No Feta Cheese

By Stanford S. Lee

An American in Finland, a Finnish contemporary jazz band and corporate sabotage all combine to make No Feta Cheese, a unique journey through a land of endless lakes, forests and quiet people. Karl Hafstad, a Norwegian-American, left his quiet life in Boise, Idaho, for a job in the Scandinavian music business. Peter Bengstromm was a boss unlike any he had ever had. Although he appeared to be a playboy and a sports addict, he was actually implementing a secret plan that could devastate musicians and record stores throughout Europe and Scandinavia. Skiing, tennis and meeting beautiful women all seemed to be higher priorities for Peter, than his career in music marketing, for Polydonn Records. Karl could tell something was going on behind the scenes, that just didnt make sense. Mina Tervonen had a voice like no one else and wanted to make a name for her band, along with Pekka, Teemu and Hannu, beyond their small town in central Finland. Karl shared the challenging and difficult journey of adapting to Scandinavian life with two American friends. Karen Dosher was an old college friend and an investment consultant for an American venture capitol firm. Gerald Bingham was a professional basketball player in the European League, playing for a team in Warsaw. It would be his last shot to make a living from his athletic talent, before returning to a dreary life, back in Baltimore. They learned that their employers had quite a different sense of ethics and that working and living in Europe was dramatically different than being a tourist in Stockholm or Milan. While the band toured all over Europe, only Karl knew that the future of the band and an entire segment of the Scandinavian music industry could collapse in a matter of weeks. He was faced with one of the toughest decisions of his life, which could dramatically change his life in ways he could only imagine. Selling records and managing a jazz band, developed into something that was both exciting and eventually terrifying.
He was in a country that few Americans knew much about. It was truly off the beaten path and not on the way to anywhere, except for Russia. The quiet, reserved temperament of the Finns along with their love of nature, made them quite a contrast to the Americans Karl saw in the airport, the day he moved to Helsinki. Living in Finland changed Karl forever. On that amazing summer night in August, Karl found himself with a life he never dreamed of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 18, 2005
• ISBN: 9781420816402

Stanford S. Lee

   Stanford S. Lee, a graduate of Oregon State University was inspired to write “No Feta Cheese”, while living in Finland. His Norwegian ancestry and fascination with Scandinavian culture, along with his experience as a concert promoter and jazz fan, gave him the insight into the music business and an understanding of the Finns, to effectively develop the characters in “No Feta Cheese”. Cherished words of inspiration and creative encouragement from his musical hero, Brian Wilson, also had a profound impact on the author’s decision to write this book.  He is a bachelor and lives in Woodside, California, USA.

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I. HELSINKI RAILWAY STATION

II. ACROSS THE POND

III. DAY ONE

IV. AUSTIN, TEXAS, USA

V. THE BAND

VI. BACK HOME

VII. KUOPIO, FINLAND

VIII. BLACK OAK VENTURE PARTNERS

IX. THE THIRD ALBUM

X. BURLINGTON, VERMONT

XI. SPOKANE, WASHINGTON, USA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to express my thanks to two of my art professors at Oregon Stae University. Clint Brown and Walt Fosque. They taught me to accept nothing less than my best efforts and to always keep my artistic standards high.

Kiitos and tussen tak (thank you and a thousand thanks in Finnish and Norwegian) to my friends Maija, Mina, Ritva, Tuula, Beate, Jannike, Henrik, Franco and Sabine, for their hospitality, friendship and kindness during my trips to Finland, Norway and Germany.

A huge thank you goes out to the very brave, dedicated and skilled men and women of the King’s Mountain Volunteer Fire Department and the California Division of Forestry fire crew at Sky Londa, CA for doing such a great job of putting out the fire at my cabin in Woodside. Without them, I would have lost everything.

I’ll always be grateful to my alma mater, Oregon Stae University, for an outstanding education, which has had a positive impact on every aspect of my life.

Thanks to SAS and Finnair, for making my flights to Scandinavia so enjoyable.

Thanks to my friends Jeff Lorber and Angela Bofill and my musical heroes Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys for all of the incredible, inspired music over the years, which has added so much joy to my life.

Very special thanks goes to my brother and sisters, Steve, Cathy and Sharon Lee, for their encouragement and support, throughout the writing of this book.

I’ll always be especially grateful to my mother and father, Sally and Granville Lee. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. Their encouragement and positive attitude helped make this book possible.

Thanks to Pankaj Chopra, Jasbir Chopra and D’Wayne Murphy for all of their help and energy in the editing, computer assistance and computer graphics that were a part of this book.

The biggest thank you goes to God for the wonderful life and the beautiful world He’s given all of us.

Thank you very much for reading my book. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

I. HELSINKI RAILWAY STATION

What’s Idaho?

It’s a state. It’s in the U.S. It’s where I’m from. I told him.

Is it near Vermont? he asked. The old faded t-shirt I bought way back in ‘84 when I considered enrolling at the University of Idaho, was the seed that started the conversation. I had learned on past trips to Finland that it’s very out of character for a Finn to initiate a conversation with a stranger. That was the first of maybe hundreds of situations when I would tell myself I was no longer in America.

No. It’s on the other side of the country. Out by Washington and Oregon and just below Canada. It’s a nice place.

The bartender showed little emotion or enthusiasm. The beer taps in front of him, had names that were unknown to me, when I traveled to Finland for the first time, three years earlier. Lapin Kulta, Koff, Karjala. Not the usual Bud, Coors, Olympia or Henry’s, I saw back in Boise. I could only imagine that his job of selling beers, hot dogs and coffee to the passengers of the trains, had become a very repetitive routine of making change, cleaning tables, pouring drinks then running to catch the number 42 bus to ice hockey practice. He probably saw many of the same businessmen every week, heading for the Nokia offices in Espoo, 30 kilometers to the west. That look in his eyes told me that he had gone through the routine, hundreds or maybe even thousands of times before. He reminded me of many of the guys I worked with at the plywood mill, back in Sandpoint, way up in Northern Idaho. Those miserable eight months had a lot to do with why I had traveled 7,000 miles to Helsinki, Finland.

I had a cousin who studied engineering in Vermont. He didn’t like it very much. He came back after a year. The bartender told me.

Why was that? I asked.

No lakes. The ice hockey team in his town played only two months of the year and people talked too much. He missed Finland so much, he started checking out the bus fare to the airport at Boston, after ice hockey season was over.

I can imagine how he felt. Culture shock is a difficult thing to deal with. I don’t think I heard ten words when I ate breakfast at my hotel this morning. Finns seem like very quiet people. I think sometimes, Americans are afraid of silence.

He put his towel down, looked at the crowd of passing travelers, then looked over at me, as if I was the only American he had seen all week. What brings you to Finland?

Well, there’s a band up in Kuopio that I want to check out. I’ll be meeting with a guy from a record company about a possible job. I was here on vacation last year, when a guy I knew back in the States, said he might have a job for me. Hey, I’ve got five minutes before my train leaves. Maybe I’ll tell you how it works out on my way back. See ya.

I grabbed my bags and looked for track number 18. I wove my way through the crowd and began what I hoped would be an adventure that would be different than anything I had experienced in all my 34 years. On that windy, crisp day in April 1998, I was facing more unknowns than knowns, when I tried to imagine how the trip would develop. I could be home in a few weeks or I could be advertising all the hot new bands from Polydonn Records, after six months. I had enough cash with me to last maybe a few months, then I’d either count on a paycheck or cash in some of my stocks back home. There were no guarantees on this trip. Just a few leads from a fraternity brother of my uncle and a chance to live in Europe, for who knows how long.

Winter had come and gone since the time I saw Chuck Wilkinson, at the Washington State tailgater party in Missoula, Montana. He was a tall man and had that look in his eyes that told me he had lived a very full life. Probably 55 or so and still fit from years of running, wood splitting, and tennis. All of his friends standing under the tent had that look of achievement and prosperity. I assumed most of these people donated easily a few thousand dollars a year to the University of Montana Foundation. I was lucky if I could pass along fifty bucks every couple of years. As Jennie and I approached the group of partiers, I recognized Chuck from that first time we met in ‘83, when my Uncle Terry and I ran into him in the lift line at Sun Valley. Jennie had been my sort of an off and on girlfriend for the last few years. Our relationship seemed to be winding down, but we still had good times together. She wasn’t the type of girl who would turn many heads, but she was a nice person who knew how to laugh and relax and enjoy herself. I knew that showing up as a couple would make it easier to blend in with the group, so I brought her along.

Hey, that must be Karl! Good to see you! Just like your father, always with a pretty girl. He told me. It was clear that the party was already in high gear, when we showed up. This would probably be the last game of the fall warm enough to go without a ski jacket and the team was on a roll. These people were determined to have a good time.

Hi Chuck. This is Jennie Thompson. We met down at Idaho State, when a bunch of us went down there for a conference on importing hops from Belgium. Hey, you really know how to throw a party! I’m impressed.

Let me take your coats and I’ll get you some beers. This is my wife Terry.

Terry seemed to be on her tenth beer by then. The tailgater was growing by the minute, with old friends shaking hands and laughing. It was a place where I knew I had at least one thing in common with every single person there. We all either went to the University of Montana, or were invited by someone who did. I normally wouldn’t have much to say to a 60 year old banker or a 22 year old dental assistant from Salt Lake. While Jennie walked across the parking lot, to the ladies room, I overheard a tall, very healthy looking young lady tell Chuck’s wife she had just moved to Twin Falls last week and didn’t know a soul. The inevitable idea raced through my mind. I’d have at least two or three minutes to introduce myself to her, give her my card and tell her I’d be glad to show her the bright lights of Boise, anytime. I started searching for a card, then saw Chuck walking toward me with a gigantic Bloody Mary. He was Uncle Terry’s friend, they played golf every Friday and I was there to hear about the possible job contact he had for me. I quickly realized he could be my ticket out of Boise and putting the moves on some young chick while I was on a date, wouldn’t be the most honorable thing to do. More importantly, the 6’4" car dealer knew my dad, from the Korean War and my actions would reflect on him, so I reconsidered.

A group of men and their wives looked like they were old college friends who knew each other before the Vietnam War. They made a point of reserving the same table, every year, on the lawn next to the stadium. Not just anybody could drop in at these parties. Some were mainly for clients and customers. Others were for fraternity buddies from way back. All conversations would stop when Dr. Bertleman, the university president made the rounds through the sea of tailgaters. The old gentleman would try to shake as many hands as he could, before kickoff. When he ran into some of the true ‘big-time’ alumni donors, he felt compelled to stop for a moment and have a beer with them. Kickoff was still an hour away. The bourbon flowed, and the beer poured from the tap in an almost constant flow, from the moment I arrived. A dozen kinds of sausages, chicken wings, and dip covered the huge folding table, that was set up by the RV. A lot of Chuck’s friends looked like they could be executives, contractors, insurance salesmen or dentists. Most of them were loud, a little drunk, and very revved up about their first chance to watch Montana play a Pac-Ten team in 5 years. A short grandfatherly type of guy approached us, with his hand out to greet us. This old fellow looked so pumped up and excited to be there, I was just waiting for him to tell us about the‘38 Grizzlies, who kicked Wyoming’s butt, and how he and his fraternity brothers had the party of all parties, which his buddies were still talking about to that day.

It was game day in a college town in America. The leaves were golden and dry. We were all caught up in the excitement of the moment. What could be more American? I asked myself. This was the real thing. I was waiting for John Wayne to walk up to the party with his arms around a couple of beautiful women. The old pigskin would be kicked high into the pure Montana air in another hour. In everyday life, I would probably never strike up a conversation with the little lady standing near Chuck. She was probably some guy’s wife. At that point in the party, no one really knew or cared. We were all Grizzlies and we were one!

Are you ready for a big Grizzly victory? I asked her.

Oh young man, let me tell you, I am damn ready to see those Grizzlies kick some butt. I’ve been coming to these games since 1939. When I came to my very first game, the big news was that the Nazis invaded Poland the day before. It was very sad. My father was born in Krakow. All of my sorority sisters and I decided to have a good time, even though the news coming from Europe was very bad. We beat Kansas 14 - 0! Boy, did we have a party.

I got really caught up in the moment, as she painted such a vivid picture in my mind. I practically expected to see B-29’s flying overhead. Right when I was about to ask her about campus life in the war days, a very excited older gentleman walked up to us, with his hand out.

Margaret, if I could join in the conversation you’re having, I’d like to welcome this young man to our party.

Hi, I’m Bill Peterson, you must be the young man who’s thinking about going to Finland. Boy, that Chuck seems to know people everywhere. If I was 40 years younger, I’d hop on the next plane to Europe and start selling records for that fellow he knows.

Yeah, it could be pretty exciting. I don’t know all the details, but I figured I’d check it out for a month or so, then try to get a work permit and really jump into it. I don’t know how many of the particulars Chuck and I can discuss today, but I figure it’s a start. I told the old guy. I hoped he wouldn’t ask Jenny if she was going to Finland with me. It would be awkward for Jenny to hear that our ’sort of ’ relationship would be over if I took the job, even though she must have already known it. After a few more introductions, a few more plates of pasta and sausages, and the largest gin and tonic I had ever seen in my life, poured by Chuck, we all headed into the stadium. We all had that common bond and shared the same past. We all went to college at the same place. Maybe I didn’t have much else in common with that crowd, but that part of our past was something that brought back good memories to all of us. I tried not to think about the fact that in a few months I would be surrounded by people who I would have very little in common with. Not the language or the culture or our history.

At halftime, Chuck finally broke away from all of his friends and pulled out his wallet. I wasn’t totally sure if I was there to thank him for the call he made to the London office of Polydonn, which led to the job offer, or if he was going to tell me what to expect over there. When we joined the party, it was clear that wasn’t going to happen. Maybe this was one of those times my grandfather told me about, when he said that just spending time with people can be the best way develop a relationship with them.

Here’s the card of a fraternity brother of mine. I’ve known this guy since ‘64. Your father introduced him to his wife in college, so he made sure I mentioned the job to you when I saw him at the Boise State game. Real great guy. You can call him next week and he’ll tell you what the job is about.

Hey Chuck, I don’t know how to thank you. This could be a great thing.

I’m glad to help you, Karl. Just send me a postcard. he told me. Let’s go watch some football.

We were there to watch a football game. Nothing else mattered.

II. ACROSS THE POND

Three months later I found a postcard I knew he would love. It was a naked Finnish woman wading into a pristine lake, surrounded by birch trees. It was the sort of thing you just didn’t see in the U.S. People were too uptight about postcards of naked girls. I thought about Uncle Terry, my landlord, and my cousins. I bought all 12 of the postcards. A lot had happened since the tailgater party. It was my third day in Finland and I was basically just trying to get into the flow of the place.

My first objective was to ride the train to Joensuu from Helsinki. After searching the lists of stops for all 14 tracks, I finally found it. Eighth stop on track 12. I had just an hour to get to the small night club, where the band I was supposed to check out would be playing. If I got there before their gig started maybe we could have a brief chat. If their show had already started, or if they spoke only minimal English, it could be a wasted trip.

While I waited for the train to arrive, I thought about the moment when it hit me, that the trip was actually a reality. The guys I went running with, probably thought it was just a lot of talk. They remembered the time in ‘92, when I was going to buy a container load of bottled Icelandic glacier water, then sell it to all the convenience stores in Boise. I told everyone I would make a killing on it. When I added up all the fees for the customs broker, duty, taxes and the inspection fee, the USDA required, I realized the only way I could swing it was to sell my van. So much for my idea of becoming an international water merchant. When I saw that Finnair jet, pull up to the our gate, I knew I was really going. I had dreamed about that moment, but that big plane was the real thing. Then I thought about the old man I sat next to, on the flight over. He had attempted something like I was doing, in Germany, right before the war. He got on the wrong train, the day America entered World War II. Nazi soldiers were checking all the trains for Americans, while the old guy was heading further into Germany and away from the safety and security of Holland. A young German bricklayer, he met the week before at a nightclub, saw him on the train and urged him to get off at the next stop. Then, he put him on a friend’s truck heading toward France. He buried himself under a load of turnips, right before they crossed the border. An hour later, he finally set foot on French soil. He hitch hiked to Lille, then traded a full day’s labor on a fishing boat for a trip to England. In a week, he was back in Pittsburgh, where he was greeted as their local hero. I told him I wasn’t in need of that type of adventure and that I would be content with something a little more tame.

As I sat in the dining/bar car on the train going to Joensuu, I noticed the pattern that would repeat itself everyday I rode the trains of Finland. Very quiet, stoic people would ride the trains and show almost no emotions or facial expression. I didn’t know if they were depressed, tired, bored or just didn’t have anything to say. Sometimes, several minutes would go by without anybody saying a word. I was told it was just their personality. It seemed that if a Finn didn’t have anything worthwhile or meaningful to say, they just didn’t talk. It couldn’t have been more different than the U.S. So often people would just chat and babble, without really having much to say. It would be just a way to fill up the silence. I never got a really satisfactory explanation of why they talked so little. It was simply part of their culture and their normal behavior.

My first on the job day, in Finland, would involve dropping in at a few record stores around Helsinki and Turku, then going up to Joensuu, to meet the band. My new boss thought they might have the potential to get a record deal and generate some income for Polydonn Records. Peter Bengstromm was a Swedish-American man, maybe 45 years old, who loved three things more than just about anything else. He never made it clear to me if he was born and raised in the U.S. and was of Swedish ancestry or if he grew up in Sweden and moved to America. Maybe he actually spent part of his youth in Sweden or some other combination of those factors. I noticed right away that he never missed the chance to tell the ladies that he had lived in both countries and apparently tried to create an air of mystery about his background, which would make him appear more worldly or sophisticated. It didn’t take me long to learn about the things that got Peter excited. They were girls, tennis and skiing. He showed me his picture of him shaking hands with Bjorn Borg. Our conversation changed direction so many times, I asked myself how we went from discussing sales commissions to looking at photos of tennis stars. It just didn’t seem like the normal thing for a boss to show his employee, during our first meeting. I figured I’d be flexible and told myself that maybe this is how people conducted business in Europe. He became a surfer while going to college in Miami. It seemed odd at the time when he just said he went to college in Miami, rather than naming the college. The sense of mystery he helped create, was a constant part of his personality from that day on. Many of the questions I had about him were never answered. Sometimes his passions would be manifested in watching tennis at the French Open with a beautiful young girl, maybe from Austria or Denmark, or it could take the form of skiing the Alps with one of his countless girlfriends. When I watched him pour champagne for those unbelievable girls, who looked like they just stepped off the pages of Playboy, at the after-party of the Zurich Classic tennis tournament, he seemed to be the picture of a man in ecstasy. One thing I noticed that evening at the party, did seem odd to me. On the flight to Zurich, I sat next to a member of the road crew for some French rock band, whose album hit number three on the British charts. The lead singer loved tennis and met Peter years ago, so they came to the party. Billboard Magazine reported that the group would be leaving Capitol Records, because of cuts in the promotion budget. They’d be looking for a new label in a month, we’re sitting on the couch across from them and he doesn’t even bother to say hi. Our job was to sign new bands to Polydonn and he didn’t even bother to give them his card. It didn’t make sense to me. My territory was Germany and Scandinavia. I’d been in Europe for a week, so I didn’t feel comfortable approaching them. He always seemed to be surrounded by a swarm of exotic beauties and they kept the champagne flowing. I could only assume that he knew what he was doing.

The meetings we had during those first three days were more like a marathon discussion of skiing, tennis, and partying , with some very expensive cognac tossed in, interrupted by a few very brief discussions about Scandinavian record sales and Polydonn Music Ltd.’s sales goals for 1999. Peter’s interest in the music business seemed to be minimal at best, considering he was the marketing director for all of Europe and Scandinavia. Since I knew there had to be a legitimate reason why he had been awarded an executive position in the music business, I decided to end the mystery and just ask him.

Well Karl, after a few weeks over here, you’ll see that these people have a different way of doing things. They’re more relaxed, they’re quieter and people don’t seem so run-down at the end of the day, like they do back in the States. One of the owners of the company met me at a tennis tournament in Milan, back in ‘85. He saw how easy it was for me to meet people and he knew I loved tennis and skiing. He sold a script for a movie, a month before I met him and he had a ton of money he wanted to invest, before he blew it all. His idea was to sign European tennis players to sponsorship contracts, promoting the records, then to sponsor a series of tennis tournaments. He thought if we could have the bands we had signed, perform before and after the matches, it could be the perfect introduction to the European music market. I though his idea had some potential, when other people laughed at him. We made a killing that first year and never looked back. I was sort of a middle man, between the guy who put up the money and the record company. The group that Polydonn chose to perform at the tennis tournaments went from being unknown, outside of Belgium, to number three on the European charts in a month. They couldn’t make the records fast enough to meet the demand. That was in ‘86. They’ve given me a free rein, ever since. I never really cared much for country western, folk music or modern rock, but it gave me a chance to say I’m working when I’m on the dance floor with some hot chick, who I’ve invited to our next concert. Everyone I meet can be a potential source of publicity for whatever group we’re working with. With the group in Finland you’ll be seeing, you might be buying your ticket for the ferry to Estonia and the guy in back of you will hear you speaking English. He could be a travel writer. He joins you for a beer, you tell him what you’re doing over here and boom, instant publicity. You wouldn’t believe how often situations like that have happened to me. Like I told you when we met in London, this is not a normal nine to five job. We do things differently. That group we saw at the party is on their way downhill. I tried to talk to the guy who writes their music. He thinks it’s still 1985. They’ll probably be playing the oldies circuit in Ohio next year. With that hair and those purple cowboy boots, they’re a joke.

"There’s a reason I hang out with the crowd you see me with. Sure, sometimes the crowd at our backstage parties is 20 years younger than I am. The thing is that I can relate to these people and I think you can too. The typical American record executive would feel uncomfortable in this scene. You know what I’m talking about. That German sound crew over