Nick Paumgarten’s brilliant “Berlin Nights,” in this week’s
issue, reads like an excerpt from an extraordinary journal, telling, in detail
after glorious detail, what he did, where he went, what he saw, whom he met, as
he explored Berlin’s fascinating techno scene. Here are some of my favorite passages:
I had no trouble getting in. Inside, an assault of pounding
primal techno lured me down a corridor of smoke and strobes, into a smoky
basement, figures appearing and disappearing in it like ships in fog.
I got a beer from a stern bartender and went to stand in
front of a wall of old blackened safe-deposit boxes from Wertheim.
The vibe was laid-back, the look dishevelled, wild-eyed,
attractive, louche. Bedhead, shaved head – intentional hair. Dark clothing,
layers, leather, natural fibres, boots, scarves, piercings. The smell of
tobacco and weed and sweat.
The three men hunched over laptops and mixers as though
herding tiny animals with their hands.
The bass rattled the empty tin record bins behind the d.j. I
sent a text to the boar hunter, wondering if he was around. He replied,
“KitKatClub.”
Upstairs, the dingy gray light of another Baltic morning
leaked past the edges of the louvered shutters at the windows. Soon the shades
would flash open in synch with the music, to astonish the congregation with the
insult of daylight.
Paumgarten loves techno (“The music was churning, hypnotic,
almost psychedelic, and I abandoned myself to it”). I confess I’m not so crazy
about it; the Bill Charlap Trio is more my cup of tea. What I abandon myself to
is Paumgarten’s delectable prose. He could write about manure spreaders and I’d
read it. “Berlin Nights” is a great piece. I enjoyed it immensely.
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