3.26 » Matthias Ståhl
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.
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?”