I often marvel at how my 12-year-old son doesn’t have any kind of “defined” musical taste. I, on the other hand, fell in love with rock music at the age of 10, though, to be fair, it wasn’t exactly hard back then. Many people—including myself—see the ’80s as one of the most influential decades in modern music. The era of stadium concerts, the revival of rock, the birth of key metal subgenres, and the rise of new wave, which ushered in the age of popular electronic music. (Yes, I know there was electronic music before that too—Kraftwerk, Tangerine Dream, Jean Michel Jarre… fantastic stuff, but mostly for the connoisseurs, not the masses.)
In fifth grade, every Sunday, I’d pore over the Radio and TV Guide to find out what rock songs would play on the “Dance Music Cocktail,” and I’d head off to school armed with my trusty Sokol radio. When I was lucky, we’d catch Hűtlen, Mobilizmo, or maybe even a Hobo song during the break.
You dreamed, then woke,
Waited for your time to grow.
You grew up, and changed inside
All your dreams, long since died.
Walk the road, keep moving on,
Don’t look back, the past is gone.
Walk the road, keep moving on,
Don’t look back, the past is gone.
You did wrong, then turned around,
Regretful for each fall you found.
Your past has faded, gone away,
What once was, is not today.
Walk the road, keep moving on,
Don’t look back, the past is gone.
Walk the road, keep moving on,
Don’t look back, the past is gone.
I realise I’m getting older too, as more and more of my musical heroes have long since passed away. This song always brings tears to my eyes—it takes me right back to my first P. Mobil concert in 1984, twelve years old, wearing a checkered shirt, tight jeans, and sneakers. Young Tunyogi was on stage. As a teenager, I too would shout, “You grew up, and changed inside, all your dreams, long since died”—and every time I sang it, I promised myself: “Not me. I’ll still have dreams as an adult.”And I still do. I think I always will. Though I’ve come to learn that dreams and reality don’t always shake hands.
So what was it about the genre that grabbed me in the first place? I was still very young when I went downtown with my grandfather for some errand. (I grew up in the suburbs, so rarely did I get to the city centre.) We were walking down the boulevard near the Corvin cinema when we saw a bunch of long-haired guys in jeans hanging around—sitting on benches, sprawled on the ground. They were drinking, smoking, and sniffing glue. It was intimidating, but also… fascinating. And then I saw this half-naked guy with P. Mobil burned into his back. I’ll never forget it. Years later, when they announced the band on a music radio program, that memory came flooding back. And even though I hadn’t heard a single note from them yet, somehow I already loved their music.
But let’s not skip the “girl story.” Fast-forward to 1992. The Guns N’ Roses concert in Budapest. It was the first concert where I actually had a seat, not a spot in the pit. This girl—she wasn’t anyone important in my life. I saw her for the first time that night, and the last time the next morning. I don’t know her name, or even how old she was. But the way we met? Straight out of a movie. Axl sat down at the piano and started the November Rain intro. Right then, thunder exploded across the sky so loudly that the girl next to me grabbed my hand in fear. Do you really need more than that? Incredible music, a frightened girl by my side, rain pouring down. I didn’t even need to speak. I gave her the softest kiss on the lips—barely more than a touch—and whispered: “Easy.”
My best friend and training partner at the time couldn’t stand this about me—my ease with girls. He was a junior Hungarian bodybuilding champion, but completely hopeless when it came to flirting. I remember one night we pulled up in front of the Total-Car club. We got out of the car, and this girl walked straight up to me: “Hi, sorry, but for weeks I’ve been bringing my girlfriends here every weekend just to see you. Will you go out with me?”My friend just dropped his car keys on the ground and shouted, “This can’t be real! I don’t believe this!” Then stormed off into the club, leaving us behind.
And it wasn’t just me who remembered that night.
“What Axl also recalled with emotion in a later interview was how, just as he began the piano intro to November Rain, a massive bolt of lightning shot across the stadium, dragging a thunderclap behind it that shook the air. And as the full band kicked in, the heavens opened up on the crowd. Slash’s solo, lit by the spotlight through a curtain of rain, burned itself like an icon into the memories of everyone who was there.”