Story Archive (Page 152 of 202)

"You looked like a philistine, like a man who is used to vent his wrath about his own incapability on others."

So finally I didn't go to see REM in Wiesbaden with Blumfeld from Hamburg which used to be my fave German band about eight years ago as support. And I didn't regret it. What's the point of seeing a band you have loved ages ago which you still like but not as much as the first time you have heard them? And then you have to share them with thousands of people. Disappointment is programmed.

Instead I saw the Go-Betweens for the second time within three months and it was magic again. Not more than 300 spectators, we were five meters away from the stage. They just had arrived from Melbourne, the bass player had lost her bass on the airplane but had borrowed a bass from German friends. Everyone except Robert Forster wore sun glasses which they all took off when the night grew older. They played three or four songs from the last album but mainly classics. Even The Streets of Your Town. The sound was awesome, Grant McLennan sang as if it was his last day on the planet earth. They finished the set again with The House that Jack Kerouac Built and Robert did his crazy hands-dance thing again. It was perfect. A summer night in Germany as I like it. A rare thing of beauty, indeed.

P.S. I don't really know the Go-Betweens and when they were the indie guitar pop cult group in the 80s I never got into their music. It seemed bland and uninteresting at the time. The weird thing about yesterday's concert was that I knew most of the songs (probably from the previous concert) and that I had tears in my eyes when I heard them. There is something touching and intimate in their music I find very hard to nail down.

Robert Forster on stage is really weird. He has an aura. His facial expression can become very menacing. Suddenly in the middle of a song he opens his eyes wide, he frowns and seems to move towards the audience. I am not sure if he is acting. Maybe it is just a spleen.

The following e-mail with a batch file attached to it was in my inbox this morning:

Subject: A special powful tool This is a very powful tool I wish you would enjoy it.

There will be a day when human beings won't work anymore. Physical work will be done by robots, intellectual work by computers and men will only drink, eat, piss, shit and fuck.

I am not sure if that is a good or bad thing. I tend towards thinking this is bad but that doesn't mean anything, it is just because of this work ethic thing in my blood.

What will men do when there is nothing to be done anymore? I'd like to think that we will all be fishing, fishing for the meaning of life which would be a good thing. Not doing anything, just waiting patiently. Waiting for the revelation. Which will come one day.

Also, Blogger aus dem Rhein-Main-Gebiet: schreibt Euch ein! Hamburg packen wir noch (via Andreas).

There was no place whatsoever for a woman in the life and the world that Jack Kerouac described. And women were not going to be invited into it. So it's sort of like crashing the party. I know I'm here unwelcome and I'm going to rewrite this history so I can be a part of it.

Michelle Shocked on the cover of one of the two CDs with alternate takes of the Texas Campfire Tapes from 1986

I was chopping down a palm tree When a friend dropped by to ask If I would feel less lonely If he helped me swing the axe. I said: No, it's not a case of being lonely We have here, I've been working on this palm tree For eighty seven years He said: Go get lost! And walked towards his Cadillac. I chopped down the palm tree And it landed on his back.

From Neil Young: Last Trip to Tulsa (1969)

Wir wurden sogar mit unserem Plattenladen ständig vom Verfassungsschutz beobachtet. Oder von sonstigen Komikern. Ich konnte immer Männer mittleren Alters beobachten, die unauffällig an der Ecke gegenüber standen und mit ihren Plastiktüten redeten.

Klaus Maeck, heute Manager der Einstürzenden Neubauten, aus Verschwende Deine Jugend (S. 215) kompiliert von Jürgen Teipel

Früher glaubte ich, daß man Neil Young immer braucht, aber inzwischen denke ich, man kommt die ersten paar Tage auch ohne ihn über die Runden.

Navid Kermani: Das Buch der von Neil Young Getöteten

(Translation: In the past I believed that one needs Neil Young all the time but now I think that one can survive the first couple of days without him.)

Das letzte Kapitel

Am 12. Juli des Jahres 2003 lief folgender Funkspruch rund um die Erde: daß ein Bombengeschwader der Luftpolizei die gesamte Menschheit ausrotten werde.

Die Weltregierung, so wurde erklärt, stelle fest, daß der Plan, endgültig Frieden zu stiften, sich gar nicht anders verwirklichen läßt, als alle Beteiligten zu vergiften.

Zu fliehen, wurde erklärt, habe keinen Zweck. Nicht eine Seele dürfe am Leben bleiben. Das neue Giftgas krieche in jedes Versteck. Man habe nicht einmal nötig, sich selbst zu entleiben.

Am 13. Juli flogen von Boston eintausend mit Gas und Bazillen beladene Flugzeuge fort und vollbrachten, rund um den Globus sausend, den von der Weltregierung befohlenen Mord.

Die Menschen krochen winselnd unter die Betten. Sie stürzten in ihre Keller und in den Wald. Das Gift hing gelb wie Wolken über den Städten. Millionen Leichen lagen auf dem Asphalt

Jeder dachte, er könne dem Tod entgehen. Keiner entging dem Tod, und die Welt wurde leer. Das Gift war überall. Es schlich wie auf Zehen. Es lief die Wüsten entlang. Und es schwamm übers Meer.

Die Menschen lagen gebündelt wie faulende Garben. Andre hingen wie Puppen zum Fenster heraus. Die Tiere im Zoo schrien schrecklich, bevor sie starben. Und langsam löschten die großen Hochöfen aus.

Dampfer schwankten im Meer, beladen mit Toten. Und weder Weinen noch Lachen war mehr auf der Welt. Die Flugzeuge irrten, mit tausend toten Piloten, unter dem Himmel und sanken brennend ins Feld.

Jetzt hatte die Menschheit endlich erreicht, was sie wollte. Zwar war die Methode nicht ausgesprochen human. Die Erde war aber endlich still und zufrieden und rollte, völlig beruhigt, ihre bekannte elliptische Bahn.

Erich Kästner