I was four inches taller than Matti. That was the only upper hand I had compared to him. We were classmates in elementary school, but our friendship was born and grew some years later. The reason for this development was a group of four lads from Liverpool.
Music, music, music
It often doesn’t take a huge leap from music listening to active playing. Many families in Tapiola had an out-of-tune piano for kids to hammer.
From the top floor apartment in our block of flats one could hear first some shaky bits of ”Für Elise” which always lead to a total frustration that erupted in a manic version of ”Chopsticks” and ended with the loud bang of slamming shut the fallboard. This soundtrack was repeated daily when Tom’s big sister returned home from school.
My father had a violin. He played his own interpretation of ”Somewhere over the Rainbow”. It certainly had a lot more feeling than dexterity. He did try to transfer his violin enthusiasm to me. But the Slavic undercurrent of his repertoire did not receive the expected response. Neither was violin playing – even when squaked with a mute – considered as a suitable pastime among our neighbors. Another instrument my father liked to strum was a balalaika. It was not my cup of tea either. One can create a hell of a racket with just three strings…
The real musicians
A well-to-do family in the B-block next to us had five kids. The eldest two were real musicians: Kaarina played violin in chamber orchestra and Timo was on his way to become a masterful flamenco guitarist. Some years later, also the young ones started the violin in earnest and with splendid results. Pekka, who was the one in the middle, was my friend and, of course, the only non-musical member of the quintet.
Matti’s family had a baby grand. On the grand piano Matti’s father, the CEO of a research institute, played classical masterpieces flawlessly. From their semi-detached emerged skillful interpretations of various piano works by Mozart and Beethoven when you walked by. Matti’s big brother was more interested in mathematics and physics. But there was no doubt that Matti had inherited musical genes in his birth. He took piano and guitar lessons. In the beginning, his repertoire was solely classical. The change didn’t occur in a day. But, at some point in the early 60’s his Spanish guitar started playing boogie comp and rock riffs. At the crossroads his choice was the devil’s music. And I followed him.
In a Persian market
Even my Turkish friend, Hassan, had a guitar. Presumably a chain of ownerships through selling and buying lead it into his possession. The instrument was a seven-stringed Russian model. One string was missing, which nicely turned it into a regular western guitar. We didn’t have a faintest idea how to tune a guitar. Neither did we have the much needed older brother with playing skills to give advice to absolute beginners. After several hours of frustration we could play – on one string – the middle part of ”In a Persian Market” and a couple of other bits of popular songs. Successful playing by ear of the greatly simplified tunes sounded in my ears like an overture of a symphony and created strange tremors in my preteen soul. Is this what they call playing? I just have to have a guitar!
Because it was a question of an instrument, my father took a surprisingly positive view on my begging. Christmas was approaching, so there was a very good chance that my wish might be granted. This is the exact point where a musical relative would have been a blessing. He or she might have been able to give some valuable advice on choosing the instrument…
Christmas Eve is the longest day of the year for any kid. It was even longer for me at that particular Noel when I saw a promising looking packet, wrapped in red and gold paper, hidden behind the Christmas tree. The Eve program followed its regular pattern: lighting candles in the graveyard, proclamation of the yuletide peace and, finally, Christmas dinner. The clock on the kitchen wall seemed to be malfunctioning: hours crawled, the minute hand had got stuck and the second hand moved into the wrong direction. At long last, dinner was eaten and we got to the main thing. Santa Claus rang briskly on the doorbell and stomped into the living room in his heavy boots. The last bit were the traditional Santa entertainment ceremonies, before Father Christmas left the building and the permission to open the presents was given. The promising looking packet contained exactly what I had hoped for. A guitar!
The Killer
Today, the thing that I found in the cardboard box would have been called ”music hobby killer”. It was the cheapest model of a cheap line of guitars, Landola. The plywood body was dark at the edges, gradually getting lighter brown closer to the sound hole. The neck was warped and steel strings were half an inch off the fretboard. Tuners were so stiff and inaccurate that even if you knew how to tune it, you couldn’t have made it. Accessories included a pipe for tuning. The pipe with its six different squawking sounds might have been great for hunting ducks. I tried myself first, but I didn’t have the strength and I didn’t make any sense of the pipe’s whining.
Another accessory was a beginner’s guide to guitar playing. On the brown cover of the booklet you could see a Spanish hidalgo down on his knees, trying to woo a grumpy señorita reluctantly listening to his strumming. The contents of the little book was like trying to interpret the Rosetta stone.
With my face turning red, I tried blowing the duck whistle for a while. The steel strings bit deep into my fingertips. It was my father’s turn to show, if he had the prowess to tune ”the Killer”. My father promptly went into action. After all, he could play the violin and balalaika. He blew and twisted. A steel string can take a lot of punishment, but it has a breaking point. The snapping E string produces a kind of funny cartoon movie effect sound. My father produced a rough bit of an adult movie dialog. There’s no harm trying again. Zing! Said the B string. Shit! Said my father. The four-stringed instrument was hidden under my bed. In the spring cleaning it was moved to the cellar. However, the Killer-Landola’s story was yet unfinished.
I’m learning
During Christmas holidays I was visiting my friend Matti. We listened to the new Beatles album he’d got as a present. I told him the details of my Killer-Landola experience. Soon it became clear that there were two main types of guitars, nylon-stringed and steel-stringed. Matti let me have a go with his Spanish guitar while he instructed me how to finger simple chords. I was flabbergasted. Playing his guitar, I was able to strum almost clean basic chords. The strings humbly obeyed the demands of my stiff fingers. Two hours of patient advising, I managed to play the simplified intro to the Spanish Romance. My romance with the guitar caught fire.
They’re all playing electric guitars
Looking at the album covers, we came to the same conclusion: the instruments of a pop band were overwhelmingly electric. On our record buying trips to Helsinki, you could find us ogling at the electric guitars on display at the various music shops windows in the center. The shapes of the instruments were from a science fiction movie. The lacquer finish reflected street lights in brilliant prisms. The sheen of chrome blinded our eyes. The rosewood fretboard glowed with a dark threat. The small tags hanging from the guitars had funny numbers: 1500, 1800, 2300 and 3500. These were price tags, we realized. Not even Matti’s family had that kind of astronomical amount of money. We were simultaneously filled with the distress of the unattainable and the desire of yearning. We walked toward the bus station discussing aloud the various fantastic schemes to reach the unreachable.
The woodwork Vox
A couple of months later, Matti called and asked if I had time to see him. He’d have something to show me. A new Beatles album, I thought. It was a Friday night, so homework was not an obstacle. I rang the doorbell, wished good evening to his mother and climbed upstairs. Matti’s door was ajar. I pushed it fully open and stepped inside to a blindingly bright lit room. The table lamp, the ceiling lamp lamp and the reading light above Matti’s bed were all directed on an item lying on the bed. An electric guitar! A Vox Teardrop with three pickups!
In amazement, I looked at my friend smiling in a dimly lit corner. How had this, which two months ago was a mere mirage in a music shop window, materialized as a physical object of shiny white lacquered wood and of the sparkling glint of virgin chrome?
Matti lifted the guitar in his lap, turned up the volume, snatched a pick off the table and played the intro to ”Jumping Jack Flash” . An overdriven powerful sound filled my consciousness. I was dizzy. I felt the earth move under my feet. I sat on the bed. I couldn’t take my eyes off his fingers that now miraculously moved to the divine lead of ”Day Tripper”. This is black magic, this is witchcraft. My friend had sold his soul to the devil and in return got a white Vox and the playing skills of an angel.
The answer was more mundane. The guitar has been made at school woodwork. The neck and fretboard as well as the pickups Matti’s father had brought from England. Knobs and other necessities Matti found in one of the music shops in Helsinki. The tube radio functioning as the amplifier was from his brother who had moved out to continue his studies at university. Enthralled, I listened to my friend playing. How on earth was this possible? All I knew was a handful of chords and a few bars of the Spanish Romance. Matti played with ease an endless amount of rock riffs as well as full songs, solos included.
– When… Where… I mean, how did you learn all those licks?
– This is a child’s play. Bach is much more difficult. These have the same stuff, anyway. I’ve been practicing a little too.
– A little. This guy plays like Jimi.
– Don’t overdo it. Thanks anyway. By the way, how are you going to spend your summer job money? Fazer Music has a sale. You could buy a cheap Landola jumbo there. 500 only. And I can teach you more. You gotta have your own guitar to practice at home.
Matti let me try too. He showed me where my fingers were supposed to go. Every now and then I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans thighs. In just half an hour of intensive teaching I could play the main riff of ”Day Tripper”, with a couple of flubs, but I nailed it. A looked up to my teacher and nodded. Jumbo or bust!
– Five hundred for a guitar! Have you gone mad. All the money you earned in summer! And the 50 marks granny gave you for your birthday to buy a case!
Looking for a jumbo
We agreed to meet on Tuesday afternoon at Frazer Music. Matti came directly from school. I traveled by bus. I had hidden the wad of 50 mark bills in my shoe. There it was, all the money I had made during the sweltering summer months, including the birthday present from my granny. The pile was half an inch high. My shoe chafed unpleasantly on my heel. I was worried and euphoric. I hobbled across Mannerheimintie, by the Old Student House and Stockmann’s department store, towards Fazer Music in the end of Aleksanterinkatu. I glanced furtively in every direction being quite sure that I would be robbed and almost bumped into my friend standing in front of the store.
– Hi. Do you have a sore foot limping like that? Have you got the money with you?
– Hi. Ssh! Yep. But please lower your voice. The money’s in my shoe.
The door to Fazer Music opened into a guitar player’s heaven. The rows of acoustic and electric guitars seemed to continue to eternity: Fender, Gibson, Martin, Rickenbacker, Vox, Gretsch… and Landola. Every instrument, except Landola, had a price tag with four digits. The Killer-Landola had only two. I also noticed that the first one was six… Our eyes were fixed on the end of the Landola row. The fall sale had drawn the shop chock-full of enthusiastic guitarists and wannabes. You hear the cacophony of strumming and picking everywhere.
With confident steps, Matti approached the line of bargain instruments. He first gave each jumbo on offer an overall critical glance. Next, he picked one in his hands, whipped it around, looked along the fretboard with one eye closed, tuned the thing, strummed a few chords, played some chosen solo riffs close to the body – and returned the guitar to its stand. This ceremony Matti repeated with every instrument. The salesman gave us a suspicious look. I could feel sweat running down my back. Any minute now they will kick us out…
– That number three is the best one. It has a straight neck and the touch is fine. The saddle needs a bit of trimming and it will be great. How much money do you have?
– 500 and 50 for the case.
– This is 549. Skip the case. The cardboard box is good enough.
We were not kicked out. Even the salesman laughed when I dug the money out of my shoe and counted the pile of bills on the counter. The deal was sealed and the cardboard box was closed with the white and green Fazer Music tape. In the dusk of the evening we walked to the bus. I was floating in the air.
– Tomorrow you come right to my place. We’ll start rehearsals. I’ve got a groovy tune we can start with, Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Effigy. Here’s the chord sheet. Make sure you know them. You know the song, don’t you?
– Yes! And thanks a million times. Without you, I wouldn’t have this box between my legs. I’m sure I know the chords tomorrow. Promise!
Tom Fogerty in Louisiana
I spend the whole evening and a part of the night strumming the chords, until my mum opens the door and says that guitar playing is a nice hobby, but there are a lot of people in this building who are going to work tomorrow early. Three hours have flown away. My head is aching, my left hand is in a cramp and my fingertips are red and raw. When I finally fall asleep, I’m in Louisiana. I’m Tom Fogerty, standing behind my brother John, fingerpicking the intro on my Guild Starfire. I begin strumming the chord sequence. John glances at me. He strikes the solo riff on his feedbacking Rickenbacker and screams the song on the move:
”Last night
I saw a fire burning on
The palace lawn.”
The duck whistle
– This is not in tune. You got a tuning fork?
– What’d you mean? I’ve got this duck whistle.
Matti grabs the whistle and blows. The sound coming out is that of an angry duck. We both burst out laughing. With tears of laughter streaming from our eyes, Matti plays an ode for the duck. I strum A-major my fingers slipping off the fretboard. We are rolling on the floor, helpless with hysterical laughter. Another long blow. Quaaack! I get hiccups trying to catch my breath. Matti is coughing and sneezing. The door opens. Matti’s mum peeks in. Matti shouts laughing please do not disturb, we have a new hit song in the making ”Daffy Duck’s Drive-in Date”. She requests for little less noise and closes the door. Gradually, we calm down. The whistle we hide in the drawer. Just a glance at it causes immediate and total hysterics in the middle of a well-grooving ”Effigy”.
Rehearsals begin
We come to our senses finally. Matti takes the tuning fork, taps it on the edge of the desk a few times and tunes both guitars. The rehearsals begin. Locking into a groove of dual guitars, ”Effigy” starts to get a recognizable shape. It sounds like music. Neither of us has the guts to try to imitate John Fogerty’s singing. After two hours of intense work, we have – in our own opinion – a complete instrumental track. Matti’s mum and dad are reading downstairs as we walk to the kitchen with burning red ears to have a glass of juice. Matti’s dad enters.
– How’s your rehearsal progressing? Come on, let us hear the song too. You’ve used most of the evening playing. Go and get the guitars. We want to hear it. Well?
He didn’t need to ask us twice. We drag the gear downstairs – except the whistle. Matti tunes the instruments, plugs in his electric, nods and so we kick off ”Effigy”. After two messed intros and a mistimed solo entry, the groove is on. We’re flying. Jumbo chimes and woodwork-Vox cries and screams. The magic of playing together moves us to another dimension. Slowly, the song curves to its end. The final fingerpicked outro and the guitars fall silent. Matti’s father smiles and gets up from his reading chair clapping his hands. Both parents are standing and applauding. We take a simultaneous bow like we’ve seen the Beatles do. Thank you!
The performance in front of the demanding audience had been a great success. This is guitar playing! This is a band! We only need a bass player. And a drummer. And a vocalist. And two dozen well-rehearsed songs. And better gear. And a rehearsal room. And a tape recorder. And a venue for gigs. And… Small fry. The biggest obstacle had been removed. We had played a gig in front of a live audience.
The drum machine, of sorts
As soon as I got home from school, I was playing in my room. On Matti’s suggestion, I bought a cheap metronome. As we didn’t have a drummer, my job as the rhythm guitarist was to keep the beat steady. I was no clockwork rhythm machine, quite the opposite. The sharp ticking of the metronome started getting on my nerves, not to mention my family members.
As the drum machine was not yet invented, I made a poor man’s version of it. I had a broken little Lenco record player and a few scratchy singles. Lenco wasn’t automatic, so the tone arm stayed on the out-groove, the stylus making a clicking noise on the spinning record. With my jack knife and a plastic ruler I made symmetrical cuts on the out-groove: four deep ones and a few shallow scratches. When the stylus hit the cut, you could hear a loud snap from the speaker. The deeper the cut, the louder the crackle. I could adjust the volume the same way as with spinning singles. And, I had three speeds to choose from: 33, 45 and 78 revolutions per minute. Varying the pattern of the cuts gave me several ”drum tracks” to play over. Crackle, snap, click-click, crackle, snap, click-click, crackle, snap, click-click…
Effigy
In the summer of 71, I was working through all three months, excluding a week on a church camp. The camp was one of the main crossroads in my life. The fork on the road had several signs. One of them said ”Music”. There were a couple of other players attending. Soon the guitars chimed through the day. The camp leader played cello. He gave us guidance in the matters of religion and encouraged us to play more music. He liked ”Effigy” so much that he wanted us to play at the grand closing ceremony in Tapiola church. Cassu, my old buddy, and Markku, a new friend from my neighborhood, were included in the band to play mouth harps. Now we were four. The church ceremony would be held in fall.
The photo taken on the confirmation ceremony morning shows a long-haired guy with pouches under his eyes leaning on the jumbo. You can easily sense the excitement on his face. The song we could play while sleeping, but now the audience is not Matti’s mum and dad. Well, there will be a church full of mums and dads of our fellow campers, with other relatives in tow. ”Effigy” is the last thing on the program. Through the whole ceremony, I had a feeling I was watching a film. It was hot under the ceremonial gown in the fully-packed church with standing room only. My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my jeans thighs – under the gown.
Finally the religious stuff is done with. Now it was our turn. Guitars and the tube radio are hidden behind the elevated altar and mouth harps are in my friends’ pockets. We stand up like a sign was given to us. I’m breathing heavily as I lift up my jumbo and fix the strap. Matti sees that the harp men are ready. Then he gives me a tiny nod. I’m totally numb. But the hours and hours of rehearsing guide my fingers to the right strings. The picked intro sparkles fresh in the silent church. The harps enter. Suddenly, the feedback screech of the electric guitar fills the huge space of the church hall. I strike the chords sequence with power. My pick splits in half. Unexpectedly, a calm, assured feeling takes a hold of me and ”Effigy” rages jubilantly over the serious looking faces out to the church yard bathing in the sun of a bright fall afternoon.
The miracle working
As it often happens at the best church camps, a large group of barely acquainted teens become very good friends. The group stays together until the spring of 1972. Then several things would change forever, but that was in the future and nobody of us was willing to look in the crystal ball. The end of the hot summer of 1971 was filled with groovy togetherness and endless house parties. Sometimes we performed as a duo. I was courageous enough to try to sing. The virtuosity of my friend cast its brightly shining light on me. My self-esteem grew and my playing skills got better.
More crunch
Matti had bought a new electric guitar. A red Fender Esquire suddenly appeared in our rehearsals. Woodwork Vox was on a stand in the corner and looking rejected.
– That’s one groovy guitar! And it sounds great too! What you’re gonna do with that Vox copy?
– It’s yours.
– What!
– I’ll give it to you. They wouldn’t pay anything for that in a music store. Besides, we need more crunch in the comp.
And more crunch we got. Markku purchased a Gibson SG bass copy. We were ashamed of the new Japanese brand, Ibanez. So the name on the headstock was covered with the peace sign. Here we had a drummerless powertrio. No one had a proper amplifier, which was fine, because our rehearsal room was the downstairs sauna lounge in Markku’s semi-detached. Besides, the old tube radios created a nice natural fuzzy sound when you turned the volume up. Markku, that is his family, had a four-track reel-to-reel Tandberg tape recorder. Tandberg made it possible to create crude sound-on-sound recordings. The drummer problem was solved with each of us taking turns with banging on the bongos and beating the tambourine. Bass and percussion bottom was laid in this fashion. We were immensely pleased with the sounds preserved on the tapes. There was some good stuff, said Markku’s parents with straight faces.
Appetite increases when eating… Vox copy was heavy and the egg-shaped body made it difficult to play sitting on a chair. The neck was thick and the cheap electronics created a loud humming noise when the guitar was plugged in. I’m sure I might have found other reasons too to look for a new guitar.
Mustang!
We traveled many a time to Helsinki in search of the cheap but good Fender. This equation manifested itself to be nearly impossible to solve.
On one of those frustrating trips, we walked into a small shop on the edge of the town. The guy behind the counter had seen us often and was very aware of our mission. From behind the counter he lifted a battered case. Someone had handed in the guitar and the case in exchange for a better instrument. He opened the case. I had never seen anything so beautiful. The beauty’s name was Fender Mustang. The body was deep red. It had three single coil pickups and light maple neck. Okay, there were a couple of dings on the body, the frets needed sanding and the headstock had received a few hits. But these were really minor issues. Fender Mustang – a teen guitarist’s wet dream. When the shock effect had subsided a little, I dared to ask for the price.
– 900. With that original case. This is a bargain. For you only. There are not many Fenders like this in circulation, not in this price range, anyway.
We looked at each other. I nodded. Matti asked if he could try out the Mustang. The guy handed him the guitar and switched on the Fender Twin Reverb amplifier standing by the counter. Matti plugged in the Mustang, increased the volume a bit, tuned the guitar, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The roaring main riff of ”The Sunshine of Your Love” filled the tiny store and the neighborhood outside of it. Some more adjustments, a medley of rock riffs, a few glances on the instrument, a few twists of the knobs and Matti gave back the guitar to the shopkeeper covering his ears.
– That’s a great guitar. It’s a deal for 900. The frets need to be fixed in the future. A groovy little Fender, really!
Of course, I didn’t have that kind of money. I had saved, maybe some 700 of my summer job salary. I was still missing two hundred. Luckily, my birthday was in the offing in two week’s time. If I now reminded all the potential relatives that money was to be the best present, I might just be able to scrape together the needed amount. I turned to the shopkeeper and asked if he could keep the guitar until October 22nd? He said he would.
I had to be active myself too. I could not wait for the 21st to arrive. LP records were as good as cash. And as this was a serious situation, I decided to sell some favorite albums of mine. I knew there would be takers – if the price is right… I got a hundred marks added to my savings. I even thought of selling the jumbo, but fortunately I came to my senses quickly.
On the 22nd of October I pulled open the store door. The guy behind the counter, the same one, we had met a couple of weeks earlier, didn’t say a word. He disappeared in the back room. The battered case with its valuable contents was handed over to me. I handed over a wad of hundred mark bills. He counted the money and said thanks.
– There’s a strap and a few picks inside. Keep on grooving!
Equipment competition
Soon Markku had updated his instrument to a Fender Jazz Bass and bought a real bass amp. The arms race was topped at the end of the year. Matti’s new guitar was the original early 60’s Fender Stratocaster with a sunburst body. It was rumored to have been in Jukka Tolonen’s possession at some point. Matti, too, had purchased a 20-watt Vox amp. I did have a Fender Mustang. But it was plugged into an old tube radio. Also the rehearsal schedule was updated. Markku had joined, through an audition, the mighty Tapiola Big Band. Matti had found a real rehearsal room and better band mates at his high school in Helsinki.
I could read the writing on the wall. Playing in a band was over for me. There was no big drama. I’ve had the feeling through it all that together we would not make it to the top. I was happy for Matti and Markku, because I felt that they had the skills and attitude to be professionals. I played surf instrumentals at home and focused on my high school studies. We met every now and then and even jammed together, but my dream of a band was dead.
The dream is over
The year 1972. The end of April, just before May the 1st celebrations. Matti is biking home from school with his friends. He doesn’t notice a truck turning from the left. His bike is crushed into a pile of junk. Matti is alive for a week. On the 2nd of May the Finnish flag is at half mast. I’m trying to do my homework at the living room table. I can’t look at the flag. My eyes get filled with tears. I collect my books and return to my room. I pick up my jumbo and play the fingerpicked intro. I strum the chords of ”Effigy” and cry.
The return of the Killer
It’s the end of August 1972. We’re cooling off after sauna, sitting in the courtyard of Markku’s house. In the big brick grill we are barbecuing hamburgers. The day before, we attended Paul McCartney and the Wings gig at the Old Exhibition Hall in Helsinki. Our ears are still ringing. We have dragged the downstairs loudspeakers out to the yard. The record playing now is the Wing’s latest, Wild Life. I tell Markku the story of the Killer-Landola and mention that it has miraculously survived in the cellar through all these years. Markku dips the bottle of beer on his lips. The movement stops.
– I’ve got an idea. For the memory of Matti. Go and bring it here.
Markku stokes the fire and looks at me. I’m smiling. I dry my hair, hop on the bicycle and in a minute I’m back in Markku’s yard. The music has changed. The Creedence Clearwater Revival’s ”Willie and the Poor Boys” is on the turntable. The B side is spinning towards the end. Catching my breath, I open a cool bottle of beer Markku hands over to me.
– When the final track starts, you know what we’re gonna do?
– I know.
I grab a hold of the Killer-Landola’s neck. I lift the guitar above my head. With all my might I smash it on the stone floor. The body cracks. A new blow. The neck breaks. Another. The headstock splits. Markku turns up the volume. I throw the pile of splintered wood on the grill. Flames leap up. The burning guitar lights up the velvet dusk of an August night. The whole street echoes with the power of the last song.
Who is burnin’?
Who is burnin’?
Effigy.
Who is burnin’?
Who is burnin’?
Effigy.
