My Sweet Lord

We, the semi-professional construction workers, celebrated the end of the renovation of the sauna section in Veli-Matti’s terraced house in traditional fashion. I learned a valuable lesson that it’s not wise to play football after consuming nearly half a bottle of vodka. I had fallen flat on my face and injured myself. The bruise, about half the size of my face, had just healed before the start of the church’s confirmation camp at Hila. My mother and I had been considering the best way to complete confirmation. I personally thought that it would be better to get this unpleasant task over with during the winter season. The confirmation course would go relatively painlessly if suffered for a couple of months, once a week, in the windowless room downstairs in the church cellar. Somehow, my mother managed to convince me to go to the camp instead. I am still grateful to her for that. Hila’s week became one of those life-changing events for me.

I had camping experiences from many summers. The memories from YMCA camps were not very good. Now this would be a slightly different style of camp. Most of the participants were classmates or familiar types, some even good friends – Veli-Matti and Cassu leading the way. About ten boys were accommodated in large wooden barracks, some distance away from the actual camp center – and supervision. Such an arrangement invited trouble… We unpacked our stuff and chose our beds. I got the lower bunk. I lay down on the bed to rest. The bottom of the upper bunk was full of all sorts of writings. Mostly names and years, a few reflections, and appropriately, several Bible verses.

– Hey, listen. It says here, ”The birds start their devilish roaring at three o’clock.”
– What does that mean? Birds don’t roar.

Yes, they do roar. We came to realize that. But first, it’s Pastor Jussi Talasniemi, the leader of the confirmation camp, who roars.

We make our way downhill to the main building, where an information session is held. The camp group leaders introduce themselves. An evening devotion is held, informing the program for the following day. Then it’s time for evening tea. It’s not a fancy spread, just plain tea and rye bread. Like many others, I burn my tongue on the scalding hot tea. The beginning is painful…

We head back to the barracks. Veli-Matti and I have acoustic guitars with us. We are in the middle of practicing Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song ”Effigy”. We play it for a while. Then we strum another well-rehearsed tune, thematically fitting, George Harrison’s new single ”My Sweet Lord”. After that, we play all sorts of random songs: Beatles, Rolling Stones, Kinks, more CCR… Cassu has a bottle of Carillo, strong bitter, in his backpack; from someone else’s bag, Algerian wine appears. Soon, we have a party going. We play what we can, and the crowd asks for more. ”Play ’Effigy’!” someone yells. A couple of girls passing by join the merrymaking. The racket soon reaches biblical proportions. The consequences are easily predictable. The door of the barracks slams open and in storms the infuriated Pastor Talasniemi, roaring like the devil himself.

– What the hell is going on here! Bring the bottles over here! The game ends now. This is a confirmation camp, not some gathering of alcoholics. Every guy to bed, immediately. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.

Pastor Jussi’s authority takes effect lightning fast. As soon as the commotion starts, I have already put my guitar in its case. I sneakily slide it under my bed and pull the blanket over my ears, trying to appear as an innocent sleeper. The barracks fall silent. At three in the morning, the birds begin their devilish roaring.

Embarrassed and ashamed, the group of boys sneak to breakfast. Surprisingly, Talasniemi acts like nothing has happened. Clearly, he knows the ins and outs of youth work psychology. Now everyone knows who’s in charge at the camp and that drinking alcohol is definitely not allowed. The day starts with a morning devotion and breakfast. An hour later, the group leaders take their teams. As Veli-Matti and I are about to step out the main door, Jussi calls out to us from behind.

– You two, come here. Are you the musicians?
– Yeah, that’s us. Sorry about last night. We were practicing a bit, and then things got out of hand.
– I actually listened to your playing. What song was it that you were playing just before I stopped the commotion?
– Oh, that one. It’s CCR’s ”Effigy”. It has a challenging solo in it.
– Keep practicing. ”Efficient” is a great song.

The group divisions have been made. I’m assigned to a group led by my classmate’s older brother, Jaakko. I’ve encountered this guy in Tapiola, and I haven’t been happy about those encounters at all. I have a sense of something bad coming. My pathological stage fright, which began a couple of years ago, hasn’t disappeared. Now, I’m immediately given the task to read from the Bible during the evening devotion – in front of a crowd of mostly unfamiliar people. Intensifying fear grabs hold of me. I try to explain something to Jaakko, but he just laughs mockingly: ”It’s an order, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

I know that the reading won’t go well. It won’t go at all. What on earth can I do? I don’t know anyone here whom I can tell that I’m scared. My right ear starts ringing. I can’t chat with my friends. Their voices seem to be coming from somewhere else, from the outside, from a distance. Two hours left, then everything collapses. The camp pastor’s office hours are currently underway. It’s my only salvation. Holding back tears, I wait outside the door until it opens, and Jussi calls me inside. As soon as I manage to close the door behind me, I burst into tears and stammer something incoherent.

– Take it easy. I’m sure things will work out somehow. No one can force you to do something you’re not capable of. We’ll meet in the evening. I’ll talk to Jaakko.

I dry my tears and mumble my thanks. Relieved, I return to the barracks. Once again, I have successfully dodged the unpleasant situation. I don’t consider that my whole remaining life will be filled with these evasions. Cassu and Veli-Matti don’t say anything, although they surely sense something.

Cassu and I have our Jew’s harps with us, and we’ve been playing Ennio Morricone’s tunes, inspired by spaghetti westerns. We have a duet performance ready, featuring the theme from ”The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” movie and a more traditional piece, ”Red Roses for a Blue Lady”. For some reason, we bring our harps to the evening gathering. Instead of the usual evening devotion, the group leaders have organized a church cabaret. The whole confirmation camp crowd laughs, and the ice is broken. When Esko – who is like the group leaders’ leader – asks if anyone wants to present something, Cassu announces that we can perform a couple of songs on our harps. I glance at my friend in disbelief. I feel sweat trickling down my armpits, but I step onto the stage following Cassu. We take a couple of test tones, and then we start tapping away on our harps at a much faster tempo than we practiced for those two songs. ”Red Roses” we play quite badly, faster and faster towards the end, while ”The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” goes much better. When we finish, we receive huge applause and whistles. Jussi looks at me and nods approvingly. I have indeed done my part.

As a result of that evening, we performed many times. Nobody dared to sing, but we strummed various instrumentals. On the day of the Vicar’s visit, we locked into such a solid groove that after a few minutes, Talasniemi coughed significantly. When I looked up from my guitar’s fretboard, I saw the Vicar’s face frozen in an embarrassed smirk. The ”Let’s boogie” had gone a little too far… Sometimes Jussi played the cello and Veli-Matti played classical guitar as a solo. Music was involved in many things.

We had discussions – sometimes very heated ones – about various topics during the camp. Of course, faith and religion were discussed, but the subject matter could vary on the same evening from the fundamental questions of humanity to learning the basics of sailing. Religion was definitely not forced upon anyone. 15-year-olds on the brink of adulthood realized they were capable of thinking about very abstract ideas and expressing their own tentative opinions. The atmosphere was encouraging. Some sort of camp magic infected most of us. I forgot to be nervous, eagerly participating in all activities. For that week, I lived in a different reality.

Parents’ visiting day arrives, beautiful and warm. I am fortunate that I don’t have any visitors coming. Many of my campmates are extremely embarrassed to have their whole family and a bunch of relatives coming to say hello. The parents and other visitors participate in a communal camp lunch, after which everyone expects some kind of religious uplifting, perhaps a worship service in the midst of nature. Fathers and mothers engage in lively discussions and reminisce about their own confirmation experiences. However, we are living in the year 1971. Many things have changed. Instead of a service, a general discussion session is organized, focusing on the difficult relationship between parents and children. As an introduction to the theme, recording of The Beatles’ ballad ”She’s Leaving Home” is played, which tells the story of a teenage girl running away from home. When Esko reads the Finnish translation of the lyrics, the conversation takes a sharp turn in the wrong direction. Several faces turn sour, and the whole thing devolves into arguing and shouting. Suspicions are raised as to whether this is even a confirmation camp or if we accidentally ended up in a youth camp of the Communist party. Parent’s visiting day would end in chaos if Talasniemi hadn’t managed to calm everyone down with his strong authority and lead them in a prayer for blessings for the rest of the week. For many campers, the day was interesting and the contentious shouting match became the absolute highlight of the whole week.

The confirmation camp week expanded my circle of friends beyond the classroom and the schoolyard. Veli-Matti, Cassu, and I are at my art teacher’s daughter Marjo’s house party. We’re sitting on the balcony smoking and sipping white wine from elegant stemmed glasses. Most of the people here would be complete strangers if we hadn’t all experienced the miracle of Hila. Jaakko and I have become the best of buddies. The atmosphere is relaxed and peaceful. No one is trying to show off – unnecessary bragging is absent.

Black Sabbath’s debut album is playing loudly. Even louder is the sound of Veli-Matti’s new electric Fender guitar as Cassu tries to copy the opening riff. The song ends, and to the delight of the entire housing complex, Cassu gets tired of his out-of-tune playing. Someone turns down the volume. There’s so much to talk about. Occasionally, we gather in front of the rare novelty, color television, to marvel at the western movie playing. Then the balcony parliament continues. The upcoming summer night is bright and warm. I browse through Marjo’s records and search for music that suits the mood. Segovia’s virtuoso guitar playing earns general approval from the whole gang. On the shelf, I come across The Beatles’ White Album. I look at the insert floating down from inside the album cover onto the floor. Marjo comes next to me.

– Well done, Rob. Segovia was a great choice.
– Yeah, thanks. I won’t play this out loud. I just admire it. This record is quite rare.
– What do you mean?
– Well, on the cover, there’s this embossed serial number. I haven’t seen any below a hundred thousand. And this one is even in mono.
– If it interests you, I can sell it to you. Is twenty marks too much?
– Not at all!
– Okay, take it. You can pay me sometime later.

At eleven o’clock, Marjo turns off the music. Some of the group stays behind to continue. I walk towards home in the light of late July night with ”The White Album” album under my arm. As I walk, I wonder if I will remember everything that happened this summer. I was convinced that I would.

Talasniemi became so fond of the song ”Effigy”, or as he always called it, ”Efficient”, that he suggested performing it as part of the confirmation program at church. We promised to consider the suggestion. We played that song almost every day, so I started to feel confident in my skills. Veli-Matti had no problem with it, even though the difficult, meandering solo part using controlled feedback was actually the highlight of the whole song. The trickiest part for me was being able to flawlessly play the fingerpicking intro that starts the song and the same pattern at the very end. If the intro went well, there would be a mistake on the outro, and vice versa. We also included the Jew’s harps, played by Cassu and Markku.

”Effigy” goes well enough during the confirmation ceremony, but part of the crowded audience in the church can only hear the sound of the harps, as the harp players are using the church’s microphones and PA system. Veli-Matti’s electric guitar is plugged into my old Salora radio, and I play the acoustic guitar so vigorously that the plastic pick breaks. The balance is truly in the Lord’s hands. And many don’t even realize why Cassu and Markku are swaying in front of the microphones. After the performance, the confirmation camp ”criidens” escapes to a room downstairs in the church. Veli-Matti praises the band’s performance. I shake my cramped left hand. Pastor Jussi rushes in with his alba robe flowing and thanks everyone, shaking hands with each of us.

My feet under the white robe do not touch the ground. I float on a cloud of pleasure generated by the experience of performing. However, that first time was destined to be the last. And so it happened with the confirmation communion as well. It was the final time I knelt at the altar before the priest. The true Last Communion…

Towards the end of October, Talasniemi calls me and asks if we could come and play at the weekend gathering for the autumn confirmation course. Veli-Matti and Cassu agree without hesitation. Markku has other plans. We practice the repertoire intensely for several evenings and have about a dozen smoothly rolling songs ready. They should keep us occupied for one evening. Arriving in Hvittorp, Veli-Matti opens his guitar case with a cunning expression on his face. Inside, a bottle of vodka awaits. But first, let’s take care of our responsibilities.

It would have been wise to have a drink or two. This is not the joyful Hila camp in July, but rather a rainy November at Villa Hvittorp, where there’s a plumbing issue. The lower floor is flooded. The atmosphere in the common area upstairs is as somber as a funeral. We play a few of the best-rehearsed songs. No one says a word. No one applauds. All the campers sit quietly, as if in a coma. Talasniemi tries to lift the spirits – in vain. My fingers wander to the wrong places on the fretboard, even Veli-Matti struggles with key changes, and Cassu’s broken string from the harp flies into the lap of the girl sitting across from him. The whole thing falls apart.

In the dim corner of the room, stands a piano. One of the campers, a long-haired young man, stands up and sits at the piano, adjusting the stool to the right height, and begins to play. It takes a moment before I realize which song it is. Veli-Matti tunes his guitar on the fly and accompanies a couple of verses. Suddenly, both of them break into improvisation and feed off each other, building up a greater groove. ”My Favorite Things” grows and grows. I sit behind Matti with the guitar in my hands, mouth agape, listening to the skillful interaction. Someone is crying. Then another camper begins to shed tears. And another. Talasniemi flicks on the lights. The evening has ended.

I lie on the bed. The bottle of vodka remains unopened in the guitar case. No one speaks. The atmosphere is peculiar. Something has happened. I just can’t put it into words. There’s a sharp knock on the door. Veli-Matti goes to open it. The visitor is Pastor Jussi. He appears oddly uncomfortable. He thanks us for the performance and is about to leave when he suddenly turns around.

– I want to apologize. I had to turn the lights on immediately. I don’t know how to say it. This group is somewhat different from our July one. There’s no point beating around the bush. There are a few girls here who have already lost their composure, as they say. Just so you know. I ask that you don’t speak about this. Goodnight.

That pianist… I later heard his masterful playing many times at classical concerts. Although ”My Favorite Things” is no longer part of Ilmo Ranta’s repertoire.