It was October 6, 1986. I think. I’m not sure of the exact date. I don’t remember things like that. I never had to. I had Pimm Jal for that.
I saw him in the Melkweg venue, recognized his face from interviews. He was starting a U2 magazine and I wanted to contribute.
In January ’87 I we met again at the U2 fan club day in the Paradiso. Sandra was there as well. Something clicked, we became inseparable. For days they would stay with me in my flat in Utrecht, until my flat mates despaired. Or we’d look him up in Osdorp, played table football and enjoyed his mother Lies’s food. We were children still. Children with great plans.
Pimm Jal and I disagreed often and were almost opposite personalities. But we agreed on one thing. We shared an almost irrational passion to document that which cannot be put in words. The magic of music, the heartbeat of the live concert, those moments of ecstasy. They had to be captured. I embraced lyricism, Pimm Jal the facts and figures, and thus together we described the indescribable.
Collectormania. An obsessive fan’s dream of a magazine. A world wide institution. Pimm Jal, driven, charismatic, took me and many others along on a journey. He could talk about his plans for hours. He wanted an office, a news room, rows of typing machines, just like on TV. Just like in ‘Lou Grant’. Pimm Jal’s thinking was unDutch. It had to be big and all-embracing. PJ Publishing. Today Amsterdam, tomorrow the rest of the world.
But most of the time we were just talking bollocks in the pub.
We traveled through Ireland, the three of us, for three weeks. Hitch hiking from village to village. PJ and two girls, we attracted a lot of attention. We played silly games on the bus, shrieking with laughter, drunk on joy and many pints of Guinness. Unforgettable days, an unforgettable journey.
Our little group grew. Pimm Jal had an unquenchable thirst for people and he always managed to find the finest, sweetest of all. Pimm Jal brought us together. He shared all his friends and his amazing family. We were all U2 fans, but it wasn’t about the band anymore. It was about us. Dinner at Bojo’s, tea at Pimm Jal’s, fireworks on Nassaukade. The rest was background music.
Ten years ago, I really don’t remember the date, after an evening of drinks in Reijnders and dancing in Mazzo’s, Pimm Jal, Sandra and I stood on Bloemgracht at seven in the morning, watching the sun rise. Tired, but happy. “Amsterdam,” Pimm Jal said, “Amsterdam is the most beautiful city in the world.”
{ as spoken today at PJ’s memorial service }