“You look impressed,” Kirsten laughed as I stared, agog.
“Are these all vintage?” I asked.
She nodded.
“No way. Is that a Roland Jupiter-8?!”
“Yep. Only two thousand were made. It’s worth a fortune.” She turned the synth on, adjusted a few knobs, and played the opening synth riff from Van Halen’s “Jump”. “It was the sound of the 80’s.”
“How does all this exist in this basement?” I was in shock.
“Dad was in a number of bands back in the 80’s. You know Peter Schilling, obviously; have you heard of the Neue Deutsche Welle?”
I hadn’t.
“NDW means German New Wave, a group of like-minded Germans and Austrians who played the new music of the 80’s back in Europe. Peter Schilling, Nena, Trio and Falco all re-recorded songs in English and had broader success to varying degrees. Some bands never bothered. Dad played keyboards in a few of them.”
“Anyone I’d have heard of?”
She shook her head. “Not likely. In Germany and Austria, maybe some people would remember. But not here. His band had a few minor radio hits, but never made it big. I think the biggest gig they ever headlined was for about 800 people. They played a few festivals like Rock am Ring to big crowds, but always early in the day or on the side stages. After they broke up, Dad toured with Joachim Witt in the late 80’s as a touring keyboardist; that’s probably the most impressive thing he did. He made a go of music as a career for a decade or so before packing it in.”
“Who’s Joachim Witt?”
“Another NDW artist. Give him a listen sometime. It’s good music, if you can get past the German lyrics.”
“I’m seriously impressed. You’ve got a whole studio down here. No wonder you’re musical, with those genes and this equipment around. What else can you play?”
“Um…” Kirsten thought for a minute. “I’ve never learned drumming. But I can play pretty much anything with keys, brass, woodwind, or strings. We have a TR-808 drum machine, but I’ve never had a drum kit.”
“Amazing.” I found an electrical outlet and plugged my amp in, turning it on to let the tubes warm up.
“Do you want a beer?” she asked.
“I’d love one.”
She went over to a mini-fridge buried in a corner and handed me a large brown bottle of a beer I’d never had before — Erdinger Weiss.
“Thanks. This is German beer, I assume?”
“Natürlich,” she answered. “Zum Wohl.”
“That’s ‘cheers’ in German?”
“Yes. It means ‘to wellness’ or ‘to your health’.”
“Zum Wohl.” I mangled the pronunciation, but she still shot me a beautiful smile. God, her teeth were perfect.
“How about you, Peter? How are your guitar skills?”
“I’m a better rhythm player than lead. I don’t like squealing wanky guitar solos, and I don’t play much blues. I like 90’s and modern rock, and my stepfather Walt got me into a lot of underground 70’s and 80’s music, too. My high school band were basically a bad clone of Pearl Jam.”
“Who’s your favourite guitarist?”
“Peter Buck. Prince. Johnny Marr. Andy Summers. Ed Robertson.”
“Good choices. Do you play new wave?”
I nodded. “I’ve never played it alongside a synth player before, but yeah, I do.”
“Okay, shall we start with ‘Major Tom’?” She smiled.
I plugged in, tuned up, and stepped on my chorus pedal. “Let’s party like it’s 1983.”
Kirsten started by sequencing a drum pattern on the drum machine, then, once it was going, added a bass line to simulate the full rhythm section on one of the synthesizers. Once the drum and bass were underway on repeat, she counted herself in and started.
It’s amazing how playing with a professional is so much more enjoyable than playing with a bunch of amateurs. I’d always been one of the better musicians in any band I’d played in, but Kirsten was so much better than I was. I could keep up — most of the time — but she could effortlessly play just about anything we tried, whereas I had to occasionally look up tabs on the internet or find my place again in the middle of a song. I didn’t hear a wrong note from her as she covered the keys, bass and drum machine running through songs by New Order, Gary Numan, Devo, A Flock of Seagulls, Thomas Dolby, the Human League, and more. As I stood watching her, my hands flying along the fretboard, I was in awe of this petite blonde’s incredible ability. I was a talented amateur, but she was already a professional, leagues ahead of where I’d be even if I practised non-stop for years.
After nearly two hours, I finally asked for a break as my left hand was starting to cramp. “I haven’t played a full set in ages.”
Kirsten was glowing with sweat, but wearing an ear-to-ear grin. “That was so much fun.” She grabbed another two bottles of Erdinger from the fridge, handing me one as we sat down together on the love seat, the only comfortable furniture in the room.
“Zum Wohl. Tell me about yourself,” I began. “I know you’re Vanessa’s friend, but I barely know you. How did your Dad go from playing in bands in Germany to selling cars in Guelph?”
“Well, by the time the 90’s came around, Dad was done with music. He realized he was never going to be rich and famous, he was well into his thirties, and he was sick of the grind of touring. Meanwhile, he’d met and married my Mom, and she was doing her Ph.D. in geomatics. They had my brother Florian in 1988 and me in 1991, and when Mom finished her degree, the only tenure-track job she was offered was in the Geography department here. She’s a professor at the university now, and Dad came with her.”
“So, when did you move to Canada?”
“1998. I was seven. German is my first language and Germany is still home to me. All my family is there. We’re Rheinlanders; I was born in Düsseldorf. We still go back once a year or so.”
“So your Dad gave up his career for your Mom and started over in a new country? That’s kind of sweet.”
“I agree,” Kirsten smiled, “but his career gave up on him, too. There wasn’t a lot of call for synth players in the alternative rock 90’s. When we first came over, he was so disillusioned he didn’t play for a couple of years, but gradually as I got more into it he fell back in love with music by playing with me. He plays around town now in a couple of cover bands.”
“Yet you kicked him out of the basement tonight?” I teased.
Kirsten blushed. “I wanted to get to know you without my Dad watching.”
I put my hand on her knee. “I’m teasing. I’m glad it’s just you and me tonight, too.”
She smiled and looked away.
“Does your brother play?”
“No. Dad tried, but he inherited Mom’s lack of ability. I got all the musical genes.”
“Same with Vanessa. Her Dad loves to play, and she was never interested. I think it softened the blow of having a pig-headed stepson for him a little that I played guitar.”
“Probably. Dad heard you were coming over and he was thrilled.”
“So when did you and Vanessa become friends?” I continued.
“Grade 11,” she answered. “I’ve always lived in town since coming to Canada, but we moved within the city. I went to the first two years of high school at College Heights before moving to Centennial High.”
“Makes sense. I graduated from Centennial the year before, so that explains why I never really got to know you. Plus Vanessa doesn’t usually hang out with friends at home.”