Peklektru – Għadna Għaddejjin

A story in three parts

The story begins in a basement in Ħaż-Żebbuġ. During a book sale in aid of Dar Bjorn.

part i

Strictly speaking—just to be precise—there’s a bit of a prologue to the story in the form of conversations with Zizza (from Brodu) about a musical project called Doom Karm. Zizza knew that I wasn’t really playing anymore, but he kept insisting that he wanted to involve me. I never ruled out the idea that one day I might pick up the guitar again and start writing something fresh, but it wasn’t a priority. I had discovered other interests and was exploring them. The plan—if you can call it that—was vague. I don’t know, maybe when the kids grow up a bit, with enormous emphasis on the word maybe. Maybe. Who knows? One day. The space at home that I had once dedicated to music had by then become a storage area for pushchairs, playpens, bouncers, crawlers, and other bulky equipment synonymous with raising young children.

Anyway, back to Ħaż-Żebbuġ. While going through the books, I found a pile of copies of One Train Later, Andy Summers’ autobiography—the guitarist from The Police. Two euros. A bargain. A book at two euros is almost always a good deal. It looked like stock that had taken a bit of a hit from damp conditions. More likely, though, this pile of books had suffered a severe lack of consumer interest. As a result, it was taking up too much space in the storeroom of some bookshop. A bookshop that employed someone who apparently thought all of Malta was obsessed with The Police. Anyway, yada yada yada, a consignment of One Train Later ended up at Dar Bjorn. They were in pretty good condition for the price. Into the basket they went, then at home onto the shelf. Maybe I’ll read it one day. There it is again—maybe and one day.

I like The Police. Especially the first two albums, with a particular soft spot for “Walking on the Moon” and “The Bed Is Too Big Without You.” But they’re in no way my favourite band. There were no urgent plans to push this book ahead of the queue of books waiting their turn to be read. I knew this was going straight onto the shelf. Eventually I might read it. But you know, you don’t want to be rude to a person—let alone to a book. Before putting it away, I opened it a bit and gave it a quick glance, just to get an idea.

I happened to stop on a page where Summers starts talking about the end of a relationship while trying to decide what food to order. He jumps from food to the relationship and back again. The writing intrigued me. It was written well enough for the book to be spared a life sentence on the shelf. And I ended up reading it. What struck me, as I read, was the way Summers talks about his guitar, a bit overly sentimental perhaps, but his praise for his beloved Telecaster was enough to remind me of this long-dormant desire I had for many years: to acquire a Telecaster myself. I’d been saying “one day” to that too.

And you know what?  Suddenly the conversations with Zizza about Doom Karm, Martin asking me on Messenger whether I was still playing at all, Andy Summers’ book, and the rediscovered craving to get a Tele started to orbit one another in a frenetic dance that seemed to reignite my will. One thing led to another, and fifteen years after the album Reclaiming Space, I was about to start playing music again. This was in the early months of 2022—the worst year of my life. The year had already begun hinting at what lay ahead, but I, occupied as I was looking at online photos of guitars, still had no idea…

Note from the editor: Part 2 of the story shall feature tomorrow 5th February