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By
Grace
Dead Rebel Of The Week
~ Carl Michael bellman ~
It’s no secret that Mozart is one of my dead heroes, as he was, I think, my first choice for the DROTW honors. His musical genius and obstinate spirit kind of paved the way for what I think DRS should be all about; talent, humor, intelligence and that good ole middle finger waving in the face of established norms and rigid thinking.
Growing up in Sweden I had yet another role model, just like Mozart, in the sense that he also wrote clever melodies while poking fun at society and religion with subtle sarcasms and blatant comedy: Carl Michael Bellman (1740 – 1795). He lived and died right alongside Mozart, if only in time and spirit rather than by location, but I have a feeling they would have been great buddies, had they both been frequenting the same bars back then. They were, unbeknownst to each other, two peas in a pod.
Like Mozart, Bellman came from a religious and respectable family and was, of course, accordingly educated. At the age of four he already talked in verse and wrote poems and songs. In his teens he had already translated a number of psalms and written two books. He had all the makings of fine upstanding citizen; someone who could fill the shoes of his much respected father, the Secretary to the King. Yeah, right… Leave it to the kids to fuck up the dreams of their parents… Bellman landed a job at a bank at the age of 18 and was making quite a nice life for himself; a life that saw increasing gambling debts and late night bar tabs stacking up as he celebrated his invincible youth. Well, the creditors figured it was time for young Bellman to pay, and, facing broken bones, young Bellman figured it was time to run for the hills instead. He fled to Norway, hoping to be readily forgotten. But the scandal still lingered back in Stockholm, and it soured the family name to the point where his father, the Secretary to the King, had to resign from his office, sell his house and move to the boondocks, in shame.
A year or so later, Bellman happily slithered his way back to Stockholm again, like the young and dumb often do – not a care in the world. He had discovered that his talents for quirky rhymes and for making fun of people went really well together with getting absolutely hammered on red wine while playing his lute. He started writing little ditties on life at the royal court, things the nobles supposedly did behind closed doors, and, most of all, biblical parodies in all sorts of “rude” scenarios. The songs he wrote caught on like wildfire with the man on the street, and soon enough his verses were hollered to the heavens in every seedy tavern in town. Sure, it was religious blasphemy and social anarchy, but it was so tongue-in-cheek, and so spot-on, that even the nobles reluctantly hummed the songs as they tip-toed through the corridors of power. Just as with Mozart, you could not help but loving Bellman. He was just one of those inevitably endearing characters who was the life of every party, and the brightest shining star in the local night sky.
But, loved as he was, he was also never taken seriously. He was considered a social clown by most and when he wanted to marry the love of his life, her family strictly forbade the whole affair and discouraged the relationship. Naturally Bellman got married to her anyway and had four crazy sons – all spitting images of their father.
1765 marked a creative milestone for Bellman as he started writing his famous “Fredman’s Epistles”. These were a series of elaborate songs dealing with recurring characters based on people in his surroundings: Father Berg, Mowitz the Musician, Fredman the Drunkard, hookers, maids, nobles and the nymphs and priests of the Temple of Bacchus – all making social observations and making fun of religious phenomena. The characters in his songs became household names and were often held up as social role models or despicable warning examples, depending on point of view. In his Epistles, Bellman presents his new Holy Trinity of Sex, Wine and Death – shamelessly represented by Freya, Bacchus and Charon.
“Supa, dricka, och ha sin flicka, är hvad Sancte Fredman lär”
* “Drink, get drunk and get the girl, the Gospel of St. Fredman”
Charon, the ever lurking Mr. Death, is forever present as some looming shadow over the characters in the Epistles, and through their drunken tales we also learn some profound insights in the way Bellman looked upon his own ultimate fate as the decadent fool, sliding ever downward. Even though most of his songs were happy, the themes could sometimes take on a macabre approach, but that only served to make them even more popular. People loved the way he demystified the afterlife and made light of sickness and death. The Grim Reaper was already an old friend.
Fredman lived and passed away
Brothers all
Let us call
His soul a clockwork – his body a drunken stay
Our living is pithy
Better to rumble
And happily fumble
After all, death shows no pity
It was during this time that Bellman also founded his “Bacchi Order”, where people from all across the social classes, bakers and generals alike - but mostly officials fired from their royal offices, got together and got absolutely plowed together, singing rude songs in tribute to the Wonder of Wine. Of course the “Bacchi Order” was a parody on all the fashionable knightly orders that had sprung up in the higher echelons of Sweden, where nobles socialized and congratulated each other on being the masters of the universe. In the “Bacchi Order” you were sired and given a new name; Admiral Fatty Von Sow or Count Wino de Whoreson. Stuff like that. Most of these people became characters in his songs, especially when somebody passed away – then they got a whole eulogy, set to happy music.
Note how our shadow, note Mowitz, mon frere
It closes in on its own gloom
How gold and purple, in that shovel over there
Becomes gravel and doom
See Charon waving from his river’s swell, and three times the grave digger, as well
Nevermore you’ll squeeze your grape
Therefore, Mowitz, come help me raise
This tombstone o'er our mate
The Swedish King at this time, Gustav III – newly risen to power after a coup and known as the Party King, was a big fan of Bellman, and even though he himself was the brunt of many-a-joke, he could maintain a sense of humor about the whole affair. He even appointed Bellman as a government official for the State Lottery. Needless to say, Bellman was not much loved by most of the other nobles he “worked” with on a daily basis, since he drew even more inspiration from them for new songs and parodies.
In the case of most ingenious entertainers and free-thinking individuals, the realities of everyday boring life grind them to only so much dust, and they creep into a bottle or find solace and universal understanding in the escape of an artificial high. So did also Bellman end his years; racking up drinking debts, succumbing to Demon Alcohol, and finally dying at the hands of Good Old Tuberculosis in the very autumn of the 18th century.
But he died as he lived, with a lute in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, living the dream he had set for himself, based on sex, drugs and rock’n’roll, and teaching a whole damn society to rock it out along with him in the process.
Drinking after noon
Living with this banter
Earth is my chamber floor
And the sun is my lantern
I care about nothing
Other than my brain doing laps
Doing laps
Doing laps
Doing laps
Doing laps
Until it tiredly dozes off
Sending me to sleep as Poverty scoffs
** All lyrics from various Bellman songs and Epistles. Very freely translated, courtesy of Yours Truly. I think he would have liked it.
