ett stort fan och på jakt efter en bar där man kunde sjunga. Jag svarade omedelbart att jag väldigt gärna ville följa med.
George berättade att han kände till Crossland’s, en bar i Maryhill som blivit känd efter att ha figurerat i filmen Trainspotting. Du kanske minns scenen där Begbie kastar ett ölglas över axeln från pubens balkong, och det träffar en kvinna i huvudet? Dit gick jag och George för att sjunga karaoke. George drog ihop ett gäng som gärna ville hänga på – samtliga var män, alla lika blyga och nördiga.
Jag minns inte så mycket från den där första kvällen förutom de två sångerna jag sjöng själv. Den ena solo — Back on the Chain Gang med Pretenders. Min pappa brukade spela den i bilen när vi var små. På nåt sätt kändes det som att den passade in på de underförstådda kriterierna; genera- tionsöverskridande soft rock, med en feelgood-melodi och exakt rätt mängd nostalgi.
Som det brukar vara med amatörka- raoke så upptäckte jag först halvvägs in i sången hur svår den egentligen var. Jag kom inte ihåg större delen av versen, och kom helt av mig vid bryggan. Oavsett motgångarna så var jag som i ett rus när jag klev av scenen. Mitt hjärta bultade hårt och mina ögon glödde av upphetsning när jag slog mig ner på min plats vid bordet tillsammans med mitt missmatchade entourage för att småprata och sippa på min öl. Jag ville skratta hysteriskt och gråta på samma gång. Jag kände mig uppriven och i extas.
Det här var den första gången som jag upplevde den märkvärdiga och svårbeskrivliga känsla som jag känt många gånger sedan dess under de åren som passerat sedan dess. En blandning av genans, njutning, adrenalinkick, rädsla och makt, men kanske viktigast av allt, en komplex känsla av samhörighet; en styrka, ett sinne, ett möte som jag inte kan förklara fullt ut. Gruppen av människor är ett föränderligt flöde. Det ökar och ebbar ut från en sång till en annan. Den sträcker sig utanför pubens väggar till människor i andra rum som har sjungit samma sång. Den är ärlig och stöttande. Gruppsamhörigheten verkar på pappret ologisk om du inte förstår den som en delad kärlek till någonting som ni skapar tillsammans, för varandra, och helt och hållet bortom era dagliga liv och rutiner.
Efter min första insikt om att kara- oke inte var så enkelt som det verkar, sjöng jag kvällens andra sång, en duett med en av grabbarna från mitt bord. En snäll, långhårig musiker med ett brett flin. Han föreslog Just Can’t Get Enough av Depeche Mode, vilken jag var övertygad om att jag skulle kunna ta mig igenom lättare än den första sången, trots att jag egentligen inte kunde den särskilt bra. Jag vågade till och med ge mig på lite stämsång i refrängen. Jag kände mig verkligen styrkt.
De flesta av oss sjöng den där första kvällen. En i gänget, exakt vem minns jag inte riktigt, sjöng bara David Bowie. Han härmade Bowies röst när han sjöng, vilket både var charmigt och pinsamt på samma gång. Lyckligtvis kunde han låtarna och kom därför också undan med det. Efteråt gick vårt udda gäng för att dansa. Vi höll igång till stängingsdags, höga på euforin från kvällen på Crossland’s. Vår första kväll tillsammans var fin, märklig och en sorts uppenbarelse. Vi hade alla fastnat stenhårt för det här.
Efter den första kvällen blev vi som ett gäng med en hemlighet. En särskild kraft höll oss samman som ingen av konstnärerna vi hängde med kände till. Vi började träffas på Crossland’s varje helg för karaoke. Seriös karaoke. Vi valde låtar med omsorg och övade på dem hemma under veckorna, och gjorde upptäckter som vi bara kunde dela med de andra inom gruppen. Då och då tillkom nya medlemmar, lyckligtvis också några fler kvinnor, men på det stora hela förblev gruppen liten och hängiven.
Vi började bli igenkända, och till och med accepterade av Crossland’s övriga stammisar. Det fanns en man som kom dit varje vecka. Jag minns inte vad han hette, men han kom alltid ensam och satt i ena änden av baren, alltid klädd i samma denim-kläder. Han kanske var i sextio- eller sjut- tioårsåldern, med ett ansikte som åldrats tidigt på grund av ett högt alkoholintag, och han brukade för det mesta vara märkbart full. Varje vecka, utan undantag, sjöng han samma tre sånger: Oasis Little by Little, Kaiser Chiefs Ruby och Losing my Religion av REM. Efter ett par veckor började vi hälsa på varandra, och han applåderade och hejade på oss lika mycket som vi hejade på honom.
Vår assimilering var inget man kunde ta för givet, och vår rituella integration skänkte en särskild tillfredsställelse. Min erfarenhet av att växa upp i Glasgow genomsyrades av klassmedvetenhet, vilket förstärktes av det faktum att min far kom från Glasgows arbetarklass och min mor från ett medelklasshem i London. Jag var väl medveten om den här dynamiken i mitt dagliga liv — från kläderna jag bar, till hur min accent skiftade beroende på kontexten jag befann mig i. Vårt gäng var oundvikligen medelklass vilket framgick med smärtsam tydlighet. Vi kände av det från sekunden vi klev in i baren den första kvällen, jag visste åtminstone hur nervösa vi alla var. Exakt vad vi var rädda för vet jag inte, jag tror inte att någon av oss förväntade sig att Begbie skulle stå beredd med ett ölglas i högsta hugg, men jag antar att vi bara visste att vi skulle sticka ut, och att vår närvaro inte nödvändigtvis skulle vara välkommen. Men ju längre tiden gick så integrerades vi en liten bit i taget. När jag tänker på det så berodde det antagligen på vår uppriktiga och seriösa inställning till karaoken. Vi hade inte kommit för att skratta åt folk, utan vi var där för att sjunga med lika mycket hjärta och inlevelse som alla andra.
Några månader senare spreds ryktet om vår lilla karaokeklubb. En konstnärsvän och musiker blev intresserad och beslöt sig för att fira sin födelsedag med karaoke på Crossland’s. Jag var tveksam men stöttade honom. Jag kände att jag ville beskydda det som vi byggt upp, och oroades över hur de andra stammisarna som vi nu hade en relation till, skulle reagera på att baren skulle översvämmas av unga konstnärer. Jag minns att det upplevdes som olustigt i vår ini- tierade grupp. Alla på födelsedagsfesten hade jättekul och sjöng mycket, men sättet de tog sig an sångerna på, och hur de framförde låtarna kändes ironiskt. Om vi hade sjungit karaoke på en hemmafest eller i ett separat rum så hade jag deltagit på ett helt annat sätt, men det faktum att vi var på Crossland’s gjorde mig nervös. Jag var rädd för att vårt lilla gängs position var hotad, genom association.
Och på sätt och vis var det också den här kvällen som markerade början på slutet av vår gemensamma ritual. Jag kommer inte ihåg varför exakt, kanske tog våra personliga liv över eller så bleknade allt bort. Men jag tror också att vår givna plats där, förändrades efter den kvällen på ett sätt som ingen av oss kunde försonas med eller sätta fingret på i efterhand. Hursomhelst var inte detta slutet på min resa med karaoke, utan enbart det sista av inledningsfasen till ett nytt, hett beroende.
(Translation: Magnus Bunnskog)