Jokke; the giant poet who fell by the hand of the poppy.

To define a number 1 can indeed be a hard nut to crack. Not every genre is as easy to define as reggae where Bobby is the definitive master, the God of his forever loving followers, me included. But to me, the man who stands out larger than life when it comes to his craft, within the borders of hickey Norway, is no other then the late Joachim Nielsen. Jokke & Valentinerne (Jokke and the Valentines) is without a doubt one of the most cherished artist Norway has ever produced.

There is hardly an artist, a critic, a lover of music or a living soul in the boring streets of NoWay that doesn’t have a favorite Jokke song. Everybody, form beggars to aristocrats, high tide to low tide, from shadowy street corners to shiny solariums with naked chicks in the fake sun, anywhere you’ll find a punk or a princess who has fucked, partied, laught or cried to one of the many everyday, beat down poetic lyrics and appealing melodies from the diamond mine of Mr Nielsen. Jokke did not just write a song, he wrote a story. He created characters, people you could believe was a reflection from his own life; people around him. Dirty lowlifes and have nots, drunk lunatics and seedy bastards, people that crawl with the cockroaches and fighting among the hyenas. But most of all the lyrics feels like unpolished reality, truth spoken with bad breath and yellow teeth.

There are memories of concerts where the audience sing the lyrics better then the man himself, who had to fill his belly with beer before his nerves was able to cope with the stage. Memories of a concert being canceled and nobody wanted to refund their tickets; after all Jokke was drunk out of his mind and they loved him for all his faults and glory. These are the kind of stories that made you wonder who emulated who; was Jokke living the songs or was the songs living off of him? Whatever it was, the lyrics was a pure strike of genuine poetry, a drunken Dylan on the jet to destruction. Behind this façade a hard working fella created magic.

What really sent him to the fields to harvest the comings was the juice of that damned poppy. It was not supposed to be his way, he was not bound to walk down that road, but still he did. The most notorious and hailed killer on the buffet claims street whores and generals alike, it has no compassion and kills indiscriminately like a creature from the old testament, it swings its ax like a raving Viking tripping on toadstool and is as unstoppable as a freight train of incurable diseases. Junk is a plague and we produce it ourselves. It’s the Mother of all drugs, the king of the heap. It doesn’t matter who you are, if you start down that path, the parasite will dig its way into your brain and stay there till the day you die. Either OD’ed or of old age. But it stays there all your life and spends its time reminding you of the horrific pleasures you experience on your way to the last, decomposed station of life; death and it’s horrid smile.

The great thing about Jokke, like any dead musician, is the legacy he left behind when he died. He made music who will be played, loved, remembered and applauded forever more. He sang his way into the heart of a generation and he will continue to do so. We love our Jokke and may he have found peace where ever he is; in that Grand Hall among Great musicians who stand in the beating wind like statues of ancient Egypt, like totems of our Gods. Jokke, you are the greatest man to grace this hillbilly outpost of Europe with music. Thank you.

Alt kan repeteres:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYGzz8a67cs

Kneggen og Knugern:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2kOv1Rm8eU

May-Iren og Terje Engen snakker om Jokke:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_ARtUNdDEkU