![]() When the first notes of the band’s first song sounded in the classroom, there were mumbles of appreciation and mounting enthusiasm, which culminated when the vote was taken, and it turned out that the Aller Værste! had won, hands down. One Friday I took to school the Aller Værste!’s first LP, “Materialtretthet,” which Yngve had bought a few days before, and said that I had an advance copy of the Kids’ new album. The Kids’ second record hadn’t been released yet. I complained to my older brother Yngve, and he not only understood how irritating it was but also came up with a way to trick them. They weren’t really listening to the music. I knew that my classmates were voting against me and not the music. Led Zeppelin, Queen, Wings, the Beatles, the Police, the Jam, Skids-the result was the same, only one or two votes, last. Mine always came in last, whatever I played. ![]() And then they were looking down on me?Įvery Friday we had something we called “Class Top of the Pops.” Six students brought a song each and we all voted for our favorite one. ![]() They could barely dress they turned up at school wearing the strangest combinations of clothes. It meant nothing to them, not really they had no idea what music was or what it could be. What did they know about men and women and desire? Had they read Wilbur Smith, where women were taken by force under stormy skies? Had they read Ken Follett, where a man shaves a woman’s pussy while she lies in a foam-filled bathtub with her eyes closed? Had they read “Insect Summer,” by Knut Faldbakken, the passage that I knew by heart, when the boy takes the girl’s panties off in the hay? Had they ever got their hands on a porn magazine? And what did they know about music? They liked what everyone liked-the Kids and all the other crap on the top-ten lists. But, no matter how important they were, they knew nothing about the world they were moving toward. With our high-pitched voices, our more or less furtive glances as we admired all the attributes they now possessed, we were no more than air to them. They had risen above us: suddenly the boys they looked at were from two or three classes up. On the one hand, I knew them so well I was completely indifferent toward them on the other hand, they had started changing-the bulges under their sweaters were growing, their hips were widening, and they were behaving differently. My attitude toward them was also ambivalent, at least as far as the girls in my class were concerned. At times it was as though the girls really hated me, considered me some sort of scum at others it was the opposite-not only did they want to talk to me but at the class parties we had begun to arrange, at one another’s houses and at school, they also wanted to dance with me. I was almost twelve years old, going into the fifth year of barneskole.
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