orders for the others, and they drink giant beers out of fat bottles. Erhard has never played in a band, but he’s always wanted to be in one: to sit in an old car together, to get all the equipment ready on stage, to smoke cigarettes while waiting for the show to begin. Then warm-ups and finally the sets, assuming you manage more than one, and afterward drinking beer and laughing without a care in the world, praising one another for things others hadn’t noticed.
Erhard’s father had taken him to his piano lessons. The piano instructor in Taastrup was a man with rolled-up sleeves by the name of Marius Tønnesen. His teaching method consisted of sitting in a plush chair and humming over his pupils’ attempts at playing the notes, and he didn’t comment or instruct, just smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, content, almost cheerful. After nineteen instructional hours, Erhard’s father decided to come watch a lesson, and he realized they were not producing the results that he’d hoped; he didn’t believe the teacher punished Erhard enough for striking the wrong keys. In the end he went straight up to his son and screamed that Erhard bloody well not pussyfoot around the goddamn keys. After that his father got on Tønnesen’s case, asking him to get his ass together, find the belt or something, teach the boy how to practice, because he wasn’t going to become a pianist playing cowboys and Indians. Following that day, Erhard’s father stopped paying for piano lessons. The next week, when Erhard showed up without money, Tønnesen said that he could have one final lesson, but that was it.
In one way it was his first lesson. Erhard discovered that he played better when he was angry. He suddenly played so energetically that Tønnesen got up from his chair, walked over, and stood observing Erhard’s fingers. All ten. My word, boy, he said excitedly, how angry you are at the piano. Erhard pounded every key. When the hour was up he was exhausted; he stood in the entranceway, broken and sweaty, as Tønnesen rummaged around in his office. Erhard was just about to leave when the teacher bounded out. I want you to have this. It was ‘Saxophone Colossus’ by Rollins from 1956. On the cover, near a gleaming lamp, sat Rollins behind his saxophone.
– Can you play ‘You Don’t Know What Love Is’? he asks one of the slender boys at the bar. The boys turns. Erhard figures they know it.
– We don’t play jazz, the boy says.
– Isn’t this a jazz club? When did they start playing anything but jazz at a jazz club?
The boy says they call it new funk.
– Let me guess, Erhard says. – Three-four time, two bass guitars.
– The young crowd likes it.
– Looks that way, Erhard says, glancing around.
– This is just a practice jam. Our last YouTube video has more than 1.3 million views. We’re playing Madrid next month.
– It’s a long road, my young friend. Erhard inspects the boy’s holey jeans. – You can’t cheat with music.
– Whatever, Yoda, the lead singer says, laughing in a not-unfriendly way. – Let me guess: You’re another misunderstood island genius?
– Is it that obvious?
– You’re not exactly a business type.
Erhard smiles. – Neither are you.
– I’m young and irresponsible, you know?
– Yes, I remember how great that was.
– What happened to your hand?
Erhard looks down at his left hand. – Old injury.
– Don’t you have kids or grandkids you have to get home to?
– I’ve not quite reached that stage.
– So now you’re here grieving your fate?
– I’m listening to music, unless you’ve decided to drink your evening away in the back room instead?
– Yeah right.
Erhard turns away and takes a pull of his beer. Talking to young people can be uncomfortable. Halfway into a conversation he feels the bridge between the generations is too long, too winding, ruined. No one else shows up, it’s not your typical evening – perhaps there’s a football match on the telly.
Erhard’s father had taken him to his piano lessons. The piano instructor in Taastrup was a man with rolled-up sleeves by the name of Marius Tønnesen. His teaching method consisted of sitting in a plush chair and humming over his pupils’ attempts at playing the notes, and he didn’t comment or instruct, just smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, content, almost cheerful. After nineteen instructional hours, Erhard’s father decided to come watch a lesson, and he realized they were not producing the results that he’d hoped; he didn’t believe the teacher punished Erhard enough for striking the wrong keys. In the end he went straight up to his son and screamed that Erhard bloody well not pussyfoot around the goddamn keys. After that his father got on Tønnesen’s case, asking him to get his ass together, find the belt or something, teach the boy how to practice, because he wasn’t going to become a pianist playing cowboys and Indians. Following that day, Erhard’s father stopped paying for piano lessons. The next week, when Erhard showed up without money, Tønnesen said that he could have one final lesson, but that was it.
In one way it was his first lesson. Erhard discovered that he played better when he was angry. He suddenly played so energetically that Tønnesen got up from his chair, walked over, and stood observing Erhard’s fingers. All ten. My word, boy, he said excitedly, how angry you are at the piano. Erhard pounded every key. When the hour was up he was exhausted; he stood in the entranceway, broken and sweaty, as Tønnesen rummaged around in his office. Erhard was just about to leave when the teacher bounded out. I want you to have this. It was ‘Saxophone Colossus’ by Rollins from 1956. On the cover, near a gleaming lamp, sat Rollins behind his saxophone.
– Can you play ‘You Don’t Know What Love Is’? he asks one of the slender boys at the bar. The boys turns. Erhard figures they know it.
– We don’t play jazz, the boy says.
– Isn’t this a jazz club? When did they start playing anything but jazz at a jazz club?
The boy says they call it new funk.
– Let me guess, Erhard says. – Three-four time, two bass guitars.
– The young crowd likes it.
– Looks that way, Erhard says, glancing around.
– This is just a practice jam. Our last YouTube video has more than 1.3 million views. We’re playing Madrid next month.
– It’s a long road, my young friend. Erhard inspects the boy’s holey jeans. – You can’t cheat with music.
– Whatever, Yoda, the lead singer says, laughing in a not-unfriendly way. – Let me guess: You’re another misunderstood island genius?
– Is it that obvious?
– You’re not exactly a business type.
Erhard smiles. – Neither are you.
– I’m young and irresponsible, you know?
– Yes, I remember how great that was.
– What happened to your hand?
Erhard looks down at his left hand. – Old injury.
– Don’t you have kids or grandkids you have to get home to?
– I’ve not quite reached that stage.
– So now you’re here grieving your fate?
– I’m listening to music, unless you’ve decided to drink your evening away in the back room instead?
– Yeah right.
Erhard turns away and takes a pull of his beer. Talking to young people can be uncomfortable. Halfway into a conversation he feels the bridge between the generations is too long, too winding, ruined. No one else shows up, it’s not your typical evening – perhaps there’s a football match on the telly.
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