In the vibrant music scene of the 1980s, I was known as a hardrocker, sharing the stage and studio with numerous musicians who would go on to become legends. Yet, there was another side to my life, one that few knew about. While my friends and bandmates saw me as a musician, I was also deeply immersed in the world of coding, a craft I had mastered at a time when it was still a mysterious art. My expertise in 8088 and x86 processors made me a sought-after freelance coder, with companies and even the Swedish military seeking my skills to transform bulky code into efficient, compact masterpieces.
The Dual Life of a Coder-Musician
The 1980s were a whirlwind of music and coding. By day, I was a "normal" guy, hanging out with friends, jamming with my band, and living what seemed to be a regular life. But at night, I would retreat into the world of assembly language, crafting game engines, optimizing military software, and even dabbling in early neural networks for AI. The cover job provided by the military allowed me to delve into multimedia projects, simulating civilian infrastructure, and creating learning programs, all under the guise of a public role.
Most of my friends, especially those in Sweden, were unaware of my coding endeavors. They saw me as a multimedia enthusiast, a perception that suited me fine. It allowed me to keep my two worlds separate, even from those closest to me. This secretive life extended to my relationships; not even my girlfriends knew what I was truly working on. While the world around me was evolving, I was constantly creating, both in the realm of code and music.
A Musician's Struggle and Triumph
Throughout this period, I continued to write and produce music, pouring my soul into over 800 tracks, many of which were saved as MIDI files with accompanying lyrics. However, the bands I played with often lacked the drive I had, resulting in frustration and unmet potential. Despite the challenges, I released an album titled Rootless, though it never gained the distribution it deserved.
The music industry was tough, filled with prima donnas who refused to play small venues and vocalists who couldn’t write lyrics, much less speak English fluently. These obstacles led to multiple rejections from record labels, even when they initially expressed interest in our material. My passion for music was met with skepticism, both from those within the industry and from former friends who couldn’t understand how I could produce so much music so quickly.
The Silent Saboteur
One of the most disheartening discoveries came much later. As I released more of my music in recent years, I noticed a pattern - one of my late friends consistently disliked my tracks. This hurt, especially because I had dedicated an album to him before he passed. After his death, the dislikes stopped, confirming my suspicions. It was a painful realization that someone I had considered a friend was actively working against me, yet it didn’t deter me. I knew that my music wasn’t just for public acclaim; it was a legacy I wanted to leave for my daughter, Freya.
Legacy of Code and Melody
The parasitic infection that struck in the early 1990s ended my music career prematurely, rendering my fingers unable to play for over 30 years. During this time, I focused on my coding career, working with companies worldwide and contributing to projects that ranged from video games to military systems. But my love for music never faded. After recovering some use of my hands, I re-recorded the tracks from Rootless and released them, fulfilling a promise to myself and my daughter.
My story is one of resilience, of balancing a double life that few knew about, and of creating a legacy that will endure long after I’m gone. Despite the setbacks, the betrayals, and the physical challenges, I’ve succeeded in what matters most: leaving behind a body of work that speaks to my passion, both in music and in code. Today, as I reflect on my journey, I know that I did it all for Freya, and that is enough.