Halv su wild, or how to grow old well

Sakura at Okamoto Station

Turning 50, as I did last month, is a sobering experience. Not literally in my case, though I know people who clamber onto that particular wagon at this time of life, in a futile attempt to smooth out the grim inscriptions of a hundred or more wrinkles—what might have once been called 'laughter lines', a term that now emerges as risible euphemism—or to repair the myriad other external signs of physical neglect and unhealthy eating. We only fool ourselves—though that is, I suppose, no slight achievement, and perhaps a sufficient delusion. No, it is the figurative sobriety occasioned in passing a half-century, evidenced by the tone of these lines, that has been most breath-catching these past few weeks, and not in a good way.

This cloying heavy chill has, of course, been exacerbated by the unbearable lightness (to pilfer a nice expression from my youth) of the youth around me at the beginning of a new term in a new university. In one sense, I am a freshman at Konan too: I know as little of the workings of this university as do my charges—and they at least can read the signs (again literally). In the only sense that matters, though, I am as fresh as Tiresius: looking around this campus on a gorgeous Spring day with the cherries in full blossom (after this picture), I understand why April is the cruellest month, for middle age just sucks...

...and yet there is some consolation. For me, this comfort almost always comes through music. In this particular case, my spirits are lifted by the latest album from a band that I have followed all my adult life, whose music has provided a soundtrack to my inner experience, and captured my moods better than any other—even though we share little common language: I speak German, they speak Kölsch (Rheinisch :)). The band of course is BAP, and the genius of the piece—the man who gives me hope— is Wolfgang Niedecken. Verdamp lang her iss et, since I first heard that song, when I was living in a small town not far from Cologne (Altenkirchen/Westerwald). And since then, through so many great hits—Bahnhofskino, Du kanns zaubere, Alles im Lot, Für ne Moment, Nie zo spät, to name only five, Niedecken has come up with the goods, as we say, over and over again...

About eight years ago now, my good friend Sonja Eisenbeiß, one of the few people I know who understands more than 50% of Niedecken texts on first hearing—and that includes other German native speakers—asked me when I told her that I'd just bought their latest album: "Why?" The clear implication behind this question was that there was no point in forking out for this because—ever since Für Usszeschnigge—it was always the same stuff, rehashed. But Sonja, I should have said then (if it wasn't that I've only just realized it myself now): du kapierst et nit ('you just don't get it!')! For the point is that, unlike some other musicians, who fade or mellow too much with age (Joni Mitchell)—or innovate or experiment themselves away (Bowie)—BAP just gets better at what they've always done, combining folk, rock, rock'n'roll with anthemic ballads, with brilliant lyrics.  —  So brilliant you don't have to understand a word to intuit their meaning. Which is why, I suppose, Julian has now added Halv su wild to his repertoire of the-only-songs-I-want-to-listen-to-on-the-ipod-in-the-car (ad infinitum, or till journey's end, whichever comes first). The other two are Ik wou dat ik jou was (Veldhuis & Kemper) and—God forgive me!—Cliff Richard's Summer Holiday. As Philip Larkin might have said in a less misanthropic moment: your parents mess with your head; I certainly will have something to answer for in the music department.



The reason that Halv su wild—the whole album, not just the title track—is such a comfort is that it shows there is something great about growing old after all: you really can do the same things, more expertly. This is maturity without compromise: a little less energy perhaps (though more than halv, I think, and) compensated for by polish, timing, artistry and musical insight. Plus a Leonard Cohen cover Eez steht he Manhatten, a German take on Sympathy for the Devil (en Dreidüüvelsname), and even a song about language diversity (Kölsch being God's own language, naturally :)) Verjess Babylon

So, Lück, wesst ihr wat? Ich hann et jetz satt, ich kann ech ni’ mieh, mir deit alles wieh. Sibbe Daach Akkord, sujet jrenz ahn Mord. Wiesu sprecht ihr eijentlich nit einfach wie ich?

My devotion to this band has been more than repaid by the album of the decade. Whether or not you speak a word of German—if you love good rock music, listen and be amazed! (Incidentally, this is one of those cases where the studio album is superior to the live performance: these clips are simply indicators).