You can thank me later for this post

So yesterday I went to see Radiohead play in Berlin.

Radiohead. In Berlin, people. It’s OK, you can thank me later. It’s all good.

And of course I made my newest best friend Berthold come with me six hours before the show started so we would get right into the mosh pit. Even if he hadn't just met me he would have done it because he’s German, you know. They might hate you on the inside but they’re loyal as terriers. And they know how to stand up for themselves when the going gets tough. (Except, you know, when the Red Army is approaching. Then it’s best not to have any cyanide capsules casually laying around.)

Annnywaaay. A loyal race the Germans, generally speaking.

So Berthold and I go down to the park at Wuhlheide, where the concert was, and we start drinking half liters of Warsteiner a tad too quickly, and a couple of hours later we were really rolling. But there was still three or four hours to go and they hadn’t even opened the arena yet. And then I said. “Let’s go look for the band’s tour bus. I just *have* to tell Thom Yorke how much he’s changed my life.” And Berthold rolled his eyes, but I pleaded and pleaded until finally he said yes. I think it was because I told him how hot he looked in his Miesbacher.

So we go to find the tour bus, but of course there’s about 300 crazed fans hanging around it. Who are these people? Freakin’ groupies. You’re like sheep. Don’t you have any individualism? And then Berthold said I should keep my voice down a little because some of the skinheads were starting to look invitingly in my direction. 

But at least the skins were authentic. Most of these people were college-educated, tofu-eating, art-loving, Mountain Hardware-wearing pretenders. Seriously.

I mean these people weren’t true Berliners. They didn’t know how it felt, really felt, to grow up in a divided city. They didn’t live in Kreuzberg in the ‘80s, with the DDR breathing their cold communist breath around the backs of our necks while we tried to keep the Turks and the punks from fighting each other all the time. It was all we could do to lure them to the May Day protests and get them to focus their anger on the police.

But these fantards knew nothing of the blood and the sweat and the tears from that world. These freaking people were just bio-loving, child-bearing yuppies who think that Radiohead is, like, “a cool band.” These are the same people who’ve helped suck all the beautiful anguish and torment out of Prenzlauer Berg and turn it into a playground for rich new moms and gourmet restaurant-goers.

So we just left. The prospect of actually seeing Thom Yorke in person had cast quite a beautiful light in my unfocused eyes. But at this point, it all looked hopeless, and I was feeling a little down again, what with the beer and all the tranquilizers Autumn-Nikita gave me the other night at the Basbaum opening at the Eigen+Art gallery. I know. I know. But seriously, I could almost feel the spirit of Documenta in my freaking liver. I never thought my body could respond that way to art. But it might have just been the medications.

Berthold and I kind of cut down this small side road through the park near the main arena. And I see this car, and I’m thinking cool car, but how did this asshole get through security with his car?

And then, and you’re not going to believe this, I totally saw him. Right. Freakin. In. Front. Of. Me.

Of course Thom was way too cool to be on the band bus! What were we, stupid?

Before our very eyes, Thom gets out of this black ’67 BMW cabriolet that he’s just parked right in the friggin’ middle of the road. How cool is that? And at first he doesn’t see us because it looked like either he was going to lie on the grass to drink in the oneness of the summer sky or take a piss behind a tree. I don’t know.

“Thom!” I shouted. I couldn’t freakin’ believe it. I was meeting Thom Yorke.

Thom raised an eyebrow as if to look uninteresting as I rushed up to him. As if.

“First I want to say I’m sorry for my friends always saying you have such a whiny, nasally, British voice that’s like listening to fingernails scratching on a blackboard,” I blurted.

And Thom says, “Yeah. I get that sometimes. No worries, mate. Plus you can’t control what other people think.”

“Yeah, totally. And I always told them, you know, Thom’s voice is like an instrument from the angels, dude. It’s not like he just opens his mouth and, like, sings. His vocal chords emanate love and light and pain and suffering and shit. Think Nigel Kennedy’s violin when he’s playing Brahms’ violin concerto. It clouds the soul and lifts the mind. Or maybe it’s the other way round. Or something.”

And Thom’s eyes softened a little, and he said, “Thank you man. But now I have to go do the show.”

Then, just as he turned away I totally lost it and started to follow him. “Thom, you’ve helped me see through the dark when I didn’t have enough energy to create my own life and focus on what was important--me,” I gushed. “You were there when I had to get through the pain of my cat’s death alone because everyone else was wrapped up in their own selfish lives. I can’t thank you enough. You matter to me.”

And at that point I think I sort of grabbed his shoulder because next thing I know, he’s just whirled around and punched me right in the face. “Why don’t you fuck off and get your own fuckin’ life,” he says. And then Berthold is pulling me away, apologizing, saying in his most polite German accent, “I’m sorry, he’s not usually like this. It must be the mushrooms. The whole day he’s either been gushing about how amazing Radiohead is or running to the bathroom complaining of stomach cramps.”

“Those were fucking bio ’shrooms,” I spluttered as my lip started to bleed. “Bio. Because this is freakin’ Berlin, man. And this man here is a god.”

And Thom just walks away, swearing.

And at that point I think I sort of just collapsed on the ground from the awe and inspiration of it all. Next thing I remember the concert was over and I couldn’t speak any more—the warm, shiny glow of my aura was just too overwhelming.

I heard the show rocked, the energy in the crowd was amazing and that Thom was totally fired up (Berthold took pictures). And it was gratifying to know that I had a just little something to do with that.

I know you’re all saying, “No way this happened.” But it did. It totally did.

(photo credits to original photographers)

Comments

[Michael Stein]

No way this really happened, dude. You hallucinated. Hey, when you in California?
--Michael

[Daniela]

Really like the way you write. Visceral.

He'll never forget you - I'm pretty sure you don't forget someone you punch in the face. Sorry about your cat... I know it hurts.