Although I am 49 years old on the outside, in some inner part of me lurks the brash 20 year old who once I was.

   On Friday, when I had picked up my tickets, the 20 year old squinted and asked the ticket person if perhaps they were rehearsing.  I had intentions of trying to find my way inside for a rehearsal, if possible.  She didn't know, but told me to go to the "Reception" door, around the back.  So I did.  But when I got there, nothing seemed happening, and I left.

    After Friday's performance, I went back there and stood in the darkness in this area.  A few other fans were likewise waiting.  Next to the "reception" door which was closed, a much larger opening, like that of a single car garage, stood gaping.  Within, members of the orchestra and chorus were briefly chatting, then wondering out and into the night.  I was standing at the true entry to the wonders of "backstage".  But I am an old man, and gate crashing is a young man's game, and I did nothing.   I could see Helen Sjöholm.  I waited.  I was carrying the CD booklet from Karin Glenmark's 1996 album, and from Geminism.  I had two pens, blue ink and black felt tip.  I was ready.  Five or ten minutes later two electric bifold doors, slowly choked off this entrance.  I left.

    After Saturday's performance, facing a last-in-a-lifetime opportunity, we (the 49 year old and the 20 year old) rose to the occasion and again sought out the big backstage door.  The old man, resigned, had forgotten to bring anything on which to collect autographs.  Buoyed in the effort by a co-conspirator, Stephen Humphries, the 20 year old "appropriated" a black and gold concert poster from the ubiquitous square cardboard trash recipticles within Scandinavium.  Poster in hand, I led the way toward the stage doors.   The 20 year old within me boldy strode past the various attractive Swede's wearing their black and gold "Backstage" passes on chains around their necks, and tried to walk right up to Karin Glenmark, who I could see chatting in a small knot of people near the entrance to the performers' lounge.  A green coated security guard intercepted me.

    The 49 year old spoke up.  A lawyer:
 
"I have come here all the way from North America.  I am a huge fan of Ms. Glenmark.  My friend here has come all the way from New Zealand.  Would you at least tell her that we are here?  That we would wish to tell her how much we love her work, and seek the honor of an autograph?"

    The guard shifted into a quite perfect English.

    No, we were not permitted.  We must wait outside.  Perhaps, we could speak with the stars when they left. Eventually.

    The 49 year old and Steve retreated respectfully to a place outside the stage entrance, but visible.  Briefly, we discussed whether to make a run for her.  The 20 year old would have done so, waiting perhaps for the moment when the security guard was distracted.  This night, the 49 year old felt that the right thing to do was to wait outside, and see what fate had in store.   Tommy Körberg was outside amongst us, standing with three others, smoking.  Steve and I jointly though silently considered approaching him, but did not.  For myself, I was there for Karin.

    Five or 10 minutes later, the security guard came to the threshold and gestured with his right hand that we could come in.

    Steve and I approached Miss Glenmark.  I had not lied to the security guard:  I am a huge fan of Karin Glenmark.  Miss Glenmark is a tall woman, standing beside you, and the stage makeup emphasizing her eyes was a contradiction to the soft and womanly acquaintance I had made with her through her most recent (1996) album. When her attention turned to us, I must admit I was just barely able to make sense, and I probably stammered. She proved immediately as gracious as I had ever hoped.  In speaking with me, an obvious American, her English was American-East-Coast, fluent and with some humor.  I was locked into her and the moment.  If Steve spoke to her, I can't recall it, and he will have to tell you.  When I asked for her autograph, I had to explain the further complication: that I had even forgotten to bring a pen.

    Steve had noticed that a woman inside the lounge had a pen.  It was in fact being deployed specifically so that the four singers could autograph concert posters.  Gently, Steve let us know this.  And so Karin led us into the lounge, and signed my poster in gold ink, and then Steve's.  Anders came up beside her, and waited, as if our little business with his sister was somehow important or valid.  When they spoke, they spoke in Swedish, and she told him that we were fans from far away.  In words I did not follow, in a tone every brother has heard from every older sister, she directed him to sign our posters.  And as younger brothers will do, he did.

    When it was becoming clear that I would actually achieve an autograph from Karin Glenmark, I had somewhat becalmed, and one cogent, important mission formed in my head and made it to my mouth.  Anders Glenmark was standing beside me.  Gemini, by God, were flanking me.  And I turned to Anders and thanked him for Frida's Djupa Andetag.  Graciously, this renaissance man of Swedish music acknowledged some of the inner meanings of this.  She had been delightful to work with, he confirmed.

    Anders had already changed, and was now wearing sneakers.  The crowds outside Scandinavium had disbursed.  He put on a coat and strolled out of the stadium, and walked back toward his lodgings, alone, almost anonymous.

    On the flight home, one of the audio channels featured a tribute to Frank Sinatra.  When I tuned in, Frank was not singing, but doing a monologue.  He said something like this:  "People have been trying to congratulate me on my 50th birthday.  I'm not 50.  Those who say I am 50 are part of a communist plot.  I am still 28."