The big newspaper houses were quiet now. The printing press had moved to other premises, journalists wrote on quiet keyboards in front of upright word-processing screens, manuscripts travelled through the system on floppy discs and Tipp-Ex was a relic of the past.
I found Arild Sletten in his recording studio, wearing gigantic headphones, listening to a CD player on his desk, his legs splayed over the back of a chair, holding a notepad and chewing reflectively on a pencil.
Arild Sletten resembled an urban cowboy, but then he did come from the C&W county of Sogn og Fjordane, where most of the populated areas look like they are in the Rockies, are sponsored by McDonalds and refuse to accept payment with anything but American Express.
He was clad in denim – a blue stone-washed jacket and jeans – wore a brightly coloured shirt and had Texas bling around his neck, and on his feet he wore brown, patterned-leather cowboy boots.
His hair was long and greasy, combed back in Elvis style with sideburns the size of a horse’s blinkers. His face was tanned, as if he had just returned from a short stay in Las Vegas or he had spent the majority of his free-time in a solarium. The way he moved suggested he spent the rest in a fitness centre working overtime on the heaviest weights. He walked like a cattle stockman, stiff-kneed, and as bandy-legged as a cactus. But as soon as he opened his mouth he was unable to hide the fact that he came from Florø with a dialect that lay halfway between Bergen and Ålesund, sea salt in the diphthongs and sheep pasture in the longest vowels.
When I came in he removed the headphones, turned off the CD-player, removed his feet from the chair and grinned. ‘Long time, no see, Varg. Looking for a career in music? Then you’ve come to the right place. Sit yourself down before someone else does.’
I shifted half a ton of British music magazines to the side and sat on the chair that had become free. I glanced at Arild Sletten. Like most people he wasn’t as young as he appeared at first sight. He had been dealing with the same stuff since he was twenty, and unless I was much mistaken that would soon be a quarter of a century.
‘I’ve come to see you because you’re the one rock journalist in town who has the breadth of knowledge I need. I’m looking for information about a group called The Harpers, later Harpegjengen, who were active from—’
‘You don’t need to tell me when The Harpers were playing, Veum,’ he interrupted. ‘From the late fifties to … 1975, I’d guess. What do you mean by information?’
‘Well, perhaps a description of them … their career, what they were really like, why they split up; whatever you have on them.’
He nodded. ‘I’m your man,’ he said, leaning forward. He flicked through a card index box, pulled out two cards, opened a drawer and thumbed through a system no one else but he could make sense of and removed a file that appeared to contain a plethora of newspaper cuttings, interviews, copies of LP covers and suchlike. ‘Hey presto,’ he said, looking at me with a conjurer’s look of triumph in his eyes.
I waited. ‘Well … what can you tell me?’
‘Do you want a lecture?’
I nodded.
‘Well, man…’ Then he started. Every now and then he referred to his cabinet material, to back up his memory, but most of it was in his head. If he knew as much about all the bands who had played in the area (and all the others in the world) this was an impressive feat.
‘The Harpers, along with the Stringers, Badboys and Rhythmic Six … were among the top bands in the Bergen Beat period. Actually The Harpers began earlier. Back in – and now I have to check … they played their first dances in 1958. Then they performed Elvis numbers with Johnny Solheim as the front man…’
He broke off and pointed at me like Perry Mason in an American TV courtroom. ‘Johnny Solheim! So that’s why…’ He thumbed through a pile of notes on his desk. ‘Actually I was asked to submit a kind of obit, or at least an article, about dear Johnny before twelve today. Surely you don’t think this has anything to do with the good old Harpers?’
‘Not necessarily. There are other reasons I’m interested in The Harpers.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that. Not now anyway. So Johnny was the main man?’
‘You know before the Beatles there was never any talk about groups. It was all singers with bands. It was Johnny Solheim and the Harpers, Rune and the Stringers, Tom de Lange and the Rhythmic Six and Stig Madsen and the Badboys, to mention just a few. But they bent with the wind and followed the fashion. Take The Harpers for example. First it was Elvis songs, with a bit of Tommy Steele and Paul Anka thrown in. Then there was the smooth transition to The Everly Brothers and Cliff Richard and the Shadows. The bands that didn’t have vocalists were only Shadows bands and stuck to instrumentals. But The Harpers had both Johnny and good backing voices, and after a while sang self-penned stuff with real drive. Songs with oomph that were catchy. The boys could have gone far if they’d had better PR. They did weekend gigs in the region, and a tour in northern Norway and two in Østland, made two singles and an LP, later a solo LP with Johnny, but they never actually had a career. The Pussycats overshadowed most groups at that time. Shit, though, did those boys have fun! For as long as it lasted. At dances outside Bergen the girls prostrated themselves and screamed and howled, the way they’d seen girls doing on news reels. The boys could take their pick. They had so much lamb in those years they’ve barely touched the national mutton dish since.’
‘But when were they really at their peak?’
‘Their heyday – what I’d call a heyday – was from 1960 to 1964. Afterwards they lived on their reputation – topped the local charts right through to 1970 when they jumped onto the Norwegian-wave bandwagon, wrote lyrics in Bergen dialect and changed their name to Harpegjengen. It was never quite the same. They began – at least in pop-star years – to age. Slowly but surely they all passed thirty and by 1975 it was all over.’ He looked at his second card. ‘Johnny carried on in a variety of groups and different line-ups, in later years sometimes teaming up with Stig Madsen of The Badboys. The others disappeared from the scene. Jakob Aasen’s an organist as far as I know. The others…’ He shrugged.
‘Tell me – who were they really?’
‘The Harpers – in close up do you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Johnny Solheim, as I said. The front man on the stage. Elvis, Cliff and John Lennon, if I can put it like that. Well, a non-creative John Lennon. He never wrote a song himself until his solo LP, and that was, in all honesty, a fiasco. He played the guitar and sang. He had a raw, husky voice that was far bluesier than most of the other crooners of the period. But the brain behind the group was Jakob Aasen. At the beginning he was more anonymous, played the guitar beside Johnny, did some backing vocals and gave them drive, but never did anything in his own right … until they started making their own material. It was Jakob Aasen who wrote everything, the lyrics and the music, and it was pretty darned good. Without him they’d have been a run-of-the-mill dance band covering hits. Now they had their very own personal sound – not least because Jakob Aasen switched instruments, to piano and organ. They had a sound and a feel we hadn’t had here until Saft came on the scene, almost ten years later.’
‘And the others?’
He thumbed through the archive material to find their names. ‘Arild Hjellestad and Harry Kløve. It’s symptomatic that I can’t even remember their names. Decent background musicians, solid support for the other two, but they could have played in any bands and they could have been replaced without anyone noticing the difference. Here you are.’ He passed me a yellowing newspaper cutting.
I unfolded it and studied the grainy photograph. The caption was ‘The Harpers in Espeland Hall’. Beneath the picture were the names of the four, although Aasen was spelt with an Å and Hjellestad with Gj. The raster image had blurred their features until they were almost unrecognisable, but Johnny Solheim in the foreground was at least himself, a bit thinner in the face and with thicker hair,
at full tilt, holding the mike so close to his mouth that it looked as if he were about to eat it. Behind him I could see Jakob at the organ, facing the audience, alert and watchful, the way he had always observed how their music was being received. To the left Harry Kløve stood rooted to the spot with his bass guitar, and Arild Hjellestad’s head protruded from the drum kit as if it were part of it, while his hands appeared to be making a sign of the cross with the drumsticks against the black background.
‘1962,’ Arild Sletten said.
I held up the newspaper cutting. ‘Have you any idea why they suddenly split up in 1975.’
‘No, although signs of wear and tear had been evident long before. The last years, from 1973 to 1975, they performed less and less. They ditched the Norwegian lyrics and went back to their old hits. God knows, they may have even gone back to calling themselves The Harpers again as well – at least when they appeared on golden oldies’ evenings.’
‘They never dusted themselves down and came out of retirement, did they?’
‘No, strangely enough, although recently promoters have tried to breathe new life into anything that held a guitar in those days.’
‘There’s a reason why there was no Harpers’ revival, of course.’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Oh, yes? And that is…?’
‘I suppose you know that they’re dead now, most of them?’
‘Dead? Who? Not Jakob Aasen anyway?’
‘No, but he’s the only one left. Harry Kløve died last year, Arild Hjellestad earlier this year and Johnny Solheim the day before yesterday.’
‘Oh. I … didn’t know.’
‘You didn’t? I’m surprised. I mean…’ I motioned towards his display of comprehensive material.
‘Oh, that … It’s just professional interest, Veum. When they stop playing, they also disappear from the card index. If I were to follow up on the musicians who drop by the wayside I would be giving the National Registration Office a run for its money – they would come to me for help. No, I’m afraid my information system isn’t that extensive. Have I answered your questions?’
‘Sort of. Is there nothing you can add? Something of a more unofficial nature? From the rumour mill?’
He considered my request. Slowly he answered: ‘Something … about … The Harpers. There’s a whisper at the back of my mind … I’m not absolutely sure, but I heard once there’d been some hanky-panky between Jakob Aasen and Johnny Solheim’s wife.’
‘Which one? The wife he has now?’
‘No, no, no. Much further back. Solheim was already married in … well…’ He nodded towards the newspaper cutting I was holding. ‘By 1962 anyway. I seem to fancy I heard something about him and Aasen chasing the same girl and Johnny had come off the winner.’
‘Anita?’
‘Was her name Anita? Could well have been?’
‘Anita? Yes, that was possible – for a while. But I remembered her only as a phrase: Johnny’s girl. And no one laid a finger on Johnny’s girl without getting it burned. No one touched Anita – without…’
‘Nothing else, Sletten?’
‘No. What is it you’re after? Orgies, black masses, drink or drug abuse? I’m sure they did the lot over the years – but no more than anyone else and definitely not to such an extent that it would’ve made its way here.’ He pointed to the pile of newspaper articles. ‘So if you’ve got nothing more to ask, I think I might – inspired by this discussion – get cracking on Johnny Solheim’s obituary. OK, Veum? You happy, man?’
I got up. ‘I think so, yes. Thank you very much. It’s been a useful chat. Good luck with … if you can wish people luck with what you’re doing.’
‘The obit?’
I nodded.
‘You can express your condolences.’
On my way out I popped in to see Laila Mongstad again. But she had gone. On her desk were a few books, a pile of newspapers, two notepads and various writing utensils, all neatly ordered in tidy piles, and on the wall there was a scruffy little mascot with big glass eyes and a downturned mouth. It was a kind of furry creature, a blue fantasy figure with flat legs appearing from under the head and no body. Hanging there, it looked terribly lonely attached to the thin partition with a green drawing pin, watching over an empty office and a desk that wasn’t in use at present.
‘See you, Stinky,’ I mumbled and moved on.
25
Tuesday hadn’t yet reached midday when I rang the bell at Jakob’s and was let in by a dishevelled paterfamilias with a child’s clothing in one hand and yesterday’s paper in the other.
‘Oh, it’s you, Varg. Come in. I was just about to load the washing machine, but then there was an article I had to read…’ With a sweep of his head, indicating the clothes and newspaper, he stepped aside and let me pass. ‘Grab a chair and I’ll be with you in a mo,’ he said, heading towards the kitchen and scullery.
Not long afterwards I heard the washing machine letting in water, then with great resolve the drum began to rumble, as if it were the very heart of the house, the pump that kept everything moving.
He reappeared without the newspaper and sat down. ‘Well, did you find her?’
I nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to her.’
His face reflected eagerness and apprehension as he leaned forward and asked: ‘Right, and? What did she say?’
‘She said I should pass on the following message: She’s fine. Better than for many, many years. And she definitely won’t be returning to you.’
‘Won’t be…’ he repeated mechanically. Then he sat in silence with a grimace on his face. ‘Where was she?’ he asked at length.
‘At Helga Bøe’s, until she finds somewhere else.’
‘Did she … have a job?’
‘Temping at a school, from what I understood.’
‘Then she’s coping.’
‘I think she is.’ I leaned closer to him. ‘I know how it feels, Jakob. I’ve been through it myself – when someone lets go of you and you float to the surface and away. Try to understand that that’s just how it is. Only then can you start your life again and detach yourself from what went before.’
‘Easy enough for you to say, Varg.’
‘It wasn’t easy for me to say thirteen years ago when the same happened to me. But now … well.’
‘We’re talking about a marriage that’s lasted, a family that’s existed for … for twenty years, Varg. Twenty-one. It’s become far too easy nowadays to walk away. You don’t just … it’s impossible to draw a line under twenty years of living together, three children and … and all that time. It’s not that simple.’
‘OK. So try to think about something else then. I’ve got something to ask you. A few things actually.’
‘Shoot.’ He looked at me with weary eyes.
‘First, I’d like to know what happened to you – all of you – after you split up in 1975.’
‘Us? In The Harpers? Why?’
‘Because three of you are dead, and I wouldn’t particularly like you to be the fourth.’
He went pale. ‘But surely you don’t mean there’s a connection between…?’
‘Between three sudden deaths inside eighteen months? Yes, I think I do, actually.’
He stared at me, slowly shaking his head.
‘You can start with Harry Kløve. He was the first to go, as it were.’
‘You remember Harry,’ he said with a wan smile.
‘Well?’
‘He worked at an ironmonger’s; he started after he finished school, first in the warehouse, afterwards as a sales assistant. He worked in the same place the whole time, Harry did, even after we … He … he never found it easy to get to know people; he was the last in the queue when we picked up girls after a gig. He might’ve got the odd one or two but not usually anything to write home about, that’s for sure. He lived with his mother, for crying out loud. The last time I met him, though, she was in an old people’s home. So at long last he lived on his own. But shortly after
wards it was … all over.’
‘Let me see. Harry Kløve, that was a traffic accident, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘In the middle of the city – he stepped onto a pedestrian crossing while the lights were on red. A bus didn’t manage to stop … He had terrible head injuries and died a few hours later on the operating table.’
‘No witnesses?’
‘Witnesses? What do you mean? I don’t know much more than was written in the papers and what people said. It was an accident, Varg – tragic, but they do happen.’
‘OK, let’s say “accident”. What about Arild Hjellestad?’
‘Arild was quite different. He had no trouble with women – or at least they weren’t in short supply. Now and again there were too many in fact. He became famous and infamous for his many fiancées. Every time he appeared at a party with a new woman he solemnly announced: “This is my fiancée.” And if they survived the rest of the evening they did better than most.’
‘A lethal hobby – for some.’
‘Mm. In other respects he was more like you and me – passed his school exams, did teacher training, started university and never finished.’
‘Sounds like me, yes.’
‘Worked in a music shop for a while, wrote about music in papers and magazines, but … well…’ He shrugged.
‘Well?’
‘Arild’s problem was alcohol. He never managed to keep it under control. He was pretty pissed most of his last years, and as far as I know there were a lot fewer women too.’
‘Not a glamorous death then?’
‘No. He drank himself to death. One of the coldest January nights that year – and he was outside. Fell asleep and never woke up. They found him early one Saturday morning up near the Starefossen waterfall.’
‘And who’d he been drinking with?’
‘No one knows. Or rather, I don’t.’
‘And Johnny was stabbed to death in the street. Can’t get more black and white than that. Listen, Jakob, there’s one thing that bothers me. One thing I can’t get my head round.’
Fallen Angels Page 16
