The hissing suburban lawns were far behind now. The landscape lowered, flattened to potato fields and corn, then sandy marshes and scrub pine. Ninety miles east of the city, they neared the end of the long sand bar that stretched its arms into the Atlantic.

It was a long ride in the car, filled with empty promises. His father assured him that it would be splendid, filled with games, sports, swimming, and fun. And there was no opportunity to refuse. Kurt and his father often rode together. Kurt usually listened while his father talked. Sometimes they both listened to music on the radio. It was always Classical, and that gave his father something to comment on. Father was didactic, opinionated, and knew something about everything.

Father was a professor, a composer, and an expert on music. He had published books, taught at university, written symphonies, and was a very accomplished man. He hated popular music. His own music was formal and academic and unknown outside of professional circles. It was published and performed and criticised as difficult, which meant it was given a grudging respect. That was enough for him. He didn't need popular approval to know that he was right. He was carrying on a great tradition, deeply rooted in the music of Bach, and his time would come, greatness would some day be recognized. Perhaps not in his lifetime.

Kurt grew up surrounded by music. From the day he was born, he heard it every day. Sebastian Bach was foremost in the pantheon, but his father's tastes were broad. He explored widely, within the boundaries of the standard orchestral and instrumental repertoire. He had thousands of recordings and bought more every week. It was part of his work, and verged on an obsession. There were limits, categories. Most of what he heard outside the house was classified as noise or whining: Elvis, Sinatra, the Beatles, even folk music, except in Beethoven's arrangements.

Kurt adopted his father's standards and attitudes; natural for the first born son to emulate his father. There were plenty of snobby, pretentious kids at the exclusive private schools he attended.

"Welcome to the camp. I'm sure you all know why we're here."

In truth, it was arranged simply so that his parents could have a vacation from the kids. But that shouldn't prevent Kurt from having a wonderful time. A vacation with his parents and little sisters wasn't a picnic either, being dragged here and there, listening to them all complain. At least this would be better than a long trip to an unfriendly relative. But while they were still in the car, the boy was thinking of all he had left behind, the peaceful summer weeks spent reading.

"Hello! I Love You! Won't You Tell Me Your Name?"

Arrival. The Doors greeted him from the transistor radio. The Top Forty that he hated and tried to avoid for years would be a constant companion for those weeks away from home. Then he saw the place, the noise, the dirt, the squalor. And run by fascists, very rigid, who told him when to get up, and where to go. No freedom, no choices, just the herd mentality. Within minutes, he knew that he didn't belong. But it was too late. The car had already left. Not that it would have mattered. The plans were made, the money paid, and he was stuck with it, to make the best of it, or at least survive. What horror! He felt like an alien there, in the huts near the beach, surrounded by kids who looked and sounded a lot like him, but who were not like him, and did not like him. At least he assumed they didn't like him. In time they figured out he didn't like them, and they returned the favor.

Communication was difficult. The other kids seemed to speak a different language. At least there were a lot of unfamiliar words. Most of them were names, pop stars and pitchers. They also didn't understand a lot of the words that Kurt used. Too abstract and technical, he wanted to talk about philosophy, not sports.

Baseball was just one example. Kurt had picked up a little of the terminology from listening to games on the radio, but he had never held a bat or caught a ball. At first nobody could believe that he had no idea what he was doing. He spoke English after all, and with a New York accent. They let him go to bat, and he somehow connected with the ball. He was so excited that he let it go and the bat flew out of his hands and nearly killed the kid on deck.

Kurt knew he had been tricked. His parents had told him how much he'd enjoy the camp, and he hated it. There was no freedom, the day was regimented. He was constantly being told what to do, where to go. There was no escape, no break from the routine, and most of the activities were things he was no good at. There was one exception: the rifle range. Kurt was an excellent shot and he could imagine that his skills would let him take revenge on his enemies. He couldn't confront them directly but he could win medals for his marksmanship. He wanted them to notice that he was good at something, and was potentially dangerous. But they didn't get it, they didn't care.

He just wanted to get away. He wrote long pleading letters to his parents, detailing the horros, and begging them to come and rescue him. These were ignored. One day heard his cabinmates discussing, plotting to escape. His heart skipped a beat, he was excited and hopeful and joined the conversation, only to find out that they had staged it. He was trapped. They laughed; he felt ridiculous.

"Classical Gas"

One song among the many that repeated on the radio had a certain fascination. It seemed familiar at first, opened with a solo guitar. The driving beat followed logically after a few bars, and the horns in the bridge were happy horns. The exuberance was infectious, it made him glad to hear it. It was a bridge between the formal and acceptable art music that he knew at home, and the ugly rock and roll in the world outside. He was fascinated.

"You know that it would be untrue. You know that I would be a liar."

José Feliciano sang it with seductive charm. It was a plain and honest expression of feeling. There was nothing to lose, and the lyrics said so explicitly, except our selves. And if we lose ourselves and find each other ... ? It was a challenge to discover another self, another soul, but first he had to be ready to choose, and to give up the safety of the familiar.

It went against the grain, counter to all he had been told. Home was strict and everything was controlled, especially feelings. These were expressed indirectly or not at all.

Rock and roll was anathema. Father had a canned rant about it: it had its origins in black plantation chants and as far as he was concerned, it was a celebration of slavery. The people who enjoyed it might not know that, but it was the truth. It was the opposite of art, a lower form of expression. And it was all around. There was no escape from it here.

"In the Sunshine of your Love."

The long summer days and hot nights held the promise of brotherhood. Kurt didn't know it at first, but someone was watching him with interest.

Jess was a few years older than Kurt, and a counselor. Jess was athletic, strong, and confident. He was calm and graceful. He excelled at sports. He was friendly, well-liked, and ordinary, which was probably why Kurt didn't notice him.

Jess was curious about the misfit with the bad attitude. Kurt stood out and attracted hostility from his peers, but he was always respectful to anyone older or bigger. At first Jess found the situation mildly amusing but gradually developed a genuine interest, even a curiousity about this younger boy. He didn't understand, but he would try to get his attention and see what happened.

Kurt wasn't especially approachable. He was guarded, defensive, suspicious of any attention, anything out of the ordinary. Jess was patient and tried to return the respect that Kurt naturally showed to the older boy. It wasn't easy. Kurt complained about everything. Jess listened and tried not to laugh. He couldn't do much to help, but just being heard and having the complaints takes seriously helped Kurt to relax a little. Jess paid attention. Kurt knew a lot of things and loved to talk. He couldn't resist an audience.

"Nobody likes me," was a constant complaint. Kurt was so good at feeling sorry for himself. Jess didn't contradict him. He just nodded in agreement. He waited for the conversation to turn lighter and eventually it did.

Kurt complained about the noise.
"What noise?"
"The radio, the so-called music."
"And what music do you like?"

Kurt wasn't expecting the question, but he knew exactly what to say.
"Well, Bach, of course."

Jess resisted the impulse to say "Who?" and instead said, gently,
"Tell me more about him."

That was enough. Kurt was hooked. He could talk for hours. They didn't have time, of course. The conversation was broken up into fragments because the camp routine kept them busy. But now they both looked forward to the next opportunity, the next time they would see each other. When they got some time alone, Kurt lectured. Somehow, Jess managed to stay awake. He nodded and tried to follow it all. It didn't matter. Kurt was happy talking, and they were happy to be together.

It didn't occur to Kurt to ask Jess about the music he liked. Kurt thought he already knew. Even if he had been asked, Jess wouldn't have been able to say much. He didn't analyze his own tastes, he didn't know how to explain them, and he could only have described them by making lists.

Kurt didn't do all the talking. Sometimes there was a pause. They walked along the beach and Jess picked up a piece of driftwood. He built a whole story around it. Jess noticed the natural world, the sea, the sand, the stars, and seemed to understand it. In time they both became lost in this new world, somewhere between the natural and the fantastic. They lost all track of time as the stars came out.

Someone else had noticed the change in Kurt. He no longer bothered to complain, nor to insult his cabin-mates. He no longer minded them. One of these fellows had enjoyed the sparring, trading barbs with the angry loner. Now Kurt was ignoring him and wouldn't respond. He couldn't be baited anymore and that made the other boy furious. That night Kurt was out late with his friend, far too late. This boy saw a chance to inform on Kurt, and a search party was organized.

They found the two asleep beside the embers of a fire, high in the dunes. They roused them, and marched them back to the camp. Kurt was sent to bed as usual and Jess went to face the Administration. He was there all night, and when he emerged the next morning he was silent. He immediately left for home, never to return. Kurt saw him leave, and saw that Jess still held his head high.

They didn't ask Kurt any questions. A few hours later his father arrived and together they went straight to the offices without a word. He was there for an hour or more, with Kurt waiting outside. When his father returned, all he said was "pack up, we're going home." Father's face was pale, with a cold anger that Kurt had never seen before, and his voice was low. His eyes went this way and that, searching for something, or someone. Kurt was afraid, but there was no fire, no confrontation. The long ride home was longer for the silence.