| "There
was a time in my life when it was all so easy. I had a house up in the
mountains, I did my job, I did everything right. Then the storm came, they
said that times were getting worse, I shot my way out of the bank with
a rifle in my hands..."
Nerför floden / Down the river
Kungarna från Broadway / The Kings from Broadway, 1988 (more...) |
| October 18, 2000
Recently, I've traveled the road from Stockholm to Norrköping,
and the distance is not far. Not in miles, anyway.
But to young men grappling with their future in the Norrköping
of the 1970's, the distance must have seemed as great as the stretch between,
say, factory worker and rock musician. It's an admirable accomplishment
that these three men, the core members of Eldkvarn, succeeded in finding
a path to a different and, arguably, better life for themselves. And that
they have given us a string of evocative songs to document the journey
is near miraculous. It's not the sort of thing you'd expect from a group
of nonstudious obstreperous river-wading troublemaking firebrands.
Translations are tricky work—that became clear early on. The goal is
to preserve as much as possible of the original—meaning, mood, rhythm,
even rhyme where possible. For the more subjective of those qualities,
successfully recreating them in another language requires a deeper understanding
than just vocabulary and grammar. What an obvious statement, eh? Oh, the
limitations of book-learnin'... While the affinity between English and
Swedish makes the task easier, it helps to have context. In that regard,
my visit to Norrköping was instructive. Very enjoyable, too—I don't
want to forget to say that!
It seemed a pleasant town, tidy and serene in the slanting sunlight
of an Indian summer day. All elements in apparent harmony—streetcars, delivery
trucks, businessmen, shoppers, traffic lights, school children, clock bells—all
going about their appointed rounds. The Motala River was more substantial
than I'd imagined it—not so wide and who knows how deep, but a supple and
powerful river even so, and not the sort that boys should be playing in.
And the factories, of course...
Still standing and, for the most part, no longer the empty shells that
Plura Jonsson has spoken of, Norrköping's factories have been carefully
preserved and restored and fitted out with new tenants, modern clean businesses
like telecommunications. They are truly beautiful, those old buildings,
but there's a lingering sadness to them—the same shadow of loss that always
seems to accompany objects from another period. So what better place to
reflect on Eldkvarn's lyrics than here, beside the rushing Motala, gazing
at enduring brick? Memory is inexact, but it's all that we have. |
| "It
all began a long time ago, around the factories in Norrköping. We
ran from school with our guitars to your mama's house. It was the first
night of many toward this morning's light..."
Kungarna från Broadway / The kings from Broadway
Kungarna från Broadway / The Kings from Broadway, 1988 (more...) |
| (Norrköping continued...)
In my search for Eldkvarn albums, I met the owner of a used record store,
somewhere along the No. 3 streetcar line. He didn't have anything for me
except an unsolicited opinion, delivered to me through my companion because
my Swedish is not up to conversational par yet: "Well, they used to be
Norrköping boys, you know, but now they're Stockholmers."
This was an insult I was previously unfamiliar with, and an exceedingly
strange complaint. I was tempted to remind him that Norrköping has
been immortalized, and beautifully, by this group...but he clearly didn't
care about that small truth. If he did, he surely wouldn't need the likes
of me, confused American that I am, to point it out.
Dear sir—you of the sour expression and resentful tone—they are many
things, but they are definitely not Stockholmers! We don't
discard our past like some outdated costume, and no one knows that better
than your Norrköping boys. |
| "Gypsy
Jacko lived in a pair of black boots. Black suit, white shirt, when he
came, we said: Here comes Sunday. People said that he came from
the forests, the mountains and the wild horses. He took on anyone with
his bare fists, even the police and the priests.
Take my hand, you lit my fire. Take my hand, you lit my fire.
Tag min hand / Take my hand
Himmelska Dagar / Heavenly Days, 1987 (more...) |
| "It's three in the morning
and I'm lying in bed. Soon the sun will rise, but I can't any longer. I've
worked hard, watched days become nights. I'm getting nowhere and nothing's
getting better...
...Rain, rain beats on my window, I'm under cover of darkness... "I skydd av mörkret / Under cover of darkness
Kungarna från Broadway / The Kings from Broadway, 1988 (more...) |
|
Carl said that factory work might not be too bad, actually, because
your thoughts can wander free. Sure, I said, right up to the moment you
cut off your own hand. Then they'll come running home!
Besides, don't your thoughts wander enough playing "Alice" for the nth
time?
I was in a community theater production of The King and I once.
Just one of a multitude of royal wives, but I tell you that after the twelfth
night of singing "Run, Little Eva, run!" and throwing my hoop skirt over
my head, I may as well have been on an assembly line. How do they do it,
the pros? How do they maintain even the semblance of newness, freshness,
enthusiasm, interest?
But I've sat in an audience that loved every moment, and I've seen how,
when circumstances are right, the energy flows from stage to seats and
back again. A great glowing ball of mutual enjoyment, passing light as
air between numerous hands, everyone knowing exactly why they came and
everyone sharing the responsibility of keeping the ball aloft. It's one
of the loveliest expressions of community that I know of.
We, the watchers, we want so to be pleased. And they, the performers,
they want so to please us. And it takes very little, really, on either
side, to start the ball rolling.
My father told us, he said, that we should always try to do our best.
The people who come to see us play deserve a good show. And I agree, Carl.
We all should. We all do. But which of our fathers told us, also, that
if we come to see you play, then you deserve something of us in return?
Not the cold hard cash—that's for practicalities, more or less. To offset
the cold hard facts of life, and a bit extra as combat pay. (And for that
old Firebird, maybe, hanging lifeless on some wall. Why shouldn't you possess
it?—But only if your hands give it back purpose and life!) The money is
contract for your bodies to show up, but the souls to inhabit them...those
await a different call, don't they? I know mine does.
It waits on something shared freely, something evanescent, born of the
moment and of being fully present. A communion of spirit, I suppose you
might call it. But whatever you call it, it's something that has never
been before and never will be again, and is as beautiful in its passing
as a simple stray happy thought.
|
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|
| "When morning comes, Juliet
lies in bed. I sit by the window and look out at the meadow. Coffee on
the stove, cigarette in my mouth. This is what I live for, ordinary moments.
There's a land neither north or south. Much bigger than you can dream of.
All you who should never turn around, come out, come out, come out tonight..."
Karusellkvällarna / The
carousel nights
Karusellkvällar / Carousel
Nights, 1989 (more...)
|
| "I
left my home too quickly thirty years ago. I've gone back and forth between
the stage and dressing room. Too much has been said and much has been bled.
No one forced it on me and I held my head high..."
Huvudet högt / My head high
Limbo, 1999 (more...)
|
| "So I don't know, darling,
I don't know anymore. These cards are marked, this is no game. It's like
a haunted house, where's the door out? A world has fallen, a round is over.
Were you a big name, a king in the saddle?—Send a postcard to outside the
law.
Everything—it's all for sale. Everything—outside
the law.
Utanför lagen / Outside the law
Utanför Lagen / Outside the Law, 1986 (more...)
|
| March 2001
Utanför Lagen (Outside the Law), released in 1986, is still my favorite Eldkvarn album so far. Let me see if I can convey to you the reasons in a somewhat organized list here, then say a little more about each:
I have been translating Eldkvarn's lyrics for the past few years—since the summer of 1998, to be more exact. At that time, I had heard only one album of theirs, 1997's Lyckliga Tider, and after several months of listening to it and liking it, I was frustrated by my inability to understand (or sing...) a single word. So I bought a dictionary, and a small used book that promised to contain the essentials of Swedish grammar, and I dug in. My first translation took just under three days to complete and left me with a pounding headache. But I was pleased with the results—it was beautiful, even in ham-handed translation—and I knew I'd get better...or at least faster. And there was always more ibuprofen! Since then, I've tried to acquire and listen to each of Eldkvarn's albums. Some of their work has been difficult to come by, but considering the distance, I've done well. Although I've concentrated on translating their more recent releases, I've heard many of their earlier albums, including the wonderful Genom Ljuva Livet (1981). (By the way, the availability of Eldkvarn's recordings continues to plummet. Even their superb Grammy-winning Himmelska Dagar from 1987 is no longer to be found on CD or cassette—an argument in favor of this digital music revolution if ever there was one! Please, EMI! Please give us back the music, even if you don't want the expense of another production run.)
For me, Utanför Lagen marks a turning point in Eldkvarn's music, a change in focus—a step off the dance floor and into the living room. And knowing as I do what preceded it and what followed, I value the album profoundly for its exact position along the way. From the opening song, "Small town boy", through the closing track, "My beloved by the coast", the lyrics reflect a shifting, yet connected, palette of emotions, shading from determination and defiance through sorrow and regret. Taken in sum—and with regard to the date of release—these songs represent the strongest and most intimate self-portrayals from a lyricist who excels at personal content. When I wander through the lyrics, from the first line of the album to
its last, I find a narrative in the guise of songs. An ongoing story, which
no one has asked me to try to understand, of course, or to follow, forward
or back—but this tale of someone else's experience of life, so well told,
holds my attention. Whatever real compromises Plura Jonsson has made between
the stuff of private and public revelation, he has succeeded in appearing
to make none:
I admire the certainty expressed by Plura Jonsson in that final line—"For me, it's time to clear my name, to take back what was struck from my hand"—at a time when he must have been, judging by other lyrics, anything but certain. Such a clear and public statement of intent takes heart—courage—even when you're holding the perfect album to accomplish the task.
I have heard that critics—and perhaps fans also—regard Eldkvarn as similar to another group whose music I like and admire, The Band. I've not had the opportunity to read information in support of that opinion, but based on my own listening, I can't really agree. Perhaps they simply mean that Eldkvarn is the closest thing to The Band that Sweden has ever produced, and that may well be true. There are characteristics that I associate with The Band's work that are not present in Eldkvarn's music, most notably the rotating lead vocals and group harmonies. Still, there is an earthy quality to the music of Utanför Lagen that, more than any other Eldkvarn album I've heard, does somehow suggest The Band's best work. The tracks are well crafted and cleanly recorded, but they preserve a feeling of spontaneity. And there is a clear sense of collective effort, despite a single lead vocalist, thanks to strong, deft instrumental contributions from the other members of the group, most of whom also pitch in on backing vocals—Carl, Tony, Peter Smoliansky (drums) and Fredrik Holmquist (keyboards). It's easy for a singer and songwriter as capable as Plura Jonsson to dominate an album, and it isn't all that inappropriate, either—his strengths benefit the entire band, after all, and his exceptional abilities have been essential to their success. But certain of their albums, like this one, sound more cooperative than others—the outstanding Sånger från Nedergården (1994) is a good example of the latter—and I like that collective, almost live, quality immensely.
Another reason that Utanför Lagen immediately won, and has continued to hold, the title of my favorite Eldkvarn album is its pacing—its lovely changes in mood. The slow poignant "A love story", the quirky offbeat "Barefooted", the aggressive rocker "Outside the law"...and all the others, each with its own character. A great album, in sum or by parts, and an album that succeeds in maintaining its balance between variety and consistency. And, speaking of variety and consistency and balance, well...I don't know about you, but I really like an album that I can shuffle without fear, without regret. In other words, without keeping the remote close at hand so I can skip over the one track that mars the whole. Most albums have at least one track like that, even albums I love. Even Eldkvarn albums. But not this one, not Utanför Lagen. Just another small pleasure, I suppose, but a very real one.
I'd like to make a late addition to my list: Relative to what? Why, relative to all the other Eldkvarn albums that I've attempted, of course! Some of which—like Utanför Lagen and Nedergården and maybe, if you have an unusually generous nature, Limbo and Pluralism—I have done better with than others. |
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| "I have a job here on the boat,
we go along shores of gold. I see people go out in the fields, for bread
and for love's sake. Darling, I remember how we stood together on the shore,
when a boat went by, you lifted up a hand.
The ship's clock strikes on a boat down the river
Nerför floden / Down the river
Kungarna från Broadway
/ The Kings from Broadway, 1988 (more...)
|
| "It was midsummer eve on the
happy streets, I walked to a corner and then I walked back. The Dinky Toys'
boys have got their princesses, and the car is full of guitars and suitcases,
so I take the No. 3 streetcar through the sweet life again..."
3:ans spårvagn... / The No. 3 streetcar...
Genom Ljuva Livet / Through the
Sweet Life, 1981 (more...)
|
| Oh, happy day here at Eldkvarn USA! The staff is very excited by recent
news from Swedish headquarters.
It looks like a 30th anniversary concert by Eldkvarn—which I have been anticipating ever since I first heard it might happen, moons ago—will be taking place this August, in their hometown of Norrköping. Last I knew, the concert puts them back on the site of their very first professional engagement—the Konstmuseum, Norrköping's Museum of Art.
In honor of the upcoming occasion, I am readying a song list for the group (I'm thinking at least two hour-long segments, with a short break in between). Not that they've asked me to, mind you, but I believe in being proactive about this sort of thing. That's why I'm also working on a set of opening remarks... Fortunately for me, there isn't a single song of theirs I won't enjoy. I've seen them play only twice—in Borås (strange, but true) and Stockholm—so Eldkvarn in live performance is a rare treat for me. But I do have some thoughts on what I'd like to hear...and a small collection of Norrköping-based songs—five or six maybe, one right after another—tops the list for me. It could be absolutely amazing! So what should be on this festive once-in-a-lifetime Norrköping list? Here are my suggestions—Carl...Plura...Tony...are you listening? (then please excuse the English titles)—in order of date only, not preference: I also nominate, as potential candidates: I have a lot of favorites on the list, and it would be lovely to hear them. Did I forget anything? Oh, almost certainly...but perhaps I will remember sometime during the next four months. P.S. And maybe "Mitt hjärta ropar ditt namn" for
my Norwegian friend? It's a favorite of his. One of those grand anguish-filled
ballads, he says, that perfectly suit his melancholy nature.
|
|
|
| I consider myself something of a poet, although I don't see quite where
I fit in Walter's classifications, except for the wine part. I have gone
sailing on occasion, but my teeth are a little sensitive and anything above
a mild breeze is likely to really hurt. Not that pain isn't conducive to
poetry—on the contrary!—but physical pain is not the best sort.
I could be a third poet, I suppose. It's been a struggle, but I do think that I am on the verge of representing my own nature, at least, almost perfectly. Songs are outside my usual domain, but I did write one, a long time
ago. My first and my last. Unless you count the B-side, which I never have.
Here it is, if you'd like to read it. It has a nice little melody, which
I would be happy to hum for you as I type. (The song starts in the past
tense, by the way, with [jag] läste, not läs!—a
failing of this language for which I apologize.)
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|
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| "Monday and Tuesday...why should
you get it right?
Wednesday and Thursday...who said that it was easy? Friday is a bird that has flown from her cage. She sings in your heart: Now it's your turn...now it's your turn..." Hälften ont, hälften gott / Half bad, half
good
Pluralism, 1993 (more...)
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|
April 5th There is rain in the desert on this mild spring night. My back door is wide open, and the sweet air pours in. These walls are thin, and even with doors and windows closed, I can usually hear the stereos, TVs and arguments from the apartments next door. I take perverse comfort in singing "Hus på stranden" and trying to imagine a house on the beach, with only the sound of the waves and the wind...to drown me out. It's hard to practice here, to run through my set of a dozen or so Dylan and Eldkvarn tunes. The ratio is 3:1 right now, but I expect Eldkvarn to even things up shortly. It must drive the neighbors mad, to hear me playing this same handful of songs again and again. And worse, if I concentrate on the guitar (and God knows I need to), I'm sure to forget some of the words, and when I focus on the singing, sooner or later I start missing the chords. Perhaps I'm responsible for the loud stereos and TVs...and the yelling. I once knocked on my left-hand neighbor's door and asked him if my singing bothered him. He said no, but that same night, there was a fight! Last week, my apartment was broken into for the second time in a year. The first time, only a few CDs were taken and a portable stereo. I considered myself lucky, fixed my window and got on with life. But this time, they took all my CDs, except the foreign and the classical, and a silver bracelet that was a gift from someone I love. Now there's nothing left to take, not quickly and for easy money, the next time they come. Only things that are beyond price to me. And I'm so sad. So sad. I try to be practical—just things, I tell myself—but my heart aches. And no one has said anything to comfort me. They all say: "Move! Don't you think you should move?" As if running were the answer to being spared heartache. Am I the only one who sees, for a second time, that nowhere is safe? It's dangerous to love what can be lost, broken or stolen, and that's pretty much all that there is. Even Carl, who came closest to sympathy, said only that the thief showed good taste by not stealing Eldkvarn—Carl is funny that way—and that he was glad my guitar was okay, and did I live on the ground floor? He recommended at least two, although seven is that much closer to heaven, and he himself has currently settled on three. All I could think was: Great, even more neighbors, above me, below me. I'll be boxed in, surrounded! But maybe the top floor, if there were an elevator. Very confining, though, those things—I don't like them, and inside hallways even less. But a balcony is nice, although perhaps that isn't allowed, when one is striving for inaccessibility to thieves. I look around my little apartment that is such a comfortable space for me, with its picture molding in the living room, its wood floors and big windows, and the lilac bushes just over the wall. The bushes used to hang closer, but I've cut all those branches over the years and brought them inside to grace my table and perfume the air. I damn myself with each snip of the pruners for trying to contain something better left free. So maybe I should move, just to save the lilacs. Maybe I should pack up, just to do an inventory of all this baggage I'm carrying through life. It's been a while since I did that and who knows what I'll find—things I once thought were precious, but whose meaning has been lost with time. You should never take everything, you know. It's important to review your choices now and then, to decide again what to carry with you and what to leave behind. Maybe I should thank the person who climbed through my kitchen window to lighten my load. Moving has always been attractive to me. New spaces bring new energy, a new point of view. New opportunities, new shops, new restaurants, new sidewalks and a new route to work. All good things...but no better than what I already have. Wood floors, big windows. Space for my pictures and music and books. Children playing nearby. Shady streets, coffee and pastry shops, good Italian and New Mexican food, a farmers' market from late summer into fall, the library and Old Town only a few minutes' walk. Peaceful anonymity. If I leave, I'd just be looking for those same things, two floors up. Life is sweet here (and mostly quiet), and I don't see why I should let anyone take that from me. It's such a dilemma, and I don't know what to do. So I fill my table
with flowers, and run once more through "Alice". I think about pathways
and places in the sun. I don't want to go alone. Should I take what I still
have, then? Cut my losses and run? I don't feel quite so comfortable here
anymore, and everything is portable. What exactly is the message? I still
haven't puzzled it out.
|
|
|
| "...Take your things, you must
go. In through the darkness, out into the blue. We are like stars no one
can reach. In through the darkness, out into the blue..."
Ut i det blå / Out in the blue
Lyckliga Tider / Happy Times,
1997 (more...)
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|
Sunday, April 8th, in the 2001st year of our absent Lord. Or it is still just the 2000th? I'm a little fuzzy on the distinction. Anyway, in my experience, it's always a mistake to try to appease these gods, but once again I have made an offering to the powers that be. Jesus was out back, rooting around in our dumpster, and boldly, I walked to the end of the sidewalk to confront him. To ask him what he was looking for, because for years now, I've been wondering just what sort of commodity makes it back out of life's garbage bin. A natural enough question, if you ask me. It took a while to get his attention, so intent was his search, but he came over to the wire gate—locked, I would point out, and topped with barbed wire, so there was no danger. It was an innocent enough encounter, and he seemed to agree. Just some harmless not-yet bag lady, standing there bra-less in a t-shirt, beckoning him over to the fence. Just another slow Sunday night. "Can I ask you a question?" I repeated, more loudly. He nodded, and I plunged ahead. "What are you looking for? What sort of stuff do you take?" "Transistor radios," he said, in good English. I was, I admit, a little surprised by the simplicity of his answer. We were on different wavelengths, but what do you expect from one not quite of this world? So very well, then, I could play this game. I questioned him further. "Even if they're broken? Even if they don't work right?" I asked. "Sometimes you can fix them," he answered. "Sometimes they work again." "What does that take, to make them work again?" I probed, pursuing the subject. I had begun to see the depth of his responses, couched in such simple terms. "Well...sometimes," he said, "it takes other parts. From other pieces. But I have lots of those." Needless to say, I fled back to my kitchen, cursing myself for being such a chicken, and feeling a mixture of awe and disgust. And all the while I was thinking of my own broken RCA portable CD player. Maybe that was all it would take to make something useless useful again. I carried it out to him, brushing off six months of dust. "Hey, mister!..." I called loudly to him through the fence that divided us. While I was gone, he had resumed his interrupted search of the trash, and I noted with some satisfaction that he was still empty-handed. "Would you like this?" I asked him. "I can't get it to play anymore, and see, back here, the battery compartment is broken." I pointed to the electrical tape holding the compartment shut. He nodded—happily, it seemed to me, eagerly—and reached toward the bars between us. I met him more than halfway. He said yes a couple of times and maybe even thank you. I don't remember anymore. I was slightly overwhelmed. He did say that he could always strip it for parts. I remember that clearly, and my own silent response: Then so be it. Aloud, I said "Good luck!" to his back as he turned away, pocketing the CD player in his plaid flannel shirt. Then I came back here, to my apartment, had a cigarette and popped open a beer. But after a few drags at my Camel, I stubbed it out, thinking that I'd better write all this down. I settled myself in front of this keyboard, with my beer in tow. To write it all down, clear as I remember, and before I forget anything
else.
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| "I go across the stage in a
theater of the dead. Where the lines come from a transistor radio. There's
something strange about the voice, but I recognize the thirst. As if you
were here, as if you were here..."
Som om du var här / As if you were here
Limbo, 1999 (more...)
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|
My earlier run-in with Jesus has led me to thinking about counting my blessings. So I thought as a prayer of thankfulness, I would offer a list of the CDs that escaped the barbarians' grasp this time around:
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| "My son, everyone says that
you look like me, so last night as you slept, I sat and studied you. My
son, I remember the boys with rifles over their shoulders, they walked
side by side under stars and galaxies. Brothers of the heart, around the
roads of the world, their enemy was darkness, their kingdom was the sun..."
Vilken dag som helst / Any day at all
Sånger från Nedergården
/ Songs from Nedergården, 1994 (more...)
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|
June, and I'm still here in my ground-floor apartment. Odds are it won't be burglarized for another 9-12 months, so I have time to look around. But I suspect I'll stay put and just try to make this place a little less inviting. Barbed wire is very Southwestern, so long as it's the nice rusty tetanus-causing kind. This summer promises to be very exciting! A visit from my distant beloved this month, then Sweden and Eldkvarn in August. Work gets busier and crazier all the time! And the biggest excitement of all? A chance, slim but genuine, to open for Eldkvarn at their anniversary concert. I'm working hard toward that end, practicing several hours a day. My fingers haven't bled yet, but I did get a painful angry red welt across the back of my hand when the nylon string I was changing snapped while it was still taut—an elongated Z, like delicate calligraphy from Zorro. I have four Eldkvarn songs essentially ready to go: "A House on the Beach", "Down the River", "Ship of Night" and, of course, "Alice". They're condensed versions, with no instrumental breaks for very good reason :-), but I'm happy with the translated lyrics and the songs sound good to me. There are a few more under consideration—songs I like, and would love to sing—with one or two serious contenders. For variety, I toss in a few Dylan tunes, and sometimes a Croce or two, or maybe "The Weight" or "The Rose" or "Sacrifice" or something like that. It's a lot of fun, the playing and singing, and if I remember right, I used to be pretty good at it. I'll have to give my beloved a preview, and see what he thinks. For Eldkvarn, I'm making an audition tape, just me and my Fender classical.
And then we'll see what happens next.
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| "My boat is a slow swing, we
rock to a strange, strange land. We go through heavy fog, we float
toward an unknown shore. Keep on rocking me...
Rock me far off, someone's calling my name. The
ship of night rocks slowly away. Swing me deep, take me down to the bottom.
The ship of night swings always up again..."
Nattens skepp / The ship of night
Pluralism, 1993 (more...)
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|
So this is what happened next, roughly speaking: Last week, I went to Norrköping with my guitar. We both flew as passengers, although one of us was relegated to the closet. I'd like to thank American Airlines for their courtesy—it's a cheap little guitar, but it's been my companion for a long time now. The day of the anniversary concert began badly. Someone had broken into my friend's car, parked outside his hotel, during the night. My friend was upset and worried, understandably so—things had been taken and the car window shattered. So, first was the asking at a nearby secondhand store—had anyone seen anything? Then the visit to the car glass repair shop, with the good news and bad news about time and cost. Then the trip to the police station to report the theft. And then the fruitless search through the bushes closest to the scene of the crime. I wasn't much comfort, I don't think, being somewhere off in a world of my own. I was worried about the night ahead, about that evening's sound check. I was afraid that the question that had brought me here was about to be answered, and not in a way that I'd hoped. How far can you get on love alone? All day, I felt dangerously close to a definitive reply. Now, I know that if you're going to ask a question like that, it's best to be prepared for whatever answer may come. And I tried to be ready—I'd been trying for weeks. But nothing I told myself beforehand prepared me for the disappointment I felt when my sound check failed miserably. And nothing I've told myself since has eased my regret. As Carl said: You had your opportunity and you blew it. True enough. It's very lonely up on an Eldkvarn-ready stage, surrounded by snaking cables, confronted by hissing monitors. But I had wanted to be there, by myself, with only the things that I've always had for the task—an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice, an appreciation of language. I don't regret that decision, only that those things weren't enough...and that there was no time to implement Plan B. I did get to sing, unplugged—all of "Nerför Floden" for Carl, and a verse of "Alice" for Plura. Not to mention drunkenly pitching in on vocals for a couple of The Band's songs during a late-night gathering at Werner's. (I was so happy with Werner's selection of music that I actually kissed his cheek...then had to slap his hand when he tried to change albums! If not for The Band, would I ever have found Eldkvarn?) Now I'm back home, with a nasty cold and a sore knee, and memories of good company, good food and great music. One of the first things I did, even before doing the laundry, was buy a new guitar—a beautiful nylon-string Takamine, with the electronics built in. I'm not done with my pursuit of an answer, and I won't be until I get
a response that I like! But the question has changed a bit, because only
an idiot doesn't learn from experience. So how far can you get, I wonder,
on love and a thousand-dollar guitar?
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| "Snowfall and snowplows on
a winter night, ambulances and streetcars that raced each other, the Santa
Lucia parade with elves and trolls, Zamora and Bajdoff and a giant football..."
Alice
Himmelska Dagar / Heavenly Days,
1987 (more...)
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Tomtar My Norwegian friend tried to explain tomtar to me. Ever since I returned from Sweden, I've been dissatisfied with my translation of "Alice". I can't decide what to do about that word. "They're like Santa Claus, but our Santa Claus isn't like yours," he said. "Tomtar are a mixture of old and new." Of course they are. Well that explains it. So in "Alice" (which I have otherwise translated beautifully), that would make them...what exactly? "But, for me," I countered, "having multiple Santa Clauses...or Santas Claus, whichever...is like having more than one Jesus. He's a person, a specific individual. You make him sound like a category. It disturbs me to think of Santa that way... So, do they all wear red suits, your tomtar?" "Some of them," he replied, "but some wear more traditional Norwegian dress. Most have white beards, though, and they bring presents." Far from easing my discomfort and clarifying the topic, he distressed and confused me with his strange comments. So tomtar are what, again? St. Nick? His elves? (Which really aren't elves—I've read my Tolkein.) My first choice was...do I have to admit this? It was "brownies", those nocturnal house folk who do your chores for you, if you treat them right. I've never seen them, not being one to let dairy products sit out all night, but it seemed a reasonable translation, what with troll. But now I can't find the right word—nothing seems to fit. One little word, and "Alice" is suddenly undone, unfinished, pending a better explanation of tomtar. [Saturday, August 25th: In desperation, I turned to the Internet. And having at last seen these strange creatures, I do declare them to be...Santa's elves...more or less. Sigh...] |
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Okay, this is my final attempt at September 2001*: And Don’t Call Me Yoko! Because the last thing I want in this world is to stress the individual over the whole. Not one star, but many. A distant constellation, and just as steady in the sky. I know you don’t always achieve perfect harmony, but the thought that you ever do amazes me. The idea of being in the same space at the same time, absorbed in some common pursuit. It’s hard to imagine anything better than that same feeling with you. But we’re not quite there yet, and sometimes I worry that we never will be. But we could be, beloved. Imagine that—we could be! * For my own future reference, this is the month the World Trade Center fell; the month my cat was diagnosed with what the vet describes as a benign tumor in one (hopefully) of her thyroid glands—whatever it is, it makes hearts race and appetites falter; the month a beloved friend told me he loves me except that I misunderstood. |
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Ikaros I told the German that this limbo is better than the last. But that isn’t so, really. I tell myself that there are words to express any concept, to communicate clearly across any gulf. You just have to find them. So by my own reasoning, it follows that the words exist to speak clearly to you. To touch you as deeply as you have touched me. Are these them? I wonder. But probably not… Except that somewhere, the words are waiting to tell you how wonderful you are. Careful and constant, in your own way. I didn’t get here all by myself, even if I’m alone in this now. I love you because you made it happen. I love you because I’ve forgotten how not to. And now it’s time for you too to decide. Because this limbo is no better than the last, really, and I won’t stay here long. I’m just passing through like all the rest, and parts of me are already gone. Step up to the plate, or turn the bat over to somebody else. Pitching
runs in my blood, and I can last the whole game. Take a swing or a powder,
darling. But don’t hold up the show.
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| "Night is falling, the heavens
glow. I don't know where I am or how much time has gone. I sat in the harbor,
it was just me and God. And someone's footsteps
that slowly wandered off..." Jag har inte tänkte på dig / I haven't thought
of you
Död Stjärna / Dead
Star, 2001 (more...)
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November has started out as a rather nice month, weather-wise. The rest of it is pretty much an extension of the past few months too, and they’ve been a real mixed bag, but more bad than good. Don’t ever ask a question until you’re ready for the answer. And if you already know the answer, then maybe it’s better not to ask at all. Except that just the asking is an expression of some sort of hope. Worthwhile, I think, for that if nothing else. There’s always bound to be some sort of reaction. This one is hard to measure, its direction hard to track. I like to believe in infinite possibilities, but some, I think, are already closed doors. What are we, I wonder. Are we a closed door too? Is that miserable life of yours so precious to you that you would leave this behind too? All around me, November continues. The first geese—first for me, anyway—have just flown south overhead. I heard them calling and went out to watch them. For some reason, they always make me glad inside. Like a promise of something wonderful, some season yet to come. Just above me, they began to mill about, unsure of their direction. I called up to them: “It’s that way! Can’t you see?” And most of them seemed to get the message, because they reformed into tidy v’s and flew the direction I’d pointed. One flock still circled, but I was pretty sure that they’d figure it out. South to Bosque del Apache, to watery marshes and sweet rest after a hard day’s work. And after that, who knows. Except that there’s farther to go.
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| "Everyone wants to know what
went wrong, but there's nothing wrong with me. We have the world we deserve,
even if it comes as a surprise to you. We do each other harm although we
should know better; we aren't any smarter than that. Like last night on
the telephone, tears fell when I hung up..."
Jag är bättre än deg / I'm better than
you
Lyckliga Tider / Happy Times, 1997 (more...) |
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Saturday, 2-1-3 Do you remember where you were when the Challenger blew up? For this fraction of my generation, I can say that I do. I was working in the middle of the Susquehana, on an island three miles long. (And, yes, I remember that day, too. I must have thought radiation was overrated, going outside like that. But later, when I lived in Middletown, I saw the truth, right in my own backyard...and used it to my advantage. I became something of a sensation at the workplace for my ability to deliver four-leaf clovers in quantity and upon request.) The shuttle with Christa McAuliffe went up, with enough fanfare for me to know that she was aboard. It went up, it blew up—I watched it again and again on TV. A feeling of light-headed disbelief, like watching the towers come down. Waiting for time to intervene, to march on. Again and again it rose, and each time, failed to escape. Again and again, they came down, ashes and dust. And gravity, as always, gets the last word. |
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April 30th, 2003 It's a frustrating situation, to have understanding that both outruns and lags behind expression. Not a good state for someone who's trying to translate...or to write. Where the understanding hasn't caught up yet, I can forgive myself, mostly. The only way forward is ahead, as a wise soul once said, so ready or not, it's best to keep moving. It's not like I have some latent comprehension of Swedish just waiting to be triggered by contemplation of my navel or, for that matter, past mistakes. It's the next step forward that makes sense of the past. The real frustration is the inability to express, within my own broad guidelines of satisfaction, what I do understand. The feeling of personal inadequacy is almost enough to make me give up. I understand more than I can say. What kind of statement is that to make about language? Very gestalt...but unfortunately, there's no whole without the parts. Ask me what I hate about translating Eldkvarn, and the answer—after swirling round and round in my head like cherry Kool-Aid through one of those looped straws—condenses into a single word: compromise. It's funny that the same process that gives me pleasure in my own writing—word selection—causes me such irritation when translating. For myself, whatever words I choose are the beginning of meaning. But for Eldkvarn, my choices are the end of the line. I feel as though I'm collapsing waveforms right and left, reducing lovely complexities down to a simpler and less satisfying state. Kirsch becoming Kool-Aid, all because of that straw. I'm...I'm...Eldkvarn Lite. The solution—not for me, but for you—is clear, and absurdly, it's
how I got into this mess. Don't rely on translation. Learn the language
yourself. Understand in your own words, in your own time. Dance around
the apartment with headphones on at three in the morning while you work
out some troublesome bit. I really think that's best...but I'll still be
here, so thanks for stopping by.
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| "And my time is soon up, the clock striking its twelve.
I’ve cleared all the cupboards and swept my floor. My sack is empty,
only one thought left—to follow the path you opened up for me."
Jag följer den väg / I follow the path
Svart Gig / Black Gig, 2007 |
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Here and now Two years ago, I closed the door on this part of my life. I let go, feeling that the only hope of regaining my balance was distance. Feeling that I had grieved long enough. But you are not dead. Haven't I been telling you so myself? Distance has helped put that in perspective. I can see it is reason enough to rejoice. The door never quite closed, you know. My foot, sturdy, unfailing—the only part of me with any sense—was always in it. And you...what? A little finger or the usual, a whole beautiful hand? Now that door is creaking open again. Pushed, pulled...hard to say, but it's not just our doing. There are forces are at work here—digestion, maybe? I didn't see it coming, so forgive me if I'm stumbling. I've taken a step forward. I want to cross that threshold again. We all have our shells, all a universe of one. Consider the mussel—now there's a foot that appreciates staying put. |
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* * (more to come)
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"There
was a time in my life when it was all so easy..."
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| * * * (back to the top) * * * |
Ah,
what could be better than an outdoor concert by a wonderful band on a luminous
Swedish summer night? If all goes well over here, I will be in the audience,
intoxicated by the soft August air and the deep blue vault of heaven, wearing
my Levon Helm t-shirt and my best rhinestone earrings. I will be sitting
next to my beloved Norwegian friend, who introduced me to this music, and
I will be fully prepared to enjoy whatever the night brings.