Funeral in Berlin

Should you ever find yourself stoned and accidentally handcuffed to a completely hyperactive German female, who has just announced an urgent need to urinate, while the holder of the only set of keys to said handcuffs has disappeared into a crowd of one-and-a-half million dancing people in pursuit of a photograph of a pair of sunburnt breasts, while a blazing sun is keeping your hangover at boiling point, while all around you people are blowing piercing whistles at an eardrum-shattering pitch and several massive sound systems are blaring out a confused cacophony of ludicrously loud techno music, when you think you re about to finally lose your mind, the only advice I can offer is to try to remain cool, calm and collected.
Of course, I say that now. At the time, I went completely berserk. The Love Parade can do that to a man.
* * * * *
Although we weren t quite sure exactly what to expect, Peter Matthews and I arrived in Berlin with great expectations of, well, of something fucking great. The Hot Press photographer had never been there before so I kept him entertained throughout the flight from Heathrow with memories of my last visit to the city. Not that these were particularly clear. In fact, they were particularly hazy. About four years ago, I spent a drug-fuelled 36 hours there in the company of a reasonably well-known Irish rock band and, while the exact details remain somewhat scrambled, I remember the trip with the kind of fondness more normally reserved for your first . . . trip.
And now I was going back. For the Love Parade, no less! The listing in the in-flight magazine did much to raise our spirits and further fuel our dreams of debauchery: On Saturday 10th July, a date that every police force in Germany has had in their diaries for months, a million young people will descend on the Tiergarten in central Berlin for an uninterrupted day and night of music, dancing, drugs and sex. They will come from every corner of Germany, and from further afield. They will be over-dressed, half-dressed and undressed. Television teams fly in from all over Europe to record their performance. In a difficult and insecure world, one thing is certain. Everyone will hugely enjoy themselves.
A little later on we would come to realise that, this being Germany, that last line was an order as opposed to a prediction, but, at the time, we could scarcely conceal our delight at the hedonistic pleasures that undoubtedly lay ahead of us. Sex! Drugs! Techno music! (I guess two out of three ain t bad).
Christ, it s a tough job we have really, isn t it? I remarked to Peter, as I finished reading.
Oh yeah, he concurred, a real bitch.
Then we both laughed till it hurt and called for champagne. Of course, we were flying Tourist Class so the stewardess refused to give us any, but we didn t really mind. We were in bubbly form anyway, smiling smiles wider than Jo Brand.
If only we d known then what we know now.
* * * * *
Once we d settled into our hotel, we decided to go out and hit the town. Unfortunately, it was like the Cold War had never ended. Berlin seemed about as empty as Bundoran in off-season there was absolutely nobody around. We had expected to find the place awash with mad ravers, sexy babes and New Age freaks. Instead we were encountering pensioners, tourists and conservatively dressed middle-age couples.
We walked up towards Zoo Station (immortalised in the U2 song of the same name), passing literally dozens of deserted bars, cafes and restaurants along the way. We called into a few, only to find snotty staff that were more reserved than a table in Lillie s Library.
I thought you said this place was buzzing, muttered an extremely unimpressed Peter as we walked out of yet another half-empty establishment where the beer had been warmer than the welcome.
I don t know what s going on, I said, this is like a ghost-town.
Following hours spent fruitlessly searching for anywhere with a vibe, we eventually ended our evening in a hard rock bar just around the corner from our hotel, sitting morosely at a battered old table surrounded by posters of such hip acts as Status Quo, Billy Idol and Bruce Springsteen, and by ageing clientele who were doing their best to look like such hip acts as Status Quo, Billy Idol and Bruce Springsteen.
I think I know what happened, said Peter glumly, staring into his (warm) beer. We never made it to Berlin. We re not really here. We actually died in a car crash on the way to Dublin Airport and now we re in purgatory stuck in limbo with all these sad bastards.
Like him, you mean, I replied, indicating an Elvis impersonator standing at the bar.
He caught me looking at him. Hey, man, he called over, raising his glass, rock & roll, ja!
Erm . . . ja! I called back, raising my beer in return.
Peter and I looked at each other despairingly. Where was the buzz? Where was the love?
* * * * *
The following morning we sorted out alternative accommodation. Hot Press designer Simon Roche had given us the number of a woman whose apartment he had stayed in on his last trip to Berlin and, when we rang, she had a room free. Well, it wasn t quite free but it was still cheaper than any of our other options.
In fact, it was her room. She had converted her apartment into a temporary B&B for the duration of the Love Parade weekend and every available space was taken up with camp beds and sleeping bags, mostly occupied by a group of young girls from Frankfurt. Because we were the last to arrive and she hadn t been expecting any more guests, she had turned her bedroom over to us. You can tell a lot about a person from the contents of their bedrooms and, within about four minutes of her shutting the door, we had ascertained that she (a) had a big thing for teddy bears, and (b) an even bigger thing for lesbian pornography.
Which was nice. The teddy bears, I mean.
* * * * *
That evening, the streets were positively teeming with life. Presumably everybody had been saving their energies for the weekend. The area around Zoo Station, in particular, was buzzing like a teenager on Ecstasy (mainly with teenagers on Ecstasy). Dozens of stalls selling everything from whistles, sunglasses and T-shirts to beer, food and condoms lined the pavements, and a small-scale daytime rave was in full flow in the square, with a crowd of several hundred young Germans giving it loads gyrating their parts furiously while amused looking business people wandered through them on the way back from work.
This is a little more like it, I remarked to Peter as he took out his camera and began shooting.
Just about everybody in the square was dressed completely outlandishly and there were more body-piercings, tattoos and insane hairstyles on display than you d expect to see at a Marilyn Manson concert. Surprisingly, however, a number of the people whom Peter photographed approached us quite anxiously, demanding to know who he was taking the pictures for. Their main concern, it appeared, was that the photographs might appear in the German press where their families or employers would see them.
This is just for the Love Parade, one guy in a black leather G-string (and not much else) explained. I don t normally dress like this.
Personally, I couldn t see the problem. After all, he was covered in tattoos and had his eyebrows pierced. Surely those who knew him wouldn t be surprised at his appearance. But no both the tattoos and the piercings were temporary. In real life, he worked for Microsoft. Hmmm . . .
Not everybody was so coy. One particularly daring couple crossed the square topless, with their hair dyed matching shades of red. They seemed quite happy to pose for the cameras. Others seemed lost in music and completely oblivious to the lens. Somehow though, it all felt quite fake and soulless entertaining to look at, but not quite the real deal. It was as if we were watching a group of actors hired by the German Tourist Board to impersonate people having a good time.
I struck up a conversation with a young English guy who was distributing free condoms for Durex. He had lived in Berlin for four years and was a Love Parade veteran at this stage. Even he had reservations, however. The Parade s definitely worth seeing, he told me, there s really nothing like it in the world. But it ll really get on your nerves after a while too many people and too many young kids with whistles. And all this stuff s a load of bollocks! The real parties happen tomorrow night and the next day. He gave me the names of some clubs worth checking out and then went back to his Durex duties.
* * * * *
The Love Parade press office was situated behind one of the Gatehouses by the Siegessaule monument (the immense golden statue used in the Wim Wenders movie Faraway, So Close) in the centre of the Tiergarten.
One of the parade organisers, a thirtysomething German DJ called Disko (seriously!), explained that the first Love Parade happened in 1989 when a DJ called Dr. Motte took to the streets of West Berlin with 150 crazy colourful people. They danced down the Kurfurstendam behind three vans blasting out the then infant hammer-blows of Techno music and caused quite a stir. Since then, the Love Parade has grown steadily bigger every year (particularly since the Berlin Wall came down) and it now attracts in excess of one million people.
The location changed from the Kurfurstendam to the Tiergarten about four years ago and, despite protests from the Green Party about the damage done to the park, still gets permission from the District Council to run, mainly because it s officially billed as a public demonstration, a protest march calling for world peace and unity. In reality, however, it s just a big fucking party.
There is no violence, Disko insisted, people just come together and have fun, and show that it is possible to live together with tolerance and, of course, everyone loves the music.
Although Dr. Motte still offers spiritual guidance , the event is now run by a company called Planetcom, who have four staff members exclusively devoted to organising the whole affair all year round. Another six are added over April and May, and on the day itself more than 800 people are employed, including more than 100 DJ s (many of them big name acts like Laurent Garnier, Sasha, John Digweed and Armand Van Helden), who play twenty minute sets throughout the Parade.
The production costs of the Parade come to about one million DM, he explained, and the income we have is from licensing the label and the logo to a record company to release a compilation CD and sell T-shirts. Otherwise, all of the floats and sound systems are sponsored by local clubs or by major corporations like Fanta or Dorrittos.
Before we left, he offered to sell me a copy of the official Love Parade CD. Entitled Music Is The Key (an expression we d hear a lot before the weekend ended) it featured 33 tracks by artists like Fatboy Slim, Underworld and, of course, Dr Motte.
Not today, I think.
* * * * *
We spent the rest of the evening in the town centre. Despite the warmth, despite the colour, despite the music, despite the busy atmosphere, despite everything we were bored. Completely bored.
I don t know what s wrong, Peter sighed. But there s something missing here. I m getting some great shots but I m just not really feeling anything.
Me neither, I replied. Maybe you were right maybe we did die in a crash on the way to Dublin Airport! Or maybe we re just getting old.
And on that depressing note, we got off the streets and spent the rest of the night drinking litres of cocktails in a late bar, pondering the reasons for our Parade-pooping and eventually concluding that you most definitely did need drugs to enjoy yourself at an event like this.
When we returned to the apartment there was a bit of a commotion going on. One of the girls staying there filled me in. Apparently our hostess s lover had returned early from a trip away and was incredibly distressed to discover that her bed was being occupied by a heterosexual Irish music journalist who could be doing anything to her teddybears. Tears and a full bottle of vodka had followed, resulting in a messy bathroom situation and a blazing row between the couple.
It was the poor bears I felt sorry for.
* * * * *
We awoke the next day to the sound of whistles blowing. In fact everything we did the next day was done to the accompaniment of the sound of whistles blowing. Whistles and loud, thumping Techno music. It was fine at first but after a while it became somewhat irritating. A little later it became decidedly annoying. And shortly after that I wanted to start shoving whistles down peoples throats and hanging DJs from lamp-posts.
Initially, however, we were determined to enjoy ourselves. We headed back to Zoo Station (where the mini-rave was still in full swing) and joined in the fun. Gangs of kids with super-powered water pistols were hanging around the fountain spraying anyone who happened to pass but paying particular attention to young women in tight T-shirts. It was all good humoured though, and Peter dived in with his cameras and played at being a war photographer for a while.
I decided to leave him to it and went not in search of love, but in search of Dove. I soon found a Turkish street dealer but, unfortunately, all the ecstasy he had to offer looked suspiciously like Paracetemol and so I eventually settled for a lump of hash at a rip-off price.
I went into the bathroom of a nearby bar and rolled a spliff. When I came out there was a group of pretty women applying their make-up in the mirror. We shared a smoke and then they did a full-make up job on my face. Rarely have I left a public toilet happier. The day was shaping up nicely. I had some drugs, had met some cute women and, most importantly, had finally found the perfect shade of colour for my lips.
I rescued a (by now soaked) Peter from the fountain and we headed off on the Parade, which had been streaming steadily out of the square for hours and was still showing no signs of abating. There were people everywhere. And I do mean everywhere! There were ravers hanging out of statues and lampposts. And then more ravers hanging out of them. It was like the Papal visit on drugs.
Progress down the street was slow. There were about twenty enormous floats all representing different Berlin nightclubs, all pumping out really loud Techno and all heavily weighed down with ravers waving out at the crowd around them driving at about 1mph. Stalls lined the entire length of the street and as Peter and I walked we stopped occasionally to make a purchase or avail of a service. I bought a small pipe and had my face glittered, Peter bought a pair of handcuffs.
What do you want those for? I asked him.
Photographic prop, he grinned, locking a cuff around my wrist. I shrugged they seemed appropriate enough. We were at the Love Parade after all.
We still had to get to the press office (only the Germans would put a press office smack bang in the middle of a million-and-a-half-people!). But at least, when we did, we d have the pleasures of the VIP area to look forward to. Unfortunately, German bureaucracy raised its ugly head.
I called over the security guy behind the barricades. We re here to pick up our press passes, I explained.
I m sorry, he said, but that s totally impossible. You can t come in here without a press pass.
Yes, well that s what I m here to get, I replied patiently, waving a fax from Planetcom at him.
He looked at the fax. It was a confirmation of our guest-list status and inviting us to pick up our accreditation behind the barrier he was so zealously guarding.
I m sorry, he said, but that s totally impossible. My orders are that nobody can get past this gate without a press pass.
Yes, but my press pass is behind this gate.
I m sorry it is totally impossible.
Why?
Because it is. You don t have a press pass.
But I will have when you let me in.
Sorry totally impossible.
It was like a Monty Python sketch, except that it wasn t funny. This pantomime-like exchange went on for the best part of an hour and only ended when myself and a French DJ whose VIP pass was also behind the gate threatened extreme physical violence if we weren t let in. We weren t joking even Peter, normally a placid fellow looked ready to force-feed the guy a camera.
It turned out to be totally possible. But by then we were all in the foulest of moods.
* * * * *
The VIP area was situated around the base of the central monument. From there we could see the sheer enormity of the crowd we had just escaped from four enormous avenues lined with ravers as far as the eye could see. Initially, the sight of one-and-a-half million people dancing is pretty impressive. After a while it becomes pretty boring. And then it becomes pretty terrifying when you realise that the unrelenting Techno is beginning to do your head in, there s nothing to drink in the VIP area and the only way out is to wade back through the crowd.
We stayed on the monument for a couple of hours, surrounded by DJs, film crews and angry journalists (many of whom had encountered the same security problems). Peter took some shots of the crowd and I recovered from my row with copious pipes of hash. At around 8pm the music stopped for the first time all day and we watched Dr Motte apparently Berlin s answer to Gerry Ryan (you either hate him or you really hate him!) deliver a speech in which the only English words spoken were music is the key . He repeated this phrase at least fifty times, presumably in an attempt to plug his record of the same name. Then the music started again. And the whistles. And the bells! The bells!
We decided it was time to get the hell out of there.
* * * * *
The handcuff incident happened on the way out. Peter had been somewhat surprised at the lack of exposed female flesh on display throughout the day, so when he spotted a topless girl waving from the side of a float, he asked me to wait where I was and waded into the crowd to get a shot. Just as he passed the point of no return, this girl beside me a strange androgynous looking creature with bright blue hair started chatting in German and toying playfully with the handcuffs on my wrist. She clicked the loose cuff around her wrist thus locking us together and laughed the way only somebody who s just completely lost it on serious ecstasy can. I laughed as well. Nervously.
Sorry, I smiled, I don t speak any German.
Oblivious, she continued chatting away. Then she started pulling at my wrist.
No, I m waiting for my friend.
She pulled a bit harder. There was no way I was moving. The crowd was far too big and I d definitely lose Peter for the rest of the night if I moved away. She pulled harder again, hurting my wrist.
Gradually our dilemma became clear. She needed to use the toilet. I didn t have the keys and there was no way I was moving. A tug-of-war ensued.
Look, I didn t fucking ask you to lock yourself to my fucking wrist! I don t normally speak to women like this but these were extreme circumstances.
Ten excruciating minutes later, she really needed to use the toilet and there was still no sign of Peter.
When he did finally reappear, aeons later, he was greatly amused at the whole situation. This ll make a great shot! he exclaimed, reaching into his camera bag. KEYS NOW!!!!! I screamed. She screamed the German equivalent. The following day we read in the paper that there had been a fatal stabbing at the Parade. If Peter had paused to take that photograph then there would have been two!
I didn t speak for a full hour after that.
* * * * *
The following day we caught a flight home, grumbling like a middle-aged couple who d just had their first summer holiday in years ruined by rain. We had spent the rest of the night of the Love Parade wandering around Berlin aimlessly, wandering in and out of clubs checking out the crazy colourful people and generally remarking on the lack of love and affection in evidence (though, being a Techno event, there had been plenty of self-love on display). We d also noticed that people had been remarkably restrained throughout the day. For example, even the drunks hadn t jaywalked.
And we d finally concluded that wild horses couldn t drag us back there ever again. I can handle large crowds. I can handle loud Techno music. I can handle German people. But all three at once?
Nah. Give me a fatal car crash on the way to Dublin Airport anytime. n