Fear and Testosterone at the Wullheide

Two days after the incident on Friedrichstrasse, Im frantically chasing down anyone I could find with a rock or metal group T-shirt I could find in the train station, trying to get someone, anyone, to explain how to get to the Wulheide, for it was the big day. It was the only somewhat-planned day I had put together for the entire trip.

            As it happened, three days after I had initially planned to arrive in Deutschland on my quest for motherland and identity, I found out through the grape vine (I.E. I don’t remember how), that Rammstein was hosting a three day event at the Wulheide, which among many other things, is an outdoor amphitheater capable of accommodating massive crowds. Needless to say, I was not about to miss one of my top three youth-defining artists in all the glory of playing their own outdoor festival in their hometown. However, getting to the place would be the most stressful and strenuous part of my entire trip. 

Soon enough I found myself cruising in yet another get away taxi, knowing full well the polizei would be on us any minute. Apparently, I had taken the wrong train at the beginning of my journey, thanks to roughly communicated advice, towards ‘Mecca’, and was now (having hired a taxi) careening full speed ahead through a residential zone in a flight for my life, not to mention money, from toothless turks. Some say they like to lurk at nearly every bahnhof missing the Haupt- (Hauptbahnhof = main train station). The driver asked me what an Auslander (foreigner) was doing in that part of Berlin. I told him I needed to get to the Wulheide. He laughed. “Eine Rammstein Fan, Ja?”  “Ja!” I responded, In rather decent English he went on to explain the correct track to take was under construction anyways. The driver said he was a fan himself, and took it upon himself to maintain illegal speeds throughout our journey, and I had the honor of rocking some Beethoven the entire trip, just like the American-in-Europe spy movies. I tipped the man pretty generously for, firstly, not being like the last taxi I had hired, and for the more than likely criminal, although timely, delivery.

Standing in line amidst scores of people at least my size or larger, all of us dressed in the customary black expected for the occasion, I buy all the Warsteiner and Becks I can hold, and proceed to get my anti-anxiety-make-friendly-eye-contact- face on. I stand there alone, desperately trying to hone in on a conversation I can understand coherently and possibly approach for a long time. One can imagine the anxiety level of one who is completely alone, halfway across the planet, standing amidst a crowd of people speaking a language only halfway understood (especially considering how quickly they speak as opposed to American professors and German Singers.) after about an hour of watching various drunks mark their territory just yards away from the line and praying for even a hint of English anywhere in the crowd, I am approached by a striking, yet older woman, who asks me for a light. She then proceeds to engage me in further conversation, which I couldn’t quite grasp. When I explained to her I had just come from America, she stood aghast for a moment, as did the party of VERY well shaven men she was with. She stared to the right of me for a minute, as if searching for the right words to say, then looked me dead in the eyes and said “oh, I am sorry”, to which I replied “Ja, me too.” Everyone in the line for what felt like a quarter mile laughed heartily. There we all where, laughing, united by division. Goodbye anxiety, for the time being.

2

Contrary to the usual anguish American concert-goers undergo while waiting for the line to creep along once the ‘doors are opened’, German efficiency would have none of that, even at a metal show. As soon as they began taking tickets, the line moved with amazing speed. As I topped the hill that was the crest of the Wulheide arena, my jaw dropped. It might as well have been Woodstock, minus the mud and pyrotechnics (for now).

Entire families had shown up. I am in no way exaggerating when I say that every generation of German was represented at the festival. Women from age 85 to toddlers sported spaghetti strapped shirts with the golden logo “German P***y” across the breast. the aforementioned logo became infamous with the tremendous worldwide success of Rammstein’s latest single at the time, “P***y”, sung half in English, half in German, and laced throughout with their signature sarcasm and Germanic sex drive. Event staff where carrying around mini-kegs to service the drinkers, which is a practice I immediately fell in love with. Instead of selling disposable cups or cans that would only wind up littering the ground, the Wulheide powers that be and the band created collectable cups sporting images of the band and what not. When you purchased the cups, they filled them once. After that, you simply sought out the nearest keg-bearer for a refill. (brilliant idea eh? America?)

Typically one would expect to sense and see nothing but hostility at a heavy metal show, but as with everything else thus far that day, that was not the case. As I descended towards the stage, I noticed the crowd continuously doing the wave, and throwing beach balls and blowup dolls around, laughing and socializing as if it were a regular community event, minus the blow ups. 

Soon enough, the first band came on. A band called Skunk Anansie (or something close to that), hailing from England. They did a fantastic job, and although at first I was skeptical of both the band, because their style was different, and of how the crowd would react for the very same reason, everyone seemed to love it. I sure did, but it might have been the beer. They played a lengthy and very entertaining set and were done with the sun still shining bright. At this point the American veteran of concerts would expect an hour to an hour and a half of waiting for the next band to come on. Once again, not so. It was daylight when Till’s booming, melodic voice came over the P.A. from behind the curtains.

”Wer wartet mit Besonnenheit
            der wird belohnt zur rechten Zeit
            Nun, das Warten hat ein Ende
           Leiht euer Ohr einer Legende…” 

In English this translates to “Whoever waits patiently will be rewarded when the time is right 
Now, the wait is over, Lend your ears to a legend,” and with that, the wait, for what it was, was over. The curtains fell into fountains of flame and the thunderous roar of the great Teutonic terrors consumed the airwaves for what must have been miles. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was moving. Grandparents were dancing, toddlers where clapping, and everyone else was either moshing, jumping up and down, drinking beer, or attempting the three at once, all while raising their fists and the devil horns to the sky. I for one, never stopped moving or singing along, except while awaiting my refills, of which there where many. Song after song saturated my soul, my very existence. Paradise was all around me; and then night fell.

I noticed gazing up at the band that at some point they had put on red arm bands (without insignia of course). Knowing that the band was being entirely sarcastic, I took little notice, until I looked around me and saw that much of the crowd was doing the same. Some, in fact, where not exactly plain red bands, and I immediately began to re-evaluate my position in the crowd, being American. Had I spoken to anyone? Could anyone tell I was an auslander (foreigner)? Should I run for my life? Did it really matter? I decided that the best idea was to say absolutely nothing to anyone, just to be safe, and with that ‘Du Hast’ threatened to crack the earth with its tremendous volume and ferocity. My anxieties were forgotten immediately, as people across the grounds, including me, locked arms and did a sort of irish jig slash jump up and down thing to one anthemic song after another. Finally, sometime after one or two at night, the show ended with a giant white confetti-spewing cannon shaped like a c**k and balls shot over everyone and flames threatened to burn the heavens. With Till’s final words, “Danke Shön”, the crowd slowly began to exit, still singing rammstein songs as they exited the gates. The trainride back to the hotel, or rather, the beerhall next to my hotel, echoed more of the same. Rammstein, a band many foreigners would expect to be hated everywhere for their sexualism and sarcasm- seemingly could have united the entire country in joyous celebration had there been room. Those hours and the friends I made during that time will never be forgotten. 

Reviews

[Catlen]

Very descriptive! I could really see your images! Good Work!