Somewhere in the autumn of 1966 (I was 11 years old then) the music-bug bit me quite bad. Looking back now, more than fifty years later, I can totaly blame that teenage girl who helped my mother with her household work.
She dressed differently from other girls we knew, smoked cigarettes that she rolled herself and while she was doing her job she listened to a pirate radio station. That music was unheard of in our home. She often told stories about the places she went to in the weekends and what she and her friends did. Those things made my mother sigh and look up to the sky.
One day, when my mother was out-of-town, she brought her record player and let me listen to her singles (Stones, Pretty Things, Troggs). She obviously didn’t like the Beatles and the Monkees (like I did). She also let me read her stacks of pop-music-magazines.