A little boy in love with music

It started on Grandfather’s old turntable, with Neil Diamond, Wenche Myhre and Dizzie Tunes, and me banging my head against the wall in time. Elvis, the Beatles and the Stones filled the house, and my uncle handed me the harder stuff (Thin Lizzy, the Sex Pistols), which I stole from the cellar stairs while he and his mates loaded up for the weekend, bottles clinking and the music loud and good. A neighbour’s Bob Marley put a reggae beat in my blood that’s still there. And the dream was never small. Not just to be Elvis, but world domination from the stage: a rock’n’roll free-fall with no brakes, from here to eternity and back. Rock never felt like work the way school did. Music kindergarten and the local corps? They never took.