Rock & Love

Do I not deserve love? Why is it that some people, even if they wanted to, could not live without love, there are always so many applicants that they cannot count on one hand the number of people who drool over them, while most are starved for love, but it never honours them with its presence? Doesn’t everyone deserve love equally? What determines whether someone is caught in the storm of passion or not?

I think I would be afraid to fall in love. I wouldn’t dare risk getting my heart back in pieces if I gave it to someone. But that is quite common in the vast majority of cases.

Then, of course, there are times when someone doesn’t even seek it and they still fall in love. And then, even though you know that it will probably not end well, there is nothing you can do about it.

All this, of course, in my life, is both non-existent and impossible. I know very few musicians who are in love and who dare to be in a relationship. In my experience, they are love-deniers. Because of their outlook on life and their values, they can even back up their idea of this phenomenon. So of course, their theory makes sense and seems to be true.

But then I also have friends who acknowledge the existence of love, but they don’t attach much importance to it either. Even if they are granted the experience of falling in love, they cannot appreciate it.

And then here I am, between the two ideas and lifestyles, with my own thoughts. And the silent expectations. First, they expect me to be a mind reader, to understand the unspoken words, so that they can expect me to stop believing in love, and if I do, to belittle it. It is my luck - or misfortune - that Cupid has not yet found me. Or if he has ventured near me, I’ve fucked it all up thanks to my pessimism.

What do I have to find out at nineteen years of age? I have spent most of my life working with music and musicians, and now I have started to dream about love. Absurd.

It’s not that I don’t like or am not happy with the way things are, but it’s the conflict of interest itself that can be a reason for divorce.

I’ve always loved music. I could listen to a record non-stop for weeks, just to learn from it and analyse it. For a while I wanted a career in music myself. Then I realised that I had no instrument other than my voice. I couldn’t really play on anything. Then I realised that I didn’t have the confidence to use my voice. Eventually I realised that I couldn’t really write music, only lyrics, and that put me off music for good. So, what did I do? I couldn’t stop writing lyrics, which I still do to this day, when I have something to write. Eventually I did become better at song writing too. I also tried to help other people make music. I organised concerts for my friends, critiqued their songs when they asked me, took their photos, and even made music videos for some of them. Tough job, huh?

Soon after I realised that I wanted to make music, a very dear friend of mine, whom I love as a sister, introduced me to music. A whole other world, full of people I didn’t even know existed: musicians. But not the tabloid, internet vomit. I admit I was surprised by the reality. But - thanks to my nature - I quickly accepted it, and from then on, I tried to learn and make connections. But it was only later that I was able to put this knowledge to good use. But let’s not rush ahead.

Can you imagine falling in love in such a small world? And with someone who has ′you shouldn’t′ written all over them!

I’ve never wanted to be in love. Sure, I wondered what it was like, but I couldn’t afford to try it. How could rock and roll ever fit in with love?

Before the disaster happened, I was living happily ever after, partying myself to death, enjoying myself by doing crazy things that seemed unbelievable even to me.

One day at school, during class, a few of us drank a bottle of whisky, getting so drunk, I was barely able to walk. Another time, before I even got to a concert, I was half-drunk and there I was only able to give the audience some free porn with a girlfriend. Once, after a night of getting stoned with friends I was entertaining passers-by at a busy bus stop with a complete stranger. During a party, I was proposed to by a drunk Austrian and I’ve had a hook-up with another unknown guy, who I managed to shake off like a fucker afterwards, all in one night. There was also the time when I was so over the top that even the toughest, most animalistic musicians would stare at me in amazement at what I was doing. I celebrated one of my birthdays for two days: first day a crazy gig with a really good friend and a bunch of other people, second day me and that friend went down to a club and got thrown out of the party, drunk. In short, I fit in perfectly with my musician friends, living a life of rock and roll. It meant the world, it meant everything to me. I loved the environment that made me feel welcome and accepted for who I was. Of course, I was a little bit out of it, but I didn’t feel embarrassed, it was fine. In the meantime, I’d made people envious and I’ve gotten haters, so I had a full repertoire.

So that’s how I was going through the days of my life, when the thunderbolt struck.

Our rock and roll society could be found all over the country in some form of subculture. Sometimes it mutated a bit, but that was okay. Personally, I could live with the knowledge that I knew some of the people in the group from all over the country, most of them from my home town, the capital, Budapest.

Like-minded and like-feeling societies existed in other countries as well, all over Europe, Britain, Asia, and the United States. I knew a few people from the more underground version, which we were, in Europe, through acquaintances. Sometimes they would come to us play gigs and we’d exchange a few words, but I had friends who kept in touch with some of them on a regular basis, and even developed a closer friendships or more.

When I turned nineteen in early March, I went completely crazy. My godparents lived in Germany, in Berlin. They had a small record label, Todd Way, where some local bands were signed. They invited me to visit them as soon as high school was over and I’ve graduated. Vickie, my godmother, said I could do some summer student work for them and have some fun, and get paid for it. And all I’ll be doing is helping out as an assistant, helping maintain the studios and getting to know the musicians there.

Vickie, and her husband Adam, were like me and my friends: eternal, music-loving, party people. They were my parents’ best friends. They moved from Hungary when they were in their early twenties to try their luck, and it worked out for them. They were one of the few monogamous couples I knew. But they were special that way, at least to me.

By the time the end of the school year came, I could barely contain myself. I was a bit scared to go to a foreign country alone – I didn’t know anyone there except my godparents – but I hoped I would make friends there. I found it hard to leave the people I knew at home, but I decided to give it a try and see if I could manage on my own.

I got on a plane on a Friday and was almost swooning with excitement. At the airport, I suddenly couldn’t find my ticket when I was asked for it, I didn’t understand what the stewardess wanted from me when everyone on the plane had already buckled their seatbelts except me, and other such shenanigans. I dozed off for thirty minutes on the way, and I woke up in a bad mood and arrived to bad weather. Adam came out to meet me at the airport because Vickie had to hold the front at Todd Way. I could see him sticking out from a distance at the airport. His brown hair had grown since I’d last seen him, now it was pulled back in a ponytail. He had a wide, Hollywood smile, I’d forgotten when he smiled his white teeth almost blinded me. His brown eyes sparkled mischievously as I approached him.

“Hi, girl!” Luckily my godparents didn’t forget how to speak Hungarian, because I knew very little German, only English. “Since when do you have a nose ring?”

“Hello! Adam, last time you saw me I was still a junior!” I jumped into his arms. “What’s up? How are you?”

“Good, good! It’s been busy, but we’ve got you now, so it’ll get easier. Come on, we’re going home.”

Home, in this case, meant the record company’s building, as my godparents had set up an upstairs apartment for themselves there.

“How was your trip?”

“Terrible! I’m completely exhausted, but I’m excited.”

“Good!” Adam laughed. “You need to be enthusiastic, because you’re going to have a tough time. We have a band called Rockerz signed, they’re four guys and they’ve got a lot of problems. They’ve had a hard time getting through the legal hurdle to get over to our label, and now they’ve got to make a record on deadline and they’ve got a cruel manager.”

“And what would I have to do with them?”

“Well... I hear you know something about making music...”

“Now, wait a minute! All I do is help some friends at home with gigs, and I can write some lyrics, but I’m still struggling with composing.”

“Well, I think they could use a fresh perspective. They’re so insecure at the moment that they need someone like you on their side. They’ve got studio three now anyway, and we’ll put you in with them as an all-rounder. As far as the salary is concerned, we’ll sort out the paperwork somehow.”

“Maybe we can work something out. But nothing too much, as far as my pitch is concerned.”

“All right!” Adam smiled, and by then we had arrived at the Todd Way building.

To my eyes it was a huge building, a nine-storey, solid monstrosity that looked a bit like a prison from the outside, occupying a whole block. But once you entered, you found yourself in a tidy place. The doorman greeted you at the front, and then as you went inside, there was one of the secretariats. The decor itself reflected my godparents’, and my taste: a little kitschy, a little chic, bohemian, glitzy, animal print, neon, lace... so glam.

We took the elevator up to the ninth floor, the floor where the staff and the musicians working here were no longer allowed. This was Vickie and Adam’s apartment. I was given the largest of the three guest rooms, which included a small salon and a spacious bathroom. The whole thing was like a mini-suite, and plenty for me. It was fully equipped: the bedroom with a large wardrobe and a four-poster bed, the bathroom with various beauty products and several bottles of essential hairspray, and the salon with an LCD TV, some armchairs, a sofa, a small fridge and a minibar, as well as a balcony. And now it was all mine. I felt like I was in heaven.