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This story in German (PDF)
During the late seventies and early eighties the music scene of our small town near Hamburg was quite limited. After reahearsals we’d gather in a small club at the city canal, swap stories and peep at the girls. Every so often we’d walk outside down to the water to smoke a spliff (bad, bad!). Sometimes with us was a short, inconspicuous guy who, as far as I knew, didn’t play in any band. He was acquainted with a musician friend, rather quiet, only on occasion surprising with witty remarks.
One day, when I was visiting said musician, there he was again, the little man with his inconspicuous clothes, unwashed hair, and bloated face, very likely caused by psychopharmaceuticals. For the first time ever, we started talking. His name: Jürgen Goldmann. His queer sense of humour had given way to an unpleasant subservience. He asked me questions and talked to me as if I were a true rock star, and he told me that once he’d been making music himself, but given up. He then handed me a music cassette (they were still around those days!), saying, “Here, this is for you, listen to it and do with it whatever you want.” That was the last time I met him.
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