The last night of the festival was the big one – Glenn Branca’s latest ensemble and Atari Teenage Riot formed the two reasons I was excited. I ran across my two young Austrian chums as we were separately in search of a common love: the Döner Kebab.
Americans are quite used to the Greek-influenced gyro and the shavings of meat from the giant rotating spit. The Turkish gift to Berlin was the Döner – thinly-sliced rotating lamb, beef, or chicken stuffed into a fluffy pita, garnished with lettuce, raw onions, and tomato, further seasoned by your choice of sauces. At just under 3 Euros a pop these things will not only serve as auxiliary mittens during cold nights but provide incredible protection against hangovers. My favorite joint is just down the road – the moist, fatty chicken in the garlic sauce surrounded by that warm pillow-bread beats the hell of the competition, namely the shoulder-mounted (!!!) Bratwurst stands.
This isn’t about Berlin. I’m in Austria. With a Döner in my hand, the first one I’ve had in 3 solid days of hunting an open stand down. In fact the ONLY German joke I’ve been able to pull off is a play on the word Thursday. Heute ist Dönerstag, ja? I’ll certainly take the chuckles and confusion it caused when I was asking random people why all of the stands were closed on a Thursday. Hint: everything in small town Europe closes by 4pm.
ALRIGHT, ENOUGH ABOUT THE STUPID SANDWICH. At this point I’ve emptied the water bottle whiskey flask and have shared a Slovenian spliff, standing front and center waiting for the Glenn Branca ensemble to start. If you aren’t familiar with this ancient guitar legend he’s a founding father of the anti-noodle movement - minimalism and intent and loud-ass guitars. I hoped he would be playing himself, but he was instead the conductor in front of four guitars and a drum kit. The music was wonderful, serene, and slow – but what I couldn’t take my eyes off of was one of the strumming performers. He was mouthing the one-two-three-four in addition to tapping his foot, and I sat there the entire time watching his lips flap wondering if he knew (in spite of his actual experience) how n00b this looked. This guy threw everything off but the drummer had FOUR metronomes going and man that’s bad-ass.
The Ex were a surprisingly energetic batch of old no-wave punk rockers, and more than a few of us found ourselves pogo-ing in place. Why we were doing it individually was beyond confounding so I started pushing people low with my legs thrown high, like any self-respecting American would. The crowd gave us room – a little too much room. On top of that the participants weren’t really reciprocating, they would turn around and bump me with their butt. I’ve got to say that was pretty damn odd, though I was glad to have at least something here that pushed back.
It wasn’t until Alec Empire took the stage that everything started to make sense. This guy poured everything into this performance beyond his trademark fancy kicks – he kept trying to get us to scream and freak out and demand some sort of revolution, but he was met with a grand total of two of us dancing our asses off and the rest kind of nodding in place. At one point he was on the floor in the middle of all of us, writhing around in exhaustion. DO YOU WANT A REVOLUTION?! he screamed, head bent low, expecting some sort of response. A young girl sat beside him, held her camera out, threw her arm around his wet sunken body, smiled a little too brightly, and got her MySpace shot. It took a significant amount of restraint because I really wanted to skank over there and kick the camera out of her hand. Alas, it was clear the Kremsians weren’t at all going to give him anything close to what he wanted. Having such the reserved masses at a festival dubbed Failed Revolutions was a bit of delightful irony.
Back in Vienna I was still determined to find The One Schnitzel while waiting for my late night train back to Berlin. As my cooked-in-clarified-butter candidate was naturally closed on Sunday (…) I caught a truck advertising delicious custom cakes and HEY THE BAKERY IS RIGHT BEHIND THE TRUCK!! This cafe was packed tightly with old people, which I took as either a very good sign or that they give seniors weekly discounts on stale cake. I sat with the only other soloist - a dressed-up elderly lady with arm braces and no food in front of her, staring at the street. She jumped into a few conversations around me but I could feel the emptiness radiating from her. The weight of her presence disappeared completely once my chocolate torte arrived. That slice of heaven blew my mouth away, dense and creamy and thick with flavor.
During my follow-up performance of lying on a bench in a park under the sun, a rough-looking older man in a dirty suit started asking questions at me - pointing at the bench behind me. Turns out this homeless Hungarian has lived in this park for 3 years now, sleeps in the nearby public bathroom, has befriended many nearby residents (as indicated by the passers by), and can even rely on the kindness of regular benefactors. His English was quite good as we chatted and joked about just about everything under the sun for a good two hours. He pulled out his wallet to show me his old chess medals and pictures of his daughter back in Budapest, pausing only to kick the ball back to the kids who were using it as a social humiliation tool. I could tell he didn’t want me to go but I had some battered veal to hunt down.
Eventually I found a place open that looked decent – old Austrian hunting lodge decor. A pounded piece of fried baby animal it was, tender and tasty with crispy fries all washed down with an Austrian Egger. The waitress looked quite disappointed when I tipped like a European but HA HA HA I’M ONE OF YOU NOW BIZZZNAZZZZ!!!!
Exhausted from the long weekend I made it back to the train station in anticipation of solid unconsciousness. Ear plugs and sleep mask were in my pocket, at the ready. I couldn’t wait for when the seats were turned into beds and I could get more than 4 hours of sleep. As I boarded my car I noticed that these 6-ers were tiny – there’s no way these are beds! I continued onward looking for my reserved seat, making eye contact with a series of cabins containing oversized children all staring back at me. The volume got louder the further I went, and the moment I found my number was the exact same moment five guys no older than 20 whipped their heads in my direction. Each stank of spill and smoke, and they were all holding either a large beer or a cup filled with Jäger. Oh fuck, I thought, I’ve stumbled into the cool kids cabin during a school chum getaway. It was nearly 11pm and I winced sharply, knowing I wouldn’t get any real sleep.
The night continued on exactly how I thought it would – guys and gals running from compartment to compartment, alternating between screams and laughter, all the while keeping the single sober one (which happened to be 5 years old) entertained. I kept my headphones on to avoid being a part of any of it, staring at anything that wasn’t them. I had an hour of sleep total during that 12 hour ride, and I awoke from one of the 15 minute drift-offs to the sound of a body being slammed against the glass separating my seat from the corridor. It was 7am and not only was everyone piss drunk, they were pissed off. The banter surrounding a missing camera stopped the moment the punches started flying. These orangutans went right at it, a drunken brawl with a screaming girl in the middle of it, behind the viewing area, inches away from me. Eventually they were separated by their friends but I couldn’t help but wonder how often this happens in Germany. I’m guessing every 10th train.
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