Body temperature: 40 C. Outside temperature: 27 C. Thursday.
Arrival. The taxi driver, overenthusiastic, shares possibly made up stories of the WGT festival from the 90s. Streets empty of both cars and people except for the creatures of the night. I feel increasingly excited. He leaves us, facing a 18th century facade, then facing the black eye of the landlord which somehow made perfect sense. This ancient house, half squat half palace, will become a house I’ll be thinking of so often in dark times and I will be safe there. Streets empty of cars and people, but we follow more the creatures than our maps and soon enter Moritzbastei. Like an intro scene to a film, a set, full of angels and daemons, enters Ariel. Beautiful friends, beautiful deities, daemons, all finally at rest. This place and these faces never seem to end. I am in awe.
Body temperature: 38 C. Outside temperature: 30 C. Friday.
Unable to speak due to the pain, the illness getting stronger, we head out. The city is shining in the hot morning, its beauty understated. East Germany, they say. A city respectful and quiet. The creatures are everywhere. A bizzaro-world, taken over, a post apocalyptic scenario where only goths have survived and inhabit the Earth. Ultimately exquisite, crinolines, parasols, men in high heels, men in plastic, men in skirts, top hats or top bras, women naked, women from Versailles, faces untouched, faces in masks, gas masks, makeup masks, pure, feathers of ravens and feathers of angels, La Madonna walks deservingly arrogantly holding a Saint by her side. I am so ill, under a tree, I stand still while a universe of wonders revolves around me in Agra and I watch this parade of souls. Is it an exhibitionist exercise in conformity was my first thought, how soon I would change opinion. And in line, the exquisite corpses parade under a sun that shows no mercy, unscathed. More friends, beautiful friends. 7JK giving an immaculate performance at the most beautiful Volkspalast. The people respectful, drink but are not drunk, drugless, immersed in music. Refreshing. Moritzbastei. More exquisite corpses. I am so ill. I cannot speak. Like trapped behind a soundproof glass wall I watch the conversations powerless. At the house. Thinking possibly of an emergency flight back to go to hospital. But I so want to stay with you all.
Body temperature: 37 C. Outside temperature: 32 C. Saturday.
The illness has miraculously broken. The pain is not excruciating and the fever is down. Hope. We head out. Random person stops us to take our photographs too. How funny, we are not even dressed up. Art nouveau, art deco, hidden passageways a whole morning walking and it’s not enough. Facades timeless, knowingly teasing us on our own ephemeral being and their permanence. Pharmacy. The assistant prescribes while I stare at his black fascinator stitched over his white medical coat. The city fully embraces the festival. All shop fronts all shop assistants, all waiters, all ages play along. This is not just because of the money brought in, as I thought before, but because of pride. The city is proud to have been chosen. Stasi Museum. Special exhibition, for free, and tour in english on the Stasi files and attitudes towards the local Goths during the last years of the GDR. Scary, upsetting and equally entertaining, the shaky nervous curator and researcher was just lovable. Between the laughs about the ridiculously inaccurate Stasi records on the subject, an unsettling sadness sets on us all, thinking of how often in so many places a simple choice in music and style is an unforgiveable act of transgression. And now, here we are, 20 thousand degenerates, laughing at you, evil banalités, bureaucrats and scared men. Here we are, laughing at you all, that at some point made the bitter comment, the outcasting, the strange look, or even persecution, for clothes, hair and radios at the wrong wavelength. Here we are, back, en mass, years later, triumphant. Theater Fabrik. The heat is unbearable. Lebanon Hanover give a great set despite the hellish temperatures. A break, and Kiss the Anus of a Black Cat take on the stage for a perfect show of blemishless performance, audience rapport, politeness and respect. At the exact time I thought I will be flying back in emergency, here I am, dancing with friends and strangers alike, receiving and offering smiles around in a collective and fully conscious happiness.
Body temperature: 37 C. Outside temperature: 33 C. Sunday.
The Pagan Village. Playful, mead, horns, serious or not, families of three parents, families of none, more monsters, knights, Lestats, fetishists, transvestites, aunts, dogs, babies in goth carts, monks, priests, ‘Satan’s baby inside’ on that woman’s pregnant belly, Mani the cutest puppy, then Volkspalast, as elegant as its temporary occupants and Soft Moon being adored while my friends dance happy. Moritzbastei for a last goodbye, I see the Saint from the other day, without his Madonna but in the company of other Saints, quiet, enjoying his last to one night before he is the freak again. Another Saint, tall and immaculate looks at me and smiles at me. Shy, I turn away my eyes, as if in shame, as if flirted when young, shy to receive this unsolicited, unsexualised gaze and pure smile from an asexual angel, expecting nothing in return.
Body temperature: 36.5 C. Outside temperature: 33 C. Monday.
The House decides on an excursion to the Monument to the Battle of the Nations. As otherworldly as confusing. Proto-fascist or art deco pure? I have never seen anything like this before and I am ecstatic. A structure that cannot be placed to any time or location. We are so hot, we walk, we could be in Peru or another planet or a film. Not prepared for the endless flight of stairs, the vertigo and claustrophobia that comes with them, it was worth it. But what is it? All my references are irrelevant. A monument like this to mourn thousands of deaths. Is it sincere? is it not? Why cannot I see it as it is, without prejudice? Without the knowledge it was built just before WWI? Why do I bathe everything in the muddy waters of incomplete historical knowledge and half baked assumptions? Maybe this is indeed the purest of art: the most grandiose, massive, epic, pharaonic monument, not to any win, success, God or Slaughterer but to mourn the war dead? Exhausted, sweaty and smelly we descent back to the hot earth, a bit different. We wave goodbye to the old wonderful friends, heading to an Absintherie, while we slowly leave the new friends, the angels, the exquisite corpses, the city in black, the crinolines and the masks, the parasols and the eyes made of alabaster.
At Liverpool Street, one in the morning, my heart slightly sinks. The world is again Technicolor. With Sound. Loud Sound. And a sad paste of vulgarity. The colours seem to drape everyone in a palette of boredom and conformity. Like a forgiving filter has been removed from my eyes, like when we were fifteen. Yes, the world cannot but look boring after all this. But in a most comforting coincidence, she, one of the angels of Leipzig, appears, comes towards us and we all kiss a final good bye with a smile.
No, the world is never going to be boring. Cause we are everywhere.
Photo by: SadMafioso [https://www.flickr.com/photos/sadmafioso/] More info:
http://www.wave-gotik-treffen.de/english/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moritzbastei
http://www.agra-veranstaltungsgelaende-leipzig.de/
http://7jkmusic.bandcamp.com/
https://www.facebook.com/volkspalast
http://www.runde-ecke-leipzig.de/index.php?id=76&L=1
http://www.theater-fabrik-sachsen.de/
http://lebanonhanover.bandcamp.com/
http://www.discogs.com/artist/299459-Kiss-The-Anus-Of-A-Black-Cat
http://www.thesoftmoon.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument_to_the_Battle_of_the_Nations
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Absintherie-Sixtina/101020696620112
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