THE SIXTIES IN HUNGARY - The Funny Fools Story. Page2

The food was good. That was the best thing at the Festival. It was all paid for and we ate at the best hotel. (The Hotel.) We had fried mushroom caps with tartar sauce and other such delicacies and even some beer, which we had to buy. We had been chilling. Relaxed. In a good mood, like if we had won. Joking around, feeling fine, enjoying our renegade status. The crunch was gone. And there were some of our hardest-core fans at the next tables.
It was a decent size theatre, held about six hundred. The stage was huge, split into three sections. One band played at the center, one was breaking down at the right corner and the next one was setting up in the left. Rotation. Each band was allotted three numbers, no encore. We got there early and listened to the bands before us from backstage. (Recorded it too, on that little open-reel.) The standard material was Shadows and Del Shannon. In 1967… And yes, one band played a Beatles song: “For No One”. Neatly. The audience’s response was also neat and well-behaved. Civilized clapping.

Needless to say you had to go through a three-stage elimination process, and with the FF riding so high, the final jury still hesitated - until the crowd let its mighty voice heard. The power of the people couldn’t be ignored. I mean there were some really good bands in the regional finals playing Shadows and Animals quite well, but come on, we did a set of our best own stuff, some raunchy, some sweet, singing three part harmonies and polyphonics, and it was good and it was modern, keeping up with the British. And, since Mariann was accompanied by us in the solo vocal category, she’d won, too…
When we first received the invitation to enter the contest we weren’t too keen about it. In true FF spirit we shunned everything that was state-sponsored and manipulated and we knew that this one would be the same and we would lose in the end. But we also yearned for more publicity - and got it. Tons.
One of the criteria was to perform a Soviet (not Russian, mind you, - which was termed undesirable - lest anyone attempt some adaptation of Russian folk music, which we happened to like and even had some in our repertoire.) This was when we really got ourselves into it. With Gabor still fully functional - the threat of the draft just looming but denied - we planned to sabotage the Grand Event in a FF way, and Gabor was the best in these matters. In ridiculing the establishment he could crack you up, anytime, and you would get sick from laughter.

A debate issued again: to go or not to go. And the diplomatic decision; we will go but not play. OK, this was nasty but we were hurt. Packed into the Ford and off we went to Pasto. It was an empty, ugly, rundown place. They might have expected some people to show up, but at 8 PM it was empty. The manager was not too enthusiastic about us and the feeling was mutual. We had our well-rehearsed strategy. Cut and dried. Set up the equipment and, like for warming up, played a half a song. “My Generation”, needless to say. I knew that the manager would come, running. He did. He prayed to lower the Volume. I showed him the setting. We were playing at 1.5. At 1.0 the sound went out. And so did we…Good riddance. Both sides were relieved. As we were wrapping up an elderly gentleman (yes, gentleman) came and started blabbering. Spoke continuously, like a drunk and after a while his blabbering was beginning to make sense. It was something about his youth (back in the Old Days), about him playing music and associating with the right people, with the upward classes, (with the aristocracy?), just knowing right from wrong and being at the right place at the right time. I took him to be a kindred soul, somehow understanding the essence of Merseybeat here in Outer Mongolia and expressing his loyalty. A loony, yes, but a kindred loony. A funny fool. “So, my dear sons” concluded the gentleman. “I know what you’re about. Just because I look like a miner doesn’t mean I don’t have class. Because a miner I used to be and I’m proud of it”. He introduced himself. “Chief mining engineer so and so at your service”. His eyes cleared up; he wasn’t drunk. “My sons, if you come around here next time, please notify me in advance. I will cut sixty-six chickens to your honor and we will dine and drink and celebrate”. We shook hands for a long while before he slowly walked off into the night. His hands were like bricks.

“You are not presentable.” We had just finished loading back into the Ford and Gruenwald had a speech to make. “You are not saloon-fit. And if you’re not saloon-fit the establishment won’t let you go onstage”. He was blaming my hair for the situation.
“Like this hair, Gaby. You don’t need this hair. You are growing up. You’re not that young anymore. You can’t count on the teenagers. Alright, you came this far because the teenagers like you, but don’t aim to keep them. You can’t keep them. How old are you, Gaby? Nineteen? You’re not that young anymore. Now you have to start looking out for the older crowds”. (Did I mention, that he was a Sinatra fan?) “And this is where it all begins. With the upward classes”. Who was he referring to? The upper crust of the cadres? The Party? He was no Party-sympathizer. He was referring to obscure classes left over from the Old Days. Obscure but existing. Mixed in with the Party elite, somehow. Budapest only. The eternal metropolis.
“You’re not making yourself saloon-fit, they will put you out here, Buffaloshitville. In the middle of nowhere”. He was beginning to get homesick for Pecs, our nice and civilized and snobbish city, our private little Liverpool. And so was everyone. But we would stay. Just to hear the Words of Truth from his Excellency, Comrade Komjathy. But we were not scheduled to play at the gala. We wanted to play that gala.
The sun was setting and it was getting chilly in the mountains. Gruenwald warmed up the car, we climbed in (this time we took Peter, too) and left for Tarjan. Only to stop the car immediately. The little open-reel tape deck that recorded most everything was left on the hood. In the car Gruenwald kept berating me and that helped me work up a genuine anger. When we got back to Tarjan I went storming to find some head honcho. I’ve found the secretary of the chief organizer. I talked to her so convincingly that she’s produced the head-guy. To him I’ve expressed my inner turmoil, shock and disbelief. I demanded to be included in tomorrow’s gala. He apologized, went back to his office, returned with sheets of paper and placed the FF in the first part, beginning at 2 PM. Our spot was to be at around three-thirty. That concluded my rampage and finally, back in the hotel, I quieted down.

I can’t say I was very focused when we started our program. First we did the Soviet tune. It sucked. The sound was loud - and bad. The guy came back and asked me again to turn down the volume. I showed him the knobs: they were set between one and two. At one - the Selmer goes mute. I’m sure they thought we were sabotaging but we were not. Not yet. Part of the problem was that these guys were stuck in the stone age. Until now they never heard English amplifiers up close, in Hungarian hands. (To hear The Nashville Teens with their wall of Marshalls was another thing. They were allowed to blast; they were imports and outside of jurisdiction.) The nice little well-behaving Hungarian bands - apart from the Big Three of Budapest who, being full pros, weren’t here - all had nice little amps, all wired together by some electric engineer friend, nice little speakers with it and it all sounded nice and civilized as long as they stayed with their obligatory Shadows. We went through that. The point was that all the nice, civilized little bands have played before us and they all sounded nice - they couldn’t help it - and now the Jury was upset for here were these charlatans and they were sooo LOUD, “ohmygodkruschev help, I can’t stand this Western decadence! Lower the Volume or we’ll get you shot until you quiet down…” The other part of their problem was inside their head. That one they could influence even less than our amplification. So they listened through the next number - it was “Flowers’ Street” in Hungarian followed by “Rose Tree”, a Polish folk-adaptation - with their ears covered and a tortured, offended look on their face. We didn’t get far. Somebody motioned us to stop. Cintula, the regime-friendly, stinking Budapest DJ came up to me and asked if we could play a protest-song instead. We just happened to have learned “Eve Of Destruction” - as it entered the British charts. Now, this is a splendid example of the “difference in perspective”. We didn’t really care about the protest-song movement the way it was perceived in the West. Our “protest” went the opposite way. We didn’t care about your leftism, your Vietnam, your social upheavals. As a matter of fact we positioned ourselves “au contraire”. (I’m talking about the standard, “progressive rock musicians”. There were some totally corrupt and opportunist groups and singers mostly in Budapest who, for the purposes of cashing in, jumped onto this bandwagon but let me ask you: if you are the protestee what’s your grounds to protest? So there were these protest bands who played protest music that conformed with the official lines; banged on the USA, like dogs safely barking from their masters’ doghouse…) When I told Cintula, that yes, we can play a protest song, this was what he expected. Oooh, what an unpleasant surprise! We’ve learned “Eve Of Destruction” because we’ve interpreted it from a different polarity: to us it was anti-communist. And our fans perceived it that way because of how we performed it. “The Eastern world, it is exploding / Violence is flaring, bullets loading”. Yes, the Eastern World, our world was exploding, the regime flared in violence and they were loading the bullets in Red China - and the Soviet Union as well… What is this if not anti-communist propaganda? Just waiting to be picked up as a clandestine disapproval of East European ways by non-conformist East European bands?
In the meantime half the Jury have left the room. They must have understood our interpretation from the way we delivered it for they weren’t very pleased. They stopped the band. That was it for the Funny Fools. I wish Gabor had been there, at least we would’ve created a real scandal.

The Police Division For The Protection of Youth and Morals

Summer of ’66. The Nashville Teens are coming to town!

When I closed the door behind me I knew immediately that something was wrong. My mom stood there, looking very upset. She must’ve cried.
“Big trouble, son. What have you done? Did you do something bad?”
“Mom, what are you talking about?”
“The police was here. They were looking for you”.
My legs went rubber. This is something serious, when they come to your home. Did I do something that I don’t know about? Or something else, even worse?
“What did they say, mom? Did they say something?”
“No, they didn’t say anything. But they looked around and left this message for you”.
It was a piece of paper, written up like a summons. Not an official summons form though…The heading said: “Police Division for the Protection of Youth and Morals”.

This was somewhat intimidating but also perplexing. So far I’ve never heard of such entity. They haven’t revealed themselves. (And the implications I’ve never quite figured out: were they trying to protect me from something or were they trying to protect the youth from me?.. The moral part I figured: it was about …prostitution? But we had no prostitutes…) The handwritten notice was brief and to the point. “You are summoned to appear at this office”. Date, place, location. Signed: “Police Lieutenant S. Dani”
I looked at mom with puzzled innocence. “I have no idea what this could be. Believe me, mom. I didn’t do anything wrong that I know about”. Mom just looked. Looked scared. “Please don’t be frightened, mom! It can’t be anything serious! I’ll go in and find out. I know there’s nothing to worry about”. But I was worried. Worried of the unknown. I still managed to calm her down. These affairs of mine had begun taking a toll on my parents’ mental state. Taking a toll in general.

“So long, Kaponya. And tell Jacke that, because you recommended him, he’ll be held responsible, too.” And the leech just sat there, behind his desk, when I left. I was down, angry - and helpless. What could I possibly do? And, as I figured out that there was nothing I could do, I’ve calmed down. I found Jacke (easily, at the Café Nador) and told him about it. He was not very shocked. We just cursed and swore for some time then we left it with the conclusion that there was nothing we could do but pray.
Of course I couldn’t resist going to see The Nashville Teens. The concert was held at the summer amphitheatre, the best concert venue in town. It’s nested in the gardens adjacent the Cathedral which, with its impressive four steeples, towers over the scenery. All the bigger concerts were held there and many indeed ended in semi-rioting which was disturbing not only for the police but for me. The stage was huge, big enough to hold regular summer performances of the local branch of the National Theatre, including operas. The acoustics were excellent. And the place charming, with the wooden benches arranged in an increasing semi-circle, cradled by bushes and tall shrubbery. It held about two thousand people.

Some miracle must’ve occurred. As I got in line for the entrance, instead of the usual charge towards the gate (the one), the crowd proceeded in an orderly fashion. True, there were cops all over, looking menacing, stick in hand. The progression was peaceful but they pulled out a guy here and there and beat him. Just for good measure…
The concert went down superbly. Not only was the band fantastic - our first real British rock band - but, remarkably, there was no transgression from the audience (like throwing pillows towards the stage - which usually triggered brutal police actions which would’ve put me, and possibly Jacke, in jeopardy.) The kids must’ve been so spellbound that they forgot their strong urge to “participate”. So, nothing happened that could entertain the Division for the Protection of Youth and Morals.
The only remarkable thing - besides the concert itself - was that Ray Phillips (lead singer of the band) picked Kinga - my first great love-to-be, and with whom I was loosely hanging out at the time - to sing "Little Bird" to, as always, coming to front edge of the stage and going down on his knees. Kinga was ravishing, but totally innocent at 16, with eyes you could fall in from a mile away Anyway, allegedly some affair started to develop, actually just a passing infatuation and it wasn't hers. But touched, nevertheless.
Remember those bouqets of red roses, Ray?... (Kinga does... Still).

The summons didn’t give me much time. It was for the next day. I went to the dreaded Police Headquarters building. Found the office. The Lieutenant was waiting for me.
“Good afternoon, sir” said I.
“Hello, Kaponya. How we doin’ how we doin’?”
“Thank you, fine. Um… I have this paper…”
“I know. We don’t want to spend much time on this matter”. He sounded deceptively casual, yet threatening. Stuffed shirt. “Listen here, Kaponya. There will be a big concert tomorrow. You now. If anything happens - like rioting, scandal, breaking things, throwing things or the like - we will make you responsible, with the proper consequences, which I don’t have to tell you about. Is this understood?..” I was shocked. I took me some time to gather myself. “Why me?! Why not…the Jacke?! He’s a musician too!” (He was the lead guitarist of The Phantoms). The cop was candid. “Because it’s you who's causing trouble around here. It’s you who has influence over the kids.”
“But…but how can I influence the kids about this? How can I control hundreds…thousands of kids? It’s not in my power!”
“How you do it is your business. Just do it. We don’t care.”
“I…I won’t even be there!”

This time I really started to go all the way and we all believed in the concept. My big feat was procuring a cimbalom. The cimbalom, the Hungarian version, is a serious instrument. It’s a cross between a dulcimer and a grand piano. The common thing with the dulcimer is that you hit the strings with a pair of little curved sticks. The strings are multiple, like that of a piano, strung across a large, resonant wooden body, supported by a steel frame, also like a piano’s. It stands on four massive legs and weighs 200 pounds. It’s tuned like a piano, but arranged differently and instead of the keys you use sticks. To play an arpeggio you have to hit very fast. The Hungarian one has complete octaves down to the bass region - hence the steel frame support. The instrument is an essential one in full gipsy bands, playing the role of a piano. (You can hear one in the marvellous piece of music, “Earth” by Vangellis. Cca. 1979.)
I thought of the instrument being outfitted with pickups. Just playing it in a simple fashion would make a tremendous sound impression. And it would have a pivotal role in our new music. Eventually I’ve found a beautiful, antique piece and bought it. It cost a lot but it was magnificent. The honors of playing it fell on Gabor. I made him volunteer. He would become the world’s number one-ranked rock cimbalom player... Learning it was a different matter. So I learned it too, to a point that it started to make musical sense and it came hard. And this was going to be our material, our secret weapon at the Tarjan Festival.

A dark shadow cast itself upon our plans. Gabor was up for the draft - and so was I. It was just unimaginable for us to serve in an army in which we didn’t believe; in an armed force that stood for ideologies we abhorred. And we did everything in our means, including the endangerment of our health, to get around it. (A few of our friends never came out of the service alive…) I got around it, beat the rap but paid for it dearly. Gabor, no matter how hard he tried, - and he tried much harder then me - couldn’t. He was to enter the gates in three weeks. He insisted that he’ll beat it yet. And he was applying damage to himself. None of us in the band had any doubt that he would succeed beating it. He didn’t. They wanted him.
Just two weeks before his marching-in we accepted a contract to play three months, every night, like a lounge band, at the elegant Café Mecsek on Main Square. We needed the money and we wouldn’t play lounge music more than two hours out of the five. Our opening night coincided with Gabor’s check-in to the military. He went in the morning, told us he’ll be back by opening time and we were sure that he would. But he wouldn’t. In the emergency George called in his brother Zoltan who knew our material and filled in easily. The hotel management was not happy - but they had to accept; the military had priority. The chief exec’s name was (and I’m not kidding) Kennedy…And poor Mr. Kennedy came into conflict with the political powers on our account, a second time.

Drummer Kelemen got into action. Rather, he kinda sneaked into it. Or, actually, his dad sneaked into it. And what transpired then gave us a glimpse for the first time: drummer Kelemen had strange connections…At this time we’ve only learned of the outcome: Mr. Kennedy came down, gave us his blessing and wished success. We had a week to get ready. Gabor was still locked in. We knew nothing of what was happening to him but he managed to send word: he’ll be out soon. The days passed. We had to make contingency plans. To go or not to go?
Then other bad news came: Zoltan Kodaly died. With him our hopes and secret strategies. Obviously, in his place there will be a government mule. Some schmuck. This is when I should’ve cancelled our participation but, this far into the game, I couldn’t. I simply could not do it. If it’s only the three of us, so be it. We are going. And in the end this was the right decision.

We rolled into town around five. On the perimeter some outposts stopped us and gave us directions. As they glanced at our invitation papers one of them said “You guys are supposed to be on stage at six!” Our paper said eight and we were late even for that. I asked the nearest sentry. “Who is the Head of the Jury?” “George Komjathy” said the post. Ah, beautiful. My old nemesis. Surely no Kodaly. This guy was a good-for-nothing asslicker of the establishment with two radio shows a week, someone who pronounced Michelle of The Beatles as Mikéle - like in Greek. At the next square stood two obligatory policemen. They stopped us - didn’t like the car - and checked around inside.“That guy” said one cop to the other behind him. “I think we should take him to the barber”. Gruenwald interjected. He was good at this, he had experience. “Excuse me but these gentlemen with me are appearing at tonight’s show on the Festival and we are late”. Without waiting for an answer he drove off. As we arrived at the front of the theatre, the crowd immediately noticed us - I don’t know how because we’ve never played around here; I guess the fans must’ve gotten here before us - and created quite a scene. (Indeed I’ve spotted some familiar faces in the crowd.) It was a welcoming scene, more friendly than not. I was so upset about the cop’s remark that I burst out of the car, marched straight in and demanded to see Mr. Komjathy immediately. I couldn’t get to him but his assistants appeared helpful. What is the problem? “Listen. I’m the leader of The Funny Fools from Pecs. We just got here after a two hundred-mile drive which cost us a fortune. Now, this cop is threatening me with intrusion against my personal freedom. I want Comrade Komjathy - this is how I had to address him here, I was talking to some young, ranking Communists from the Culture Department of the Young Communists’ Organization (youth.com) which sponsored the event - to guarantee my personal safety or we’ll turn right back!” The young cadres were polished and polite. One of them said “Comrade Komjathy is listening to performances. I will give him your message if you insist, but I can guarantee it myself that you will have no such problem here in Tarjan. But... aren’t you late?” The young cadre was smooth; he unfused me. I felt reassured and went back to the car. The guys already unpacked the equipment. We had a half an hour to get ourselves ready. “So, how did it go with Komjathy?” asked George. “I’m alright for now. The cops won’t bother me. What a stinking country.” “You are stupid enough” remarked Gruenwald “why is it good for you to create a scandal as an entrance?” He didn’t like my hair either. He was a Frank Sinatra fan.

I helped to drag the stuff to our performing room. A band played somewhere. The room we were assigned to was a disaster. These guys obviously didn’t care a bit about acoustics; at least not ours. It was a bare room, large enough for fifty people. And it was constructed of stone, tiles and a lots of windows. No furniture whatsoever except the ten or so wooden chairs for the jury. There would be no public attendance here. We managed to set up very quickly; this wasn’t the full equipment. The sound was awful. At the lowest setting of our amps the windows rattled as we were tuning up. It wasn’t very loud - in our sense of the word - but the sound ricocheted and banged. We stood on the bare floor tiles, very nice, thank you. The chairs were lined up about ten yards from our two measly little Selmers. The jury started to file in when one of them immediately came to me and asked to turn down the volume. (The Volume! Outside the hair-thing their other fixation was Volume.) I told him the volume was all the way down. He went away, not very happy.

Mariann came on to do her singing to a half-jury. To conclude. She did just that. Dotted the i. Poor girl was so shaken that she missed her note and managed to sing “Long Live Love” in the wrong key from the first note to the last. No small feat… The Jury was gone. They were offended. Now they were convinced of sabotage. At least some accomplishment…
Mariann broke into tears and we broke into hysterical laughter. We couldn’t help it. Gruenwald couldn’t take it, he left with the Jury. Slowly some fans drifted into the room, Peter to console Mariann, then Gruenwald, then a couple of hardcore fans who were laughing, too. Laughing and crying… In a short while a young cadre came, gave us the papers to our hotel and explained how, at this point, the Festival worked. The agenda. On Saturday night, from nine to eleven every band, according to their status, would play at some hotel, restaurant, club, pub or whatever facility. He gave us our directions, wished good night and departed. We were to play in a village drinkery in Pasto, ten miles away. We wouldn’t play at tomorrow’s Gala.

The curtains went up - and hell broke loose. We haven’t even started playing and the screaming was overwhelming. It was the exact same scenario we’ve all seen in the Beatles’ movies. Even the kids looked the same. (Everybody knows the famous shot with the four girls with Beatles pins on their clothing, sitting up front, crying and screaming.) It was a transporting, fantastic experience. These kids were starved for letting it all out, letting their bottled-up feelings, their happiness come free. And letting it known on whose side they were. We’ve hit “Wait A Minute”. It’s a fast, downbeat rhythm, very primitive and punctuated - but tricky. Big vocals. And we blasted. The Selmers were turned up to the hilt. It was heaven. The kids haven’t stopped screaming but we managed to stay on top. Then somebody turned on the auditorium lights. The screaming died down. You could see the cops lined up on both sides of the auditorium. But they were inconspicuous, just standing by the walls and watching. They didn’t bother anybody but their presence was felt. Then the lights went out again and the screaming resumed with a vengeance. For the second number, - already a hit in Pecs - the arena was complete and non-stop. (“Arena” means when something is all-out, total and uncontrollable.) Kelemen knocked over half the drum kit. The third song we played with the lights turned back on. The screaming subsided - and the cops disappeared. Blended into the woodwork. Only later did we find out that the whole thing was for the photographers who wanted to capture the auditorium as well. They killed our performance - but nothing comes without a price. For this was what made the band become press-darlings.

The Gala

The official announcement took place next morning in the great theatre hall. The Jury seated itself on the stage, the bands and musicians sat scattered around the spectator seats. We found for ourselves a deserted corner. It wasn’t difficult; we were pariahs. On the other hand, we didn’t want any association with the commie bands, either. (Let me be a little more objective here. Not all the other bands were opportunistic, commie epigones; there were some decent ones among them, also discriminated against, but they were too shy to associate with us - and, so far, nobody had heard us playing but the jury. If you call that hearing… If you call that playing…) The winners were announced, all proper, well-behaved conformists with repertoires belonging in the past century but “politically correct”. The winner was a trio, piano, upright bass and drums, imaginatively named after their leader, the “Baytala Trio”. They played some Ray Charles ripoffs, with corny Hungarian lyrics about a gypsy girl. Bullseye. Surefire winner. The runner-up was another original genius called Crystal. I forgot what they played. So did everybody else. The Jury gave out a number of awards, listed all the bands and singers for their accomplishments until at the very end came the words everybody’s been waiting for. “For playing at an unreasonably high volume, the Funny Fools band has been disqualified. We recommend that this talented band rework their repertoire and next time play with civilized amplification.” All the heads turned to where we were sitting in the back corner - and we waved to them…

Our turn came. As we were setting up behind the curtain, Esther Tamasi, the pretty, young commie announcer of the Hungarian Tevisionwas doing her intro on us up front. (She picked up the material just a few minutes ago. She had sensed something. And so did the other media-people. Some word must’ve gotten around. There was something in the air.) “And now I’d like to introduce you the Funny Fools band”. Screaming. (Something’s wrong? This was not customary around here.) Enter the hair-fixation. “Three long-haired young men form the city of Pecs. Screaming. “I’ve asked the band’s leader that in Pecs isn’t he causing scandals with his long hair, or how is it? He said ‘no, they’ve gotten used to it. It’s mentioned along with the Cathedral as the city’s famous sights’”. Laughter, screaming. “And, as he remembers, since early childhood it’s been kicking and howling whenever his hair got cut. So, this new fad benefits him to no end”.

The underlying fact that gave us the much needed moral support to commit such a transgression was a new aspect in this years’ finals. The Head of the Jury was to be Zoltan Kodaly. That settled it. Mr. Kodaly was someone outside of any jurisdiction and we knew that he spoke our language, and though the rest of the Jury would purge us, he would be on our side. (He spent half of his time in Pecs, in what passed for a socialist villa up on the hillside. He had a color television. I know. I was once invited by his wife who was forty years younger than him.) Being damned western rockers - or rather mods - as we were, we’ve had tremendous respect for Mr. Kodaly . Everybody did. But only a few understood him.
It was around this time that I started seriously experimenting with bringing Hungarian folk music into rock, very much like Kodaly did to classical. We’ve been, from the very beginning, playing our own adaptations of folk music but we made it come out in a true Merseybeat sound. The rhythm was a different thing. It was a sensitive tradeoff. The Hungarian ones had a natural tendency to lend themselves to solid straight beat, even to rock. We did a Polish and a Russian one, too. They were beautiful but undancable.

Laughter, screaming, louder. Esther was in her element. She was totally enjoying it. Our disqualified status just added to her poignancy. She continued. “Please alow me to tell you a story. The band was playing at Pasto last night. Poor boys, their head, their hair was sweating: the place was packed with forty, fifty …sixty year olds… (laughter), and well, their music is for the young generation, what will happen here? To their surprise the audience clapped! So much so, that when the performance ended, up came a sixty-year old poppa with a mustache and told the boys: ‘My sons, if next time you come around here, notify me in advance, and it will be sixty-six chickens that I will cut for your honor!’” Loud screaming, laughter, catcalls. Esther really fired them up. "Let me introduce theband: Drums - Kelemen". Screaming. "Bass guitar - George”. More screaming. “Twelve-string guitar - the band’s leader, Kaponya”. Loud screaming. (Goes on for a while.) Now she did the obligatory political jab, to show who really is the boss. She did it cutely. “And where is Gabor the bands all-rounder? Well, instead of singing, playing rhythm guitar, ukulele and trumpet he’s become a simple little infantry man…” Lame laughter. ”And what will we hear now? All the band’s own material. I don’t think we have any other bands here with a repertoire like that!” Then she announced the songs. “Wait A Minute”, “Flowers’ Street” and “Wind Down”. And she signed off:“well, happy winding down!"

The time has come but no Gabor. So it was the three of us: Georgie, Kelemen and me. And Mariann. She hung with Peter Buchberger since the beginning and she was pretty, but her singing left a lot to be desired. We managed to squeeze her in but Peter had to take his own transportation just like the many fans who followed us everywhere. They hitch-hiked or took the train. So far this was the farthest we ever went. For transportation we choose Mr. Gruenwald. He was the most expensive, but he was reliable and also an intelligent person. Sort of an almost-fan. And he owned a Ford Taurus, European edition. It was a Car. It got us there, always. We paid an arm-and-leg for the privilege of riding in it. It was good for our image. And the commies hated us for it. We packed just two Selmers in, plus the drumkit. Whoever rode in the front seat cradled the snare. It was passably comfortable. And fast. Gruenwald drove in car races and he was good. He never did less than 75 miles, which was extremely risky on Hungarian roads.
Our spot was scheduled for Saturday with a sleepover to do the Sunday Gala. We left on Friday to do two gigs, which served as testing grounds for our new material. The small towns on the way were our strongholds; they loved us there. The whole town came to Main Square. The new material, in Hungarian, went very well - despite the missing Gabor. Yet we felt rotten. Saturday, May 17, 1967. We skirted Budapest and crossed the Danube. The countryside had changed. We were entering real mountains, the southernmost remnants of the High Tatras, now in Slovakia. While Pecs was basking in Mediterranean sunshine here were cool and shady pine forests and sudden outcrops of green, steep cones of solitary mountainettes. As if they’ve just sprouted from the grounds. But we were running late on accounts of getting to bed too late last night, getting up too late and getting a flat tire. Running late just added to the apprehension growing with every mile of getting closer to Tarjan. Well, to the heck with it, we were seasoned pros weren’t we?