<nettime> Millenium Berlin

[kitblake@v2.nl (Kit Blake)]

-----------------
Millennium Berlin

We drove thru a snowstorm, en route from the Black Forest to Berlin. My
father rides shotgun, navigating with the maps, while my mother sits in
back and researches the current area. She reads the interesting points out
loud. Sometimes my father and I start discussing the upcoming route, and
when my mother realizes we haven't been listening, she tests us, until she
finds out what facts we missed. Old teachers never retire, they just stop
teaching a class. 

The snow tapered off and we reached the outskirts in darkness. You notice
how big Berlin is when you enter the city limits, then drive for
kilometers thru a forest (1/3 of Berlin is green....) 

We found Christine's apartment without much trouble. It's in Prenzlauer
Berg, the former East, and it feels like it. The building is on a scruffy
commercial street. A classic hinterhaus, the entrance hall opens into a
dark and gray concrete courtyard. On one side is a tiny metal door,
looking like a basement entry, but actually leading to a stairway. Four
flights up, we found a spacious Berlin apartment, with huge ceilings and
semi-renovated rooms. It was cold. We turned the heat up, and settled into
our home for the next week. 

In the morning my phone rang. Antoinette's name was in the readout. She
and Marc were in Berlin as well, and plans were developing for New Year's
Eve.  Nothing definite yet, but a range of possibilities. 

We picked a difficult time to visit. The central axis of the city - Unter
den Linden / Strasse des 17 Juni - running thru the Tiergarten, connecting
the former east and west centers, was closed, in preparation for the
millennium bash at the Brandenberg Gate. This would be the party of the
century, with millions in attendance, complete with mega light show, high
power lasers ricocheting off buildings and television tower, plus enough
fireworks for a war. Welcome to Berlin, Europe's ultimate urban entity. 

We chose the right place to change the millennium. For my parents, it was
a flashback thru time, a barrage of image and memory, interspersed with
the turbulence of today. Berlin is in a sustained frenzy of renovation and
construction, a hyperchange, a frenetic remapping of every level of
social, political, and economic space. 

This was exemplified on the afternoon of the 31st. We had an appointment
with a friend at a cafe. Upon arrival, they promptly kicked us out,
closing for a private party. Daniela took us to another place on
Friedrichstrasse, right next to Checkpoint Charlie. Also closed, and it
was getting dark. We stood there for a while, in this glittering glass
avenue lined with nineties architecture, and explained that here was the
Wall, about two meters from the sidewalk, that only the sign still remains
(YOU ARE LEAVING THE AMERICAN SECTOR....) and I recounted my experience in
the eighties of passing thru to the east. Then we noticed the Checkpoint
Charlie museum was open, as well as its cafe. My parents spent an hour and
a half viewing the myriad exhibits, while Daniela and I caught up over
coffee. The museum displays a tabloid history, and when my parents joined
us, you could feel its effect. Then step outside into the expensive
commerce of Friedrichstrasse, windowshop and wander, dodge the
firecrackers and traffic, and revel in the streaming extremes of Berlin. 

Back in the quiet of the apartment, we had dinner and a nap. 

A gathering was planned for 10 o'clock at David and Ulrike's new lab. Also
in Prenzlauer Berg, we walked there thru the subzero streets, watching out
for fireworks falling from windows above. I called Antoinette, and like a
glimmering ghost, she appeared from the shadows to guide us in. The lab is
ensconced in an old industrial complex, dating from the turn of the
century. We crossed a vast cobblestoned courtyard, a few lights in the
surrounding buildings, abandoned vehicles parked on the edges, and climbed
a stone spiral stair up to the lab. It's in a giant loft, reminding me of
Williamsburg in Brooklyn, with dusty brick walls and pipes and conduits
everywhere. Huge machine pedestals, now stripped of their burden, carry
tables with arrays of glowing monitors. This workspace is now a software
factory, for millennium media. 

Thankfully there was heat, and cheerful people gathered round. A mixed
group, more Rotterdammers (Cutup Geert and friends), Walter and Russians
and former easterners and lots of champagne. The word was the area around
the Brandenburg Gate was jam packed, and police were turning people away. 
Earlier, irrepressible Ulrike had introduced herself to the skinheads
upstairs, and roof access was granted. We drank and schmoozed and at ten
before twelve filed thru the blue lit techno party above, climbing up into
the night. 

Berlin was all around us, a buzz of activity and white noise, with the
iconic television tower looming in the sky. More champagne, toasts, the
countdown began.... drei, zwei, ein, cheers, and the city erupted in a
crackling roar of booms and glittering light. Fireworks and rockets shot
skywards in every direction, 360 degrees of color, sparkle, explosions and
smoke. It didn't stop. First the horizon disappeared, then the orange haze
rose, and the television tower just faded away in the smoke. It was
completely gone, and still the muffled and punctuated roar continued. 
Kisses and congratulations and everybody was cold, so we descended into
the party and laboratory below. 

The decision was made - we were going to Schmalzwald. Out on the streets,
taxi's were not an option, so we walked thru the exploding city,
encountering odd things along the way. A Turkish wedding in a restaurant,
complete with belly dancer. Giant abandoned Christmas trees, which we set
upright. And endless characters. Berlin is a city of tribes, a strange
attractor where all types find a subscene. 

Schmalzwald is a lounge buried in another industrial hinterhaus in Mitte. 
It's a celebration of the eccentric, the embarrassing, the forgotten
fringes of 20th century culture. 'Schmalz' appears in every genre and era,
and the club's proprietors relentlessly collect it, display it, and parade
it, in your face. The lounge interior is an overload of memorabilia, a
visual treasure trove of trash and trinkets. Ancient album covers of music
for cocktails, tables covered with candy foils, a wall of wooden plaques
from a flea market of faded memory. 

The place is run by Gordon and Laura, two transplanted Canadians (formerly
of Williamsburg as well) whose hybrid tastes translate oeuvre into
lifestyle. Gordon, a mutated migrant from the avant garde music world,
supplies the aural elements, while Laura defines the visual texture of the
environment. She's a technoTinkerbell, an ethereal fairy fluttering around
the space dressing up microphones and accessorizing kids with millennium
schmalz. Decked out entirely in yellow with an abundance of feathers, Marc
termed her a vamp canary. Gordon favors mauve polyester suits with open
shirts, manning the turntables or backing up the MC on electro organ. 

I never got the MC's name. When we entered the place he was performing on
the bar, wearing just diapers and a 2000 ribbon, and he can sing like
hell.  A real entertainer, together with Gordon on his flouncy organ, they
did set after set with a repertoire of blasts from the past. Nostalgia
rules at Schmalzwald. It's a true oxymoron, but all the dated music and
decor is collected with a discerning taste. The totality is a sensuous
feast, a nonstop sample stream of hybrid history. 

For my parents the whole scene was a walk down memory lane. Or a careening
joy ride thru 20th century subculture. Expecting to be anachronisms, they
fit right in, in fact filling out the evening. At one point Ulrike was
having an animated chat with El Gordo, and my father came up to say hello. 
Gordon: "Guess what I have cued up?" He dropped the needle, and a stomping
country western number filled the air. My father grabbed my mother's hand,
and they did a Jitterbug to the tune, with half the place clapping along. 
Celebrating the hinterlands of heritage - live. 

Later came an announcement - outside a performance by Glow Plug was
beginning. Somewhat reluctantly, everybody donned coats and filed out.
Glow Plug is a crew of fire fanatics, and they had a flame thrower engine
rigged up on the loading platform of a truck. Pointing at a propped up
Christmas tree, they started the motor and two guys pumped cranks to get
some sort of turbine going. The noise was incredible - it sounded like a
jet warming up.  Then Bastiaan hit the fuel switch, and a blast of flame
shot out, incinerating the tree in seconds. Another one was set on the
spindle. Each time a cloud of sparks filled the courtyard, glowing needles
blown 15 meters in the air. The best burn was one where the blast was
aimed at the side of the tree, and it started spinning, whirling around in
a torrent of fire. Incendiary ambiance. 

The Schmalzwald immersion was a timeless state, and we decided to exit and
head for the dreamworld. On our way home we discovered the time was six in
the morning - a quarter of a day into the new millennium. It was an
extraordinary transition, a dense and compressed flow of stimuli and
emotion. Full bandwidth experience. The highlights were the people. 




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