The mid-1970s were among the most challenging times the German Federal Republic ever faced. They were marred by terrorist attacks from the extreme leftist organization RAF. Their activities climaxed in September and October 1977, a period which has been dubbed “the German Autumn”. The president of the German Employers’ Confederation had been kidnapped in a violent attack in broad daylight, and Germany was on high alert. Police officers were in great danger, because the terrorists were armed and started shooting as soon as a police man looked at them with any kind of interest. Such an encounter had happened in Holland in mid September. Two police officer had walked into a restaurant and looked at three of the patrons for a few seconds too long, perhaps recognizing them as members of the RAF, when the young subjects drew machine guns and mowed down the officers before fleeing in a dark green VW bus with dutch plates. Days later, a young policeman at a road block accidentally fired a dozen rounds through the floor of a car because he had nervously clutched his unsecured automatic rifle while his colleagues were checking the passengers.

Into that atmosphere of fear and tension arrived two happy-go-lucky American friends of mine. They were blissfully unaware of any of this, and they decided to do what was a very common thing back then: Buy a VW van in Holland and drive through Europe in it.

The three of us had just driven across the US from California to New York, flown to Europe and after they bought the van, we met up in Heidelberg where I was studying at the time.

The morning after they arrived, the three of us hopped into the – dark green – van and drove to the post office. During the drive, I noticed a police car at a distance behind us. It followed us on every turn, and I mentioned it to my friend thinking that he might have committed an infraction. But since they oddly stayed at a distance and didn’t make a move, we decided to just continue on our drive.

We parked in front of the post office and got out. At that moment half a dozen police cars came screeching around corners from all directions, and the officers swung the doors open, took cover behind them, pointed their machine guns at us and ordered us to stand with our hands against the wall.

I had heard of all the occurrences over the past days, and suddenly the danger of this situation became clear to me: Terrified cops with their finger on the trigger and the safety off on their guns, and the three of us shocked by the turn of events – it was a situation fraught with danger. One of my friends is a bit of a hot head, and I was afraid he might do something that could be misinterpreted, so I said to him in English, and in a loud voice so the cops would hear it: “Do exactly what they say! This is the most dangerous situation we’ve ever been in.” The other friend, who did not speak a word of German was simply terrified. I translated the command to her, and so the three of us stood facing the wall. After what seemed like an eternity, two heavily armed cops crept toward us and patted us down. In order to further diffuse the situation, I told them that we would be in full compliance, that my friends were tourists and that this obviously was a case of mistaken identity.

We were handcuffed and each of us put in the back of a separate police car. Next to me was an officer who couldn’t be more than 18 or 20 years old, whose face showed fear, and whose machine gun barrel was poking me in the ribs. It was my most uncomfortable ride ever, and probably my most dangerous one.

We were treated with the appropriate civility, and at the station we were locked into separate cells, waiting for the specialists from the BKA ( the German equivalent of the FBI) to fly in and identify us. I think by now the police officers suspected that it was a mistake, but they had to wait for confirmation by the federal specialists. By the time they arrived I had fallen asleep on the cot because of my jet-lag, and when they stepped into the cell one of them said: “Aw, look, he’s sleeping like a baby. No, that’s not him.”

We were released with apologies and were asked for understanding. They told us that a citizen had seen us driving in the van and called the police thinking that we were the terrorists involved in the shootout in Holland. I later saw their pictures and understood how that mistake was easy to make: Similar age, similar haircuts, same color VW van, dutch plates, and they were – as we – two men and a woman.

More shootouts happened that autumn, and every time I was reminded of how much could have gone wrong in those minutes. But luckily it didn’t.

In April of 2021 we all had just lived through the most unusual year of our lives. It was marked by the stark contrast of being disastrous for some and merely strange for others. Due to our place in life, Wei and I were lucky to belong to the second group. Even though it completely shut down our business for months and had a massive financial impact, we were able to perceive it more like a “pause” button had been pressed than a “stop” button.

A strange distortion of time perception set in, and a mixed jumble of concepts, experiences and mental pictures couldn’t quite find their place in the time sequence. Were they even real? Did I actually drive on the freeway through downtown LA in the middle of the day sometime in April 2020, – or was it July? – with not one car in front of me, as far as I could see nothing but empty lanes reflecting the glistening sunlight? Unexpectedly, though, it didn’t feel post-apocalyptic to me at all, just oddly serene. It felt like the world was taking a breather. The irony was palpable that it was able to do that only because a vicious virus was making it hard for hundreds of thousands of humans to draw a breath. Had the situation been described to me a year earlier, I would have found it terrifying, but now that I was actually in it, despite all the implications, it struck me as serene. That mix of horror and serenity became the defining feature of our 2020 experience.

So, yes, in April of 2021 we were ready to resume life and do some “revenge traveling”. Vaccines had become available which all but removed the threat of death from the virus, which was the only thing that had really worried us.

The day after we both had reached the full protection offered by the vaccines, we hopped on a flight to Hawaii. The state had just re-opened and allowed tourists back in on a very restricted basis, and only following tight protocols. We arrived at the resort in Kauai as some of the first tourists after they had just re-opened days before. The place was empty, only partially staffed, and it had the feeling of Sleeping Beauty just re-awakening.

We got up early the next day and walked to the beach to see the glorious sunrise. More serenity. It seemed that this feeling continuously suggested itself into our lives during a time when much of the rest of the world was struggling to cope with unspeakable horrors.

After breakfast, we went for a walk on the beach, which was completely empty, and I was reminded of my drive through an LA devoid of cars, sometime in the recent, or not so recent past – I wasn’t sure. But now Hawaii, and we’re the only tourists? How bizarre is *this*?

During our two and a half hour walk we saw a total of perhaps five other people. About twenty minutes in, we encountered a couple strolling in the opposite direction, and a bit later, there was a fisherman surf fishing with his pole stuck in the sand. Another half hour passed, and a few hundred yards in the distance, a young woman emerged from the trees, walked down to the water and then proceeded along the beach in the same direction as we were walking.

What a picture, almost surreal in its serenity: A beautiful Kauai beach, empty as far as the eye could see, except for a Hawaiian woman slowly strolling along the water’s edge. We both watched her every now and then, fully aware that this scenario might have occurred every day for hundreds of years, but probably not since the middle of the last century, and it would likely never occur again. We both felt a deep calm and an enhanced ability to enjoy the surroundings, and we imagined she felt the same. At one point, she reached for a stick and drew something in the sand. Then she slowly walked up toward the trees and disappeared. A few minutes later we got to the spot where she had written in big letters: “Fuck you, Jim”.

For many artists, stage fright has put a severe limitation on their career. Who knows how many prodigious musicians there have been of whom we never heard because of that affliction.

My guess is that the vast majority of performers have experienced some form of that fear, ranging from a mild uneasiness to outright terror. Most of those we know well have somehow managed to come up with a coping mechanism.

My version of stage fright was quite mild and manageable by an easy trick: Even though I rarely drink alcohol, I would take two sips of red wine about half an hour before the show. Not more, not less. It settled me into a comfortable state of alertness and worked OK.

A few years into my career as a musician, my friend Carlos and I were hired to play a live TV gig as a guitar duet. Our repertoire was jazz standards and Brazilian music. We had been performing at a local club for a while and had acquired a bit of a following, and we eventually came to the attention of that TV music program’s producer.

Live TV was a new thing for me, but I was confident that I’d manage OK based on my experience of playing for audiences and having learned to focus purely on the task at hand. We arrived at the TV station all prepared. I had had my couple of sips of wine and felt ready.

As we walked into the studio, I checked out the set where we were to play, and, against the opposite wall, I saw the huge TV cameras that were the state of art in the early 80s, weighing down heavily on big hydraulic rolling tripods. The operators were in place – we were about 15 minutes from air time.

Carlos and I took our guitars from their cases, tuned them, and then we both went into our warm-up routine, loosening the fingers with some scales and occasionally playing something together. The cameras were at a good distance from us, and that big gap made the whole scene feel much less intimidating than I had anticipated. It gave us the comfort of feeling like we were on stage and the audience was at a distance.

Air time approaches. The director steps forward. A fleeting thought glides by: This is actually live and being seen by many thousands of people. But the thought takes no hold. We are calm and ready to go. 

“10 seconds, 9, 8, 7 ,6 ,5, 4, 3, 2” – I notice they leave out 1 – and then the director points at us.

As soon as we start to play, one of the camera operator quickly pushes his gigantic camera forward across the gap to within a foot of the stage and points the massive lens right at my face.

I don’t remember much of those first few minutes. Carlos says we continued without missing a beat, and the program got pretty good reviews so it must have felt smooth enough. But what was seared most clearly into my memory from that day was that enormous piece of glass sucking the light right out of my face.

In the early years of my life in America, in the mid-eighties, while I was still struggling to find a foothold in this glorious country and was looking for something that did not involve a corporate life, I took a job at Guitar Center. Music was always a huge part of my life, and while I didn’t expect this job to directly open doors into the music business, it seemed like a good solution for me: I’d be around musical instruments, got to deal with musicians and I got to make a little money. It was certainly not a career choice – although it could have been, even at Guitar Center, but only if I was willing to join the corporate structure of the company, the very structure I was running away from. A sales job was the perfect holding pattern until I got my feet under me.

It actually turned out that the Guitar Center gig gave me invaluable training in several fields in which I had had no exposure. It taught me how to sell, but more importantly it put the onus on me to learn to do it in a way that preserved my dignity. The last thing I wanted to do was to come across like a car salesman, so I developed my own style, which required that I engaged with the customers on a personal level beyond what they were used to. Music and its creation is a very personal topic, and I found that to be the access door to my customers. I became quite proficient at quickly establishing a personal connection with what was minutes earlier a total stranger.

One morning, while working at the Sherman Oaks store, a beautiful black girl came in to buy a guitar. She was about 20 years old, quite soft spoken, yet had a distinct air of confidence about her, one that made her attractive beyond her striking physical appearance. She seemed to have a rough idea of what she was looking for and wanted to be guided toward her final choice. I spoke with her about the music she wanted to make, connected it to the guitar’s tone, the choices of wood and other factors that affect the playability of a guitar, and after about a half hour of conversation she settled on one of my recommendations. I walked her over to the desk to write up her sales receipt. The beautiful guitar lay in its case on the sales desk, and she inspected it a little further while I got out my order book.

When I asked her for her name, she turned her head with a funny expression, looked me straight in the eye and said “Janet”, which I dutifully wrote down. Then I looked up again and I asked: “Your last name?” A big smile came over her face as she slightly tilted her head and said, in a surprised, almost enquiring tone, “Jackson”.

My brother and I were on our flight home from Kenya to Switzerland. We had just spent an exciting month visiting our parents in Nairobi, during which we had seen so much that it took us a long time after the trip to digest it all. This was only my second flight ever – the first one having been the flight from Switzerland to Kenya.

We had a stop scheduled in Cairo, because the Caravelle we were flying in couldn’t make it to Zurich without refueling. About an hour before getting there, the captain came on the intercom and informed us that we were going to fly a little of a detour westward, because Egypt and Israel were having some air skirmishes in the neighborhood of our planned route, and it was best to stay out of their way – no need to worry. This apparently was a routine occurrence in 1970. We’d have a few minutes’ delay, but on the upside, he said, this route would provide us with a better view of the Giza Pyramids on our approach to Cairo Airport.

And so it was: We got a very clear view of these impressive structures, just minutes before touching down at Cairo International Airport.

The plane was refueled, and soon we were airborne again, destination Zurich.

A couple of hours later, I started feeling an odd pressure in my ears, and then they popped. My brother turned to me and ask if I had felt that. We looked around, and I saw the passenger across the aisle starting to bleed from his nose. At the same time, the plane went into a fairly steep descent. Not so that it was jarring, but it was definitely noticeable, and many of the passengers did notice. The murmur of voices became a little louder, but there was not really a sense of alarm, even though a couple of other passengers noticed the man bleeding from his nose. Then the calm voice of the captain came on the intercom again: “Folks, we have lost some cabin pressure and have to descend to a lower altitude. We will be making an unscheduled stop in Rome. There is no need to be alarmed. The situation is not dangerous, but since we’re flying much lower, we are using more kerosene, and will need to refuel.”

Rome was not too far off, and we started the approach to Fiumicino Airport. The pilot flew a beautiful loop, right over the city center, and we got a nice, extended view of the Colosseum. We were flying quite low, and it seemed like we were getting an aerial tour of the Eternal City. A few minutes later – much to our surprise – we saw the Colosseum again. We had flown a full circle and were still at the same altitude. My brother and I took note, but we didn’t think about it any further, enjoying the view one more time.

When we saw the Colosseum for a third time, however, we started worrying. While not under emergency conditions, we were nevertheless in a plane that was not functioning properly and was coming in short on fuel. I would have thought that we would not be put in a holding pattern but granted immediate landing privileges. Something was up.

Then we noticed the plane lowering, straightening out, and we heard the routine announcement to prepare for landing. The Caravelle touched down smoothly. As it taxied down the runway, we noticed dozens of fire engines and other emergency vehicles with flashing red lights lining the outer perimeter. We were wondering if there had been an accident, and if that had been the reason for our delay in landing, but we couldn’t see anything.

We were asked to leave the plane and to take our carry-on luggage with us. Another machine would take us on our last leg to Zurich. On the way out, I asked one of the stewardesses (they were still stewardesses back then) if she knew what had happened. She said our landing gear had refused to deploy and the emergency vehicles had prepared to lay down a foam carpet for us, but then on the last turn over Rome, the gear did finally deploy – hence our uneventful landing.

During my first trip to the Americas in 1977, I wound up in Valle De Bravo, Central Mexico, where I visited a friend. While there, I had the opportunity to borrow a motor cycle which allowed me to explore the surroundings in a way I otherwise never could have.

It was a Kawasaki 500 Mach III, an unbelievably fast bike with such a flimsy frame that it was considered extremely dangerous – just what an invincible 24-year-old, high on life during his first trip to America needs! I knew the bike from its reputation, and I also knew that it could get to 200 km/h in a blink of an eye. I was going to have the bike for a week, so I was pretty careful to learn its idiosyncrasies and soon noticed that they were not always benevolent. But I managed to stay on without incident.

On the third or fourth day, out in the lush country side around that quaint town, I came upon a stretch of road with only soft winding turns, almost straight, well-paved and with clear visibility for a good mile or so. Why not stretch this machine’s legs a bit? 200 km/h might be a bit much, but let’s see what I can handle before saying “I want my mommie!”

So I opened it up. The massive acceleration almost ripped the bike from under me, and I had to lean forward, clinging to the handle bar. But of course I didn’t release the accelerator a bit. I was very focused, and only occasionally glanced down to see the speed. 80, 90 … hmm, this feels a lot faster … 100. Granted: High speed on a motorcycle was not an everyday occurrence for me, and so perhaps I was just not used to how strong the wind would get. I was wearing a pretty flimsy helmet with a leaky visor and my eyes were tearing, and yet the bike was barely making it past the 120 mark – nowhere near the 200+ it should do. I was a little surprised that I started getting intimidated by the violence of the event. I had gone 125 on a bike before, but this was different. There was a disconnect between my perception of speed and my knowledge that this Kawasaki should be able to do a lot more. “Perhaps it’s not getting to full speed because the altitude? And yet it feels so FAST! But it should do over 200. What, only 125?”

Then I saw: It was mph! 

“Mommie!!”

During one of our many visits to the World Table Tennis Championships, we decided to sit in the stands with some of our friends. Generally, due to our role as journalists, we sat either in the press seats, or on photographer’s stools next to the courts. But this was the opening ceremony, and we chose to enjoy it with our friends. Seated behind us was a group of very vocal German fans, and while their enthusiasm was laudable, it got a bit much when the one right behind us pulled out a huge wooden ratchet noisemaker and started twirling it right over our heads. The noise was deafening and made any conversation completely impossible.

 

Soon, one of our friends was getting a bit annoyed, but he didn’t really want to make a scene. I could see in his expression that he was formulating a plan. He is a man of means, and as such he is used to finding monetary solutions to problems that often please both parties. After a few minutes, he turned around and said to the German fan: “Man, this thing is so cool! Can I buy it from you? I’ll give you $50!” The German was surprised by the generous offer for an item that in his home country probably cost no more than $10. He hesitated for a second, but then he shook his head and said: “Oh, no thanks. I don’t want to sell it.” My friend, undeterred, countered: “How about $100?” The fan – even more surprised – paused and looked at his friend, who gestured he should take the offer. So he shrugged as if to say: “Really? It isn’t worth anywhere near that, but if you really want it…” and he handed the racket over while my friend gave him a $100 bill.

Fully satisfied with having solved the issue elegantly my friend turned forward, with the massive ratchet in his hand and a big smile on his face, while the German fan dug into his bag – and pulled out another one.

We’re at the table tennis club – our usual international mix of players from all around the world – and we’re chatting. Carolina, from Spain, comes in, greets everyone and says “Hi Mohammed” to our friend from Egypt. Except his name is Ayman. It’s a source of great amusement to all of us, including Ayman, because she is among us the most open-minded, unprejudiced one, the one least likely to follow a stereotype. Someone points out her mistake, and she is mortified:” Oh no, I’ve been calling him Mohammed all along – for months!”

I love Caro dearly, but the situation was so delicious that I just had to pile on a little. I pointed out that calling Ayman “Mohammed” was like someone calling her husband Freddy “Jose”. Ayman turns to me and says: “Actually, my middle name is Mohammed”, and from behind me I hear Freddy: “Uhm, actually my middle name is Jose.”

Yea! My band got hired to play at a high school dance! This is my second or third gig ever. I’m strutting into the hall, carrying my guitar case, and, boy, I’m feeling it.

It’s 1972, I’m wearing my white suit with huge lapels and square shoulders, and along with my long blond hair it all contrasts nicely with my black Les Paul knock-off. During set-up, I notice a pretty girl I had met the day before. We’d had a nice conversation about music, and she was amazingly knowledgeable and in tune with pretty much the same stuff I listened to. I wave to her, she waves back. Oh yeah, this just got even better!

We start the gig with a medium paced number, and the band sounds OK, but not perfect yet. I’m thinking “We’re better than this, we’re just still a little cold, and perhaps a little nervous.” It’s OK. Most of the audience doesn’t notice anyway – they never do. But I’m sure the girl did notice at least one or two of the imperfections. Still, she claps enthusiastically at the end of the tune, and I immediately count in a super slow blues, a shuffle with a ¾ feel on every beat. I start, guitar cranked, three simple pick up notes, 5^th, 6^th, tonic – just guitar – and then, on the downbeat, the band will come in and I’ll hit that minor third and bend it up into the Blue Note. The guitar is singing just right, its tone is smooth and glorious, and I’m looking forward to that downbeat – every young guitar player’s dream.

So why does it suddenly sound like someone stepped on a cat? The people on the dance floor all turn to face the band to figure out what has caused this cacophonous event. In horror, I look down on my fretboard and realize that I have started in the key of Bb. The band, meanwhile, is in the agreed-upon key of A. Little can be played that sounds worse, and there are only few situations, in which even the most undiscerning musical layman can tell that something just went horribly wrong. This is one of them.

Unfortunately, no hole opened up in the floor for me to disappear in, and I had to make it through the whole evening – scarred for life.

That evening I learned a valuable lesson: A little less show and a little more playing in the right key can go a long way.