Bananas, Benzin, & Bondage!

Katvrou has come through with another awesome show report. It speaks for itself, so here it is:

When the news broke about Rammstein coming to our country, I sort of slipped into a weird kind of reality. Because Herzeleid and The Gauntlet confirmed it, I knew it had to be true. But how the hell would this tour be affordable? We were all under the impression that, for this band with all their gear to play in South Africa, we’d have to pay at least R700 for a ticket to make it economically viable for them. And look what we paid – R340 for Golden Circle! Even less for the other seats!

Nevertheless, the reality was that, for a lot of hard rock and metal lovers, it was a dream come true – to see their favourite band live. That’s why the tickets sold out so fast. Even for the smaller venue in Cape Town, the Grand West Arena, those 9 000 tickets went in a flash.

Getting the tickets was one thing – planning for a perfect concert experience was another. Leave, airtickets, Vitamin B12 injections (believe me, those work magically for those long hours before the concert), and getting through those last few weeks before they fly in from Australia.

On the day before the Cape Town concert, my friend Tesna breathlessly posted on Facebook that she got some pics with with a few guys of the band at Cape Town International Airport. She said Olli is very tall, Christoph is getting a bit grey, and Till has the most stunning eyes. Hee hee. Of course he has. Those eyes are shards of glass with a life of their own.

I made myself a T-shirt with the lyrics Die Kreatur Muss Sterben in the Rammstein font, got some peaches and Vitamin Water, and camped out at Entrance 6 of the Grand West Arena. That was at about 8:30 on the morning before the show. A lot of the security personnel scowled at this lone mad woman sitting on the floor with her German flag, but I just laughed. It’s a religion. If I had to explain it, they wouldn’t understand. From about 9:00, some more people joined me – they were all from the picturesque town of Stellenbosch. Then friends from Bloemfontein in the Free State came, and even fans from Bahrain and London. The Bloemfontein friends had a cool banner made, with the South African flag in the corner, and the words Liebe ist für alle da, auch für uns. That banner went everywhere.

Ten hours passed in a whirl. We all sat on the floor while the queue grew at both entrances (Entrance 1 and 6 were for Golden Circle) and we chatted with the casino crew, who took great care of us. Two of the door personnel even searched us and gave us our wristbands just before the doors opened, so we could run in a few seconds before the others came in from the other entrance. And we ran. Ran-ran-ran. So my friends and I made first row, the only place that works. That way you can immerse yourself into the show, and feel everything with your entire body, all your senses – a sublime experience, indeed.

There was no opening act. And it suited everybody. We wanted Rammstein.

When the giant black curtain fell, the German flag emerged and I realised on the spot that we would not be seeing any of the special effects that were done in Lisbon and Spain. But that did not matter. Because Till was behind that curtain.

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

And…BOOMMMMM, it came through the speakers: RRRRAMM-STEIN!!!! Nine thousand people went apeshit. The German flag dropped to the floor, and there they were. Right in front of us, barely three metres away. Still the reality was weird for a lot of us. Am I really seeing this? Is this Till in black leather with the light in his mouth? Richard with his red armbands, looking charmingly bored as always? Olli, with that straight face and funky outfit – the bass part of his body? Paul, smeared with icky brown goop, beaming at the crowd, pulling everybody in with his boyish charm? Christoph, arms in the air, drumsticks growing from his fingers? And Flake with that spooky-white face, pretending to love his keyboards and them alone?

Manche führen, manche folgen
Herz und Seele, Hand in Hand
Vorwärts, vorwärts, bleibt nicht stehen
Sinn und Form bekommt Verstand!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And so the song fell on us like a wall of bricks.

This was all real. I looked up at the roof, and saw no suspended dolls. Eeek. How will this show be? Will it be as good as the ones we saw in November 2009?

I was still wondering about that when Waidmann’s Heil exploded over our heads.

And I was wondering no more.

The show was hotter than everything I ever could’ve imagined. The flames spurted up in the air, licked over the smoke and looked at us. The flames wanted to eat us.

I made no mental note of the setlist. I just screamed, headbanged, clung to the railing, screamed some more, and sweated like a pig. It was GREAT! But, oh heavens, when we recognised the intro of Mein Teil, with Paul and Richard doing that thick, black, chunky guitar duet, we roared our lungs out. To see this on stage, for the first time, other than on a TV screen for Volkerball, TO SEE THIS, OH HOLY CRAP – PPPHOOWWAAAHHHRRR!! Everything worked perfectly. Till, chucking the pot lid to the side with glee. Till’s giant flamethrower, Flake ducking seconds before the flames envelop his head, the crowd screaming, mad with excitement, Flake taunting Till, jumping out of the pot with his mini-rockets and glittery suit…



Our sweat poured and poured. The security dudes in front handed out small chilled sachets of water, which we sucked flat in seconds. It was hotter than the devil’s rectum. We bounced and tripped, and shouted the lyrics back at the band, some of us word for word for word, for word. All of us bonded in minutes, looking across at each other, seeing the utter joy on each other’s faces, being there, singing our Rammstein songs TO THE BAND. To the actual band.

Fuckit.

And then Sonne came. We were jumping and screaming, as was expected, when, at almost the end of the song, I looked down and saw the ENTIRE security pit crew had taken the brace position. I frowned. What the hell? Why are they crouching, covering their heads?

What’s happen...

WHOOOOOOOSH came the first wave of fire. ROOOAARRRR, came the next, followed by the next, the next, the next….. EIGHT waves of flames, on every beat of the song’s last seconds. Most of the women yelled, others dove behind the railing to escape the heat, I clung to my friend’s arm, gasped, felt the skin on my hands baking, and the band…well. They glistened in the heat, Richard looking down at us like a professor doing a lecture, his face clearly saying: “If you can’t take the heat, well then….” Hee hee. THAT was absolutely mindblowing.

The rest of the show passed in a whirl of smoke, red lights, hoarse screams and fire, fire, fire. Haifish with Flake in the boat, bouncing on a sea of open hands. Du Hast, with Richard screaming at us: “I can’t fuckin’ hear you!” Till, pointing at my friend Laureen in front of him, yelling at her: YOU’VE got a pussy!!” Scuzzy boots and legs attached to a torso rolling over my head, surfing to the side, disappearing into a sea of heated bouncing bodies. Tears in my eyes for Frühling in Paris, my heart racing for Ich Will, our arms in the air for Till.

At some point I was enveloped in the message that my brain was sending to me in bright, hot spurts: YOU’RE ALIVE. YOU’RE ALIVE. You’re a lowly keyboard puncher with a degree and a small pension plan, you’re over fourty, you’ll never own a Nikon D3 full frame, your eyelids are burning and YOU’RE FUCKING ALIVE.

And then it was over.

The crowd spilled out of the doors towards the casino and bars – everybody parched and pale. My legs were like rubber. I wanted to crawl down the stairs, get into a corner and just suck my thumb. I couldn’t talk. My throat was fucked, and everywhere I looked, everyone looked just as fucked as I was. I even saw a small Snow White lady with rather small boobs. I’m sure the pit manager never even saw her. Pity. She really would’ve done well as an After Show Guest.

I quickly downed two gin and tonics at the nearest bar, and looked at the masses of black-dressed fans that were walking past. But, a lot of them were older by quite a bit, and rather normal at that. Not a piercing, tattoo or black eyeliner in sight. “We enjoyed the show a lot!”, exclaimed a couple next to me. I suspect it’s because Till didn’t ride a giant, foam-spewing penis. People would’ve been offended, I’m sure.

But then again, how would I know.

******************************************************************************

So we went to a roadhouse, I ate a plate of crumbed mushrooms and tried to soothe my frayed tonsils with a hot cappucino. And we grinned. And slowly drew our plans for the Joburg show.

The flight to Johannesburg was a bit bouncy at times – stressful. Although I’m a nervous flyer, my nerves were already shot with the idea of having to secure a front spot in a venue where no less than
17 000 Rammstein fans would show up. My stomach was chewing itself. I wanted to hurl. Dammit, why is this band so important?

Oh yes. Because they shoot crunchy riffs from the hip. Because they give controversy a purpose. Because they don’t give a shit about what others think. Because they’re so damn good to look at. Because they killed my tears about the evil of this world. I am in bondage with this band because they mutate me. I become stronger with each song, because their music feeds me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve started our descent to Johannesburg. Please fasten your seatbelts, put your seats in the upright position and fold your trays away. Thank you for flying with Kulula.”

I had to stop overthinking this thing. So I sucked on a mint and popped a Calmette.

We went to check out the Dome at seven that night – and saw that only a skeletal frame of the stage had been built so far. I freaked. How the hell will they finish everything on Friday if the trucks haven’t even arrived yet?? Aaarghhh!

But, rest was more important. I packed the bananas, nuts, rusks and mineral water. I ironed my sweaty smelling T-shirt (the same one from the Cape Town show, of course) and chose some comfy socks for the scuffed Docs.

And I got up at 04:00, my friend Leon arrived at 05:00, after having driven for about eight hours from Durban. He can play Seemann’s intro on his bass – it will make you shiver.

Leon was out of his mind. Just like I was – we were on our way to the Dome, in the dark, before the birds were even awake, and we had no idea what to expect. Would we be chased away by security? Would there be a safe spot to sit? Would the weather play along? Well, all that we could do, was to go and bloodywell check it out.

We arrived at 05:45. The security manager, a sullen hard-faced woman on a power trip, told us to go sit outside the main gate. So we did. We watched dawn break over the Northgate Shopping Centre, and lo and behold, our friends from Bloemfontein, Bahrain and Londen arrived. With that big banner, sandwiches, tequila and sleep in their eyes.

The day started, and slid into something unreal. As the sun became hotter and hotter, we moved closer to the parking sign’s shadow, trying not to get sunburnt to hell. We begged the gate guard to ask the security manager if we could just move inside the gate and sit under one of the trees. “NO!” we could hear her scream over the walkie-talkie. “Get those people away from the gate! This is a construction site and they should not be even on the pavement!! TELL THEM TO LEAVE!!!!”

Construction site? Eh?

Oh of course. The stage was still being built. The huge Scania trucks were coming and going, reversing beep-beep-beeppp with Rammstein’s stuff in their boxy steel bellies – while we were waiting for the day to lose its last hours of sun.

During the first few hours before noon, we sat and talked about our first Rammstein songs, where we heard them, and who introduced us to the band. Eventually we came to the question about WHY we do all this. Why do we get up so early and queue for so long to be in front? And all I could say, was: “Because I want to see everything. I want a good show.”

We all do. Our standards are high. That’s why we listen to this gang of moody Germans.

The security manager didn’t care about us any more. She had bigger fish to fry – the stage had to get finished, and lots of other logistical crap had to be sorted out.

Almost twelve hours later, the queues were growing into long black rivers from four entrances – and us Golden Circle junkies were pooled into one area, whereafter we were organised into three rows. We were tired and restless, but our veins were also starting to fill up with gallons of pent-up adrenaline.

The roller doors started to open, ever so slowly. “Wait!!!” the guards said. “Wait wait, dammit, WAIT!”

And the roller doors stopped.

“OK, go!!” the guards said. And we ran.

I cannot remember how I got there, and I’m sure I ended up at the wrong end of the stage, with a lot of people becoming confused about where to run, because the Dome’s floor area is so huge, but after what seemed like an eternity, I was next to Leon, right in the middle of the stage.

We made it.

Leon was shaking. He clutched at the railing, a weird grin on his face. A lifelong dream of his was about to come true. And I knew exactly how he felt.

The photographers came into the pit. The crowd started to cheer. The lights went out. And the dark whooooommmmmmm of Rammlied started.

The deep roar that came from seventeen thousand throats was deafening. I thought the Dome’s roof would lift. Or at least crack. The black curtain rippled to the ground. I knew how it would be, but every second from there on was new, all over again.

Till’s voice crawled over our skins.

Till, the pissed-off troll under the bridge, the troll soaked in pheromones, spit and benzin.

Rammlied hit the floor in unison with the German flag. We screamed, staggered, grabbed the railing to cushion the huge crowd surge, and I think I cried a bit. None of us knew that the sound was at its best right there in the Golden Circle. We didn’t care that it was bouncing off the walls to the back, creating some delayed echo. We. Didn’t. Care. We suffered like hell for this spot, and we were damn well going to soak up every fucking heartstopping second.

The thumpy beats of Bückstabü reached our ears. Till came stomping over the stage. Our fists were in the air, spitting out the words in unison:

Die da sagen
Tu das nicht
Lass das sein
Fass das nicht an
Sag einfach nein
BUCKSTABU
HOL ICH MIR

BÜCKSTABÜÜÜÜÜ -
HOL ICH MIRRRRRR!!!!

And for the first time I realised that Till was simulating forced oral sex with his microphone. I stared. And felt my face go all warm.

Then the sweat took over. Benzin hit the stage and our arms went back in the air, everybody jumping like loons. Till lit the torch and sent that flame flying like a superhero on meth. Whoooosh-whooooosssssh. The heat, dammit, the heat felt so good. At one stage, during an especially ferocious bout of headbanging, I hit myself in the face with my soaking wet fringe. Slap.

We danced in Pussy’s confetti, and saw the screams lift Flake’s little boat. How he folded the South African flag around his shoulders. More screams. The crowdsurfers got yanked over the railing and wrestled to the ground. Some pale thin girls fainted and got carried away. We didn’t care. We were burning.

And Sonne rolled over us again in those eight fiery waves, trying their best to blister my eyelids. I just stuck my face into that bright white heat, gasping for air, feeling my brain throbbing inside my skull. My heart wanted to explode.

The evil of Joseph Fritzl in Wiener Blut, “I’m going to lock you in this cellar, where nobody will bother us. And if you’re lonely, I’ll plant you a little sister.”

Again. Fuckit.

The screaming chorus in Ich Will, and the gooseflesh that hit my body.

Könnt ihr mich hören?
WIR HÖREN DICH!!
Könnt ihr mich sehen?
WIR SEHEN DICH!!
Könnt ihr mich fühlen?
WIR FÜHLEN DICH!!
Ich versteh euch nicht!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The band coming down towards us, kneeling. Till getting up, and saying in Afrikaans: “Baie dankie Johannesburg.”

Fresh bruises, pink and brown, right to my upper arms. I looked like a leper. Two million cicadas were swimming in my ears. And the flashbacks were tormenting me without end.

DENN DU BIST
WAS DU ISST
UND IHR WISST
WAS ES IST

ES IST MEIN TEIL –
NEIN!!!!!!

Yes. Rammstein came and left. Ahoi, hallo and goodbye. Moody, controversial and fearless. Whatever. They’re therapy against that putrid stream of beige music smothering the world. They’re my drug, my witchdoctor, my whip dipped in salt. They’re my band.

Thank you, you bastards. That was bloody brilliant.

Thanks, Katvrou!