NO BONUS II/VI
By JAKOB SNOREWELL
I
Here
I gotta make a parenthesis in this story to state I was born in the
early seventies, and by 1986, aside of classical composers (what my
mom had brought to my plate, quite systematically since I was a
toddler) and The Beatles (which was what my younger aunties had in
store for me, all the original vinyl’s –including the forbidden
meat-and-doll-parts cover of a rarities collection named "Yesterday
And Today", which, when e-bay got invented I saw priced in many
many many moneys but by then may the devil know where my evil aunties
or the record were– and which my dad had the patience to record on
tape for me), and as actually most all the eighties pop-music from
the radio ran like water off a duck's back from my brain because I
was, back then, seemingly immune to the embrace of muzak, I had
listen to no pop until an Argentinean guy in who's restaurant I ended
up working (I was 14, the restaurant opened in the corner of my
house, and I was a nosey teenager, specially around an Argentinean
parrillada, so I ended up being some sort of joke-spewing mascot and
catching pieces of beef as reward) had been introduced to British pop
music by a friend he had made, of all places, fighting the Falklands
War against England in the Patagonia, took me to his home and showed
me The Cure's Pornography, The Smiths first album, Depeche Mode's
Speak & Spell and U2's The Unforgettable Fire (then he also taped
them for me, although not as professionally as my dad had taped The
Beatles) and from that first batch of pop music I ever heard, the
only item I didn't immediately engage with –not at all– was U2.
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