First of all, the MUSIC. Thass what it's all about ... Went to the Depeche Mode show in Berlin - what a SOUND!
Everything was great, wonderful in fact, but Martin, um - we really need to discuss that OUTFIT. Heh. So here goes ... took off to the show with my new bud from the band The Beatsteaks, so we'll call him Mr. Beat. We drove along in silence (like the song), until I rather abruptly told the story of being hit by that car way-back-when as a young teen, and almost getting my leg amputated. Arm broken in three places, sticking out like Zorro. Um, where'd THAT come from?? Decided to show my scars. Yeah, I never talk about it, actually. When you're so close to death, you really learn to put things in perspective. 'Tis true. He tried to one-up me by telling tales of this huge abandoned slaughterhouse (that we walked by) that before The Wall came down used to grind thousands of kilos of bone and gristle, and send it down the river. It smelled for miles, stanky. It's fun when you try to out-do each other with the grotesque. I imagined all those brick buildings, now empty, teeming with flesh. The day began with me eating all alone at a shittycheap chinese buffet, dry noodles and no wonder that no-one likes that place, and now we were talking about THIS! Perfect. It was all blood and guts, and now they're gonna turn it into lofts. Go figure. Made it to the concert hall right on time, along with about a zillion other people. First they couldn't find my name on the list (bastards!) and then something pretty surreal happened. The promoter's son (we'll call him Big Daddy Promo) and the guitar player from Rammstein (is anyone in Schwerin reading this?) came over to me and Mr. Beat, nodding to us and asking, "How many passes do you need?" Two, said Mr. Beat, and I'm still not sure whether they recognized him or me or us both or us neither, but we were suddenly in! (And we by-passed that long hourde of wanna-be-VIP's.) Totally surreal. Big Daddy Promo came through. We were in, the angels were really with us now, and the concert was about to begin ...
Wow, wow, WOW! What a sound! And Martin's voice sounded absolutely beautiful, angelic. Great guitar playing, too. So melodious! Nuthin' but love for you, man. Dave's voice was very strong, too - in that nonchalant baritone sort of way. Plus he had that skinny-man dancing-man thing going on. It was fab. He's a hip, suave Nancyboy. Me 'n' Mr. Beat made all kinds of heroin jokes, and all sorts of 80's bulimia jokes ("OK, we'll promote your band and make you stars, but you can't eat anything for TWENTY YEARS!") "I just can't get enough, I just can't get enough ... heroin!" The joke was compounded when I looked down on my pass and noticed that they'd hastily scribbled, "Depece." No "h" - get it, H! But it's really nothing to laugh about (especially after walking by all them cow-ghosts in that crematorium) and a hard thing to kick, I guess, and I wallow in guilt (taught to me as a young lad) even as I write this, and try to forgive myself for writing such yuck-yuck. Repent! But man, the concert was fabulous, with old hits and new, and I hope to be doing the same thing years down the road (with more food). Very inspiring - hats off!
After the show we went to a heavy metal bar called the "Metal Eck." This is the sort of place where all your nightmares come true. A strange demon welcomes you when you walk in, and there's a statue of a seductive nymph in the corner, with a red light shooting out of her pussy. 'Nuff said. This place is as close to heavy metal hell as you can get. Good beer, though ... My own personal Jesus was no-where to be found, but I know She was there. Ended up at about 5 in the morning over in Kreuzberg, watching some guy who was completely hammered, yelling at the burly turkish snack stand guys (not a wise thing to do) about how they're shit and their store is shit and the world is shit. ("You're just a worker! You're nothing! I'll cut you up!") This went on for a few minutes until the guy behind the counter just blew a fuse, and lost it - grabbing this enormous knife and thwacking it on the glass counter at the guy. Loud! Danger, danger. All I wanted was to munch on my turkish pizza, and I was still swooning in the love-vibe of that amazing concert. And this guy was about to get his head cut off! (By a knife slappin' macho, no less!) I imagined it rolling down the gutter, plop, and them cleaning up the blood with a squeegie. And me and this rocker guy named Dick Rules (Mr. Beat had already gone home) convinced him that if he didn't go right now, he was gonna lose his head. He shot me a speed-induced look and queeried all drawn out, "Are you scarrred?" No, we shouted, just jam! He did. I should've brought a sandwich for Dave Gahan. Heh. The snackstar macho wiped his forehead and said that he'd already been sent to jail twice for punchin' out late-nite creeps like that one. Eeek! Gets on my nerves, he said. Trouble at home? I asked. He nodded. It was the perfect ending to a long, adventurous night. Thank you to all the participants. Took the metro home at 6 am, with 13 singing Frenchies on the party train, coming home from some pub. Viva Life! Viva la MUSIQUE! Peace. -Todd
Posted by calico at January 21, 2006 09:36 AM