Meet the Berliners

Christiane is the social butterfly of our Friedrichshain kiez. She knows everybody—and if she doesn’t—she gets to know them. She slowly glides into the bar, the park or the Turkish kebab shop and disarms you with her style and ease. She is a well-preserved 60ish sort with a vintage movie star style all her own and a smooth, contagious élan. When I first saw her in the late winter, she walked into the room wearing a black sleeveless dress and a black velvet hat with a jeweled hatpin. She had black arm coverings from wrist to elbow, the kind of thing a jazz singer from the 20s or 30s might wear. She always has a cocktail in her hand but she is never drunk. She is a Lady.

Yesterday we met Christiane at the new neighborhood bar across the street. We knew it was a new bar because of the sudden late night noise drifting through our windows in the wee hours of the night. Nobody was inside the bar because it was one of those rare recent summer nights where it wasn’t dumping rain or clammy cold. Sitting on the bench outside was Christiane, some flowers in a vase, a leather case with cigarettes and lighter and the ubiquitous cocktail. Her usual vintage Jazz Singer outfit had morphed into the summer version: White crocheted hat worn askew, minor hatpin with no jewelry, turquoise dress and arm coverings. My girlfriend and I are both taken by Christiane and her genteel charms. We take a seat across the bench outside the bar. Drinks arrive and she starts The Pitch. Christiane likes to announce the various social causes she is involved with, and then, when she sure you are following what she is saying, nicely asks how you can help her with her cause. Sometimes it is a pitch for money, other times it is an invitation to a neighborhood event. We like to attend the local events and bring booze and/or food. Money is a different story. So it is in Berlin.

After a few beers, various locals started to join us at the table; a few recognizable faces from the local taverns and cafes, the usual suspects. Then The Bomb dropped. ‘HallO-oh,’ said the thin man in the women’s makeup and the high heel shoes, ‘I’m Inga, the tranny from the house across the street,’ (s)he said. Inga immediately bypassed my nervously-outstretched handshake and went straight for my girl. ‘I love the way you dress, girlfriend.’ My honey bunny gave a nervous smile and thanks. I had to wait for the handshake. I was irrelevant for a moment. The girls had to chat.

Later summer sun means kids in the streets at 8 or 9pm. Now that I’m older, I really hate kids. They piss me off with their energy, their jokes and their spastic monkey dances—especially when I’m trying to have a drink and meet the Berliners. I imagine they pissed Inga off slightly more that night. I can’t follow the German language, but I can follow the taunting. It’s the same everywhere. There were the childish caterwauls by the oldest boy in the group. It was clear that he was taunting Inga. The other children, all aged 5 to 10, joined in the group taunting. (S)he said something in German about the children hounding her up and down the street. It was said matter-of-factly. Inga must get that all the time. Christiane defended the children, saying that they were from conservative families who didn’t understand that a man could love men or a woman could love women. ‘But this is Berlin,’ I ventured, ‘surely Inga is not the only unusual person on the street.’ I looked at the kids and smiled at the irony. They were mostly Middle-Eastern looking, probably Turkish. I imagined they could have been picked on as well by some of the blonder, bluer-eyed kids at school.

The older spastic prepubescent kid on the bike did several shouting strafing runs on his bike. I don’t know what he shouted, but I’m sure of the meaning and intent. Inga went inside the bar. Soon the barman came out and chased the kid away. I like how barmen protect their patrons. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling knowing that our table is safe while drinking in the fold.

Inga got a new pair of shoes. They were badly wrapped in a paper bag adorned with colorful string, hearts and fake pearls. (S)he said ‘It’s not even my birthday!’ After picking at the wrapping with scrawny fingers for a spell, (s)he asked one of the stronger women to help her. The wrapping finally came off and there was a pair of very used, very abused black leather high heel shoes. The sides were worn and torn and neglected. They were probably the most pathetic gift I have ever seen. But Inga’s eyes lit up. ‘My new shoes! I love them! I will try them on, now. Pardon me, but I must go inside. A lady never takes her shoes off in public.’ And so they don’t. After a spell, (s)he shimmied out of the pub on those worn shoes. (S)he worked them like have never seen old, tired shoes get worked before. Everyone had to take turns complimenting Inga on her new shoes.

A young German kid of about 23 joined the table. He was light, airy, and gregarious. An effeminate man in the de facto Berliner army-clothes-cum-Anarchist garb sat across from him. I figured I had stumbled into Gay Night at the Local Pub. That’s okay. I had my girlfriend at my side as a human shield. The young kid asked what I do. I said I’m a photographer, blah blah blah, the usual chat. I usually mention that I’m a professional photographer only after people ply me with questions. I used to announce it proudly straightaway, but it seems that every time I do that in Berlin, people ask me to take pictures for them. For free. Anyway, I gave him my card because he asked, then apologized in advance for the lack of Berlin pics on my Berlin site. I said I was trying to change that. He looked like he was going to jump out of his seat. ‘You need more Berlin pics? Well, I have this theatre group, you see, and we have no money (of course), and we would be happy if you could take pics of us at rehearsal, at shows, and all the way up the primrose path until we are no longer idle dreamers and posers and we at last take our turn in the limelight up in the clouds with the gods of the arts and finally, oh, finally, we eat and drink the Bacchanalian eat/drink/pukefest we are destined for. And you are invited. Don’t you feel lucky to have met me?’ I said yes.

Jazz Church

The Church of Jazz meets in an abandoned chapel in Friedrichshain on certain Tuesdays. The building is a small pile of bricks in an East Berlin neighborhood; a disused chapel type building with no need for God. But the holy spirit of jazz inhabits the place, warms the place and sometimes blows the roof off the dump.

Normally, all previously-God-forsaken Commie-seized holy halls were reclaimed by some church or another; bought back by the Supreme Rulers in Vatican City, or Anglo-Protestant oil holdings, or whatever. Not this one. It is special. It stands between a cemetery and a kebab shop. In Berlin there is only one solution for a building of this type: Art the Living Bejesus out of it. And they have.

I’m not sure what the target audience for the disemboweled rat poster outside the church is. But the poster is there and is hard to look at, especially after just coming from a kebab next door. I think it says theatre-something-or-other. In addition to disemboweling rats, the old church-cum-kunsthaus hosts Jazz Almighty.

Call it a jam session for new converts. I bust in and I see them skulking in the corners with their dates, boy/girl, girl/girl, boy/boy. Mostly young party animals and freaks. Mostly white, nobody over 40 except me. Mostly posing. Somebody told the deviants that jazz was hip. And deviants are hip in Berlin. I don’t care what color flag you fly, just don’t make it your raison d’etre. As for me, I am so straight and square that my girlfriend may leave me at any time unless I bring out the gimp from Pulp Fiction. Or at least I imagine so. But I digress.

I am a longtime jazz fan. I know this because I have short hair, glasses and a goatee. I noticed other goatee-sporting, bespectacled dudes of my ilk in the pews of the Jazz Church the other night. They are jazz fans as well (or just really crafty poseurs). It reassures me, knowing that the Old Faithful and the New Converts can come together under one roof.

Thankfully, there is no sermon, no preacher, no choir. There are only musicians, jamming it up and spiraling solos and nodding graciously to the warm applause. Some of the musicians really LOOK the part; as if dressing Jazz will light up the low notes. Others dressed in torn shoes and jeans stand there nervously and stare at the audience, limp trumpet or sax in hand, waiting for their turn to jam. It’s an informal affair with pleasing results. I start to nod and bob my head with the beat. I’m the only one doing it but I don’t give two shits. I’m there to enjoy the music. It has its moments. Nothing earth shattering, nothing that will save your soul. The better musicians play early: piano played in frantic, chopping motions by skinny fingers, stand up bass picked, battered and swinging in time to the syncopated skins. By evening’s end, anyone with an electric guitar or violin can step up to the stage and fuck it all up.

It works on donations. And as you would expect in any church, some twitchy huckster oozes on up to you while you’re in mid head nod and sticks a hat in your face and says: “For the musicians.” The first time I attended the Jazz Church, I thought it was an odd concept. I knew there was a donation, saw a box by the door, asked if that was the donation box, and dropped the money in. Halfway through the jam, though, the dude with the hat was in my face. I told him I gave generously at the door, but he kept explaining, extolling, extorting me for more. I told him to go fuck himself. He oozed back down the drain from whence he came. Ya gotta know how to deal with hucksters.

My second night in the Church of Jazz was only slightly different than the first time. The same poseurs were there. It was packed again, and people were eager to get a pew. I was wedged in between a very bright stage light and a young German couple. When the desire for another beer became too strong to resist, I asked the girl next to me to watch my seat. She tried to be funny and say something clever, but being German, this rarely works. Maybe it’s the language barrier. She said ‘Yes, I will watch it closely, and….” I just smiled and waved and walked away before she could embarrass herself any further. Upon my return with the beer, she continued, “I watched your seat and it was there and it….” “GREAT!!” I said, “and here’s your reward!” I shoved a bowl of Cheetos cheese puffs under her face. She declined so I shook them vigorously in her boyfriend’s face. He meekly took one. God I love Germans. Give them a church, some jazz, some booze and some Cheetos and you’ve got yourself a party. Then the piper showed up right on cue with his hat. I was ready for him. I peeled off a fiver and chucked it in the hat and waved him away with my hand. Ya gotta know how to deal with hucksters. I feel right at home with my people skills. I go to the Jazz Church for a vertical relationship with the musicians on high, not for a horizontal relationship with the hucksters, the poseurs, the ‘clever’ people. There is a special word for people like me. That word is ‘asshole.’

The Church of Jazz gets so crowded I shouldn’t tell you exactly where it is (Hint: It’s on Boxi between the kebabs and the headstones). Maybe I’ll see you there. I’ll be the slightly drunk guy bobbing his head with Cheetos and beer in my goatee.

Gentrification = Yuppiescumification

The following is a letter sent to Exberliner Magazine after reading that they want us to 'Save Berlin.' I am all for it. Hence the letter I sent them:

Open Letter to a Foreign Media Publication
on the Impending Gentrification of Berlin

By Craig Robinson

I want to save Berlin. I want to give that big ole bear a human hug and throw innovative ideas into the whirlpool of creativity. I want to stop the Atomic Bomb of Mall Culture from being dropped onto the last ‘island of affordable civilization for outcasts and dreamers’. I shouldn’t have any right to care about Berlin as I’ve been living here for less than 6 months. But I do. Over the last 15 years I have witnessed the gentrification of every place on earth I’ve ever lived in for any significant length of time.

Sacramento, San Francisco, London, Dublin, Prague. I came. I saw. Yuppies conquered. The cost of living in each of these places has gone up tenfold in as many years. But the average wages stayed way below the new high water mark.

Submitted for your perusal: Notes on the Global Gentrification Wars
as witnessed by concerned citizens, friends and comrades.

I am not submitting any ideas to your ‘Save Berlin’ action, as obviously I am too late. But please consider the following, especially in light of the fact that your current issue is about ‘the yoga craze.’ Even though I do not have adequate authority as a gentrification expert—only as a witness—I still feel obligated to point out the glaring hypocrisy in declaring your intent to ‘Save Berlin’ from gentrification, mallification, etc., when you clearly are serving up heaping portions of brine to the yuppie larvae in the form of a ‘yoga issue.’ Yoga is New Age Bollox. It was invented by well-meaning Indian gurus 1000s of years ago and appropriated by ex-hippies-turned-new-age-yuppies in California in the 90s. It spread like a disease from there. The only people who follow the yoga craze are certain neo-hippies and yuppies. The neo-hippies don’t have the money for these highly priced yoga courses and such, but their rich parents do. Please consider who you accept your advertising income from and who your target audience is. I fully intend to buy your yoga issue and read it. Perhaps I am wrong and it is a parody on yuppie life, in which case I will be extremely pleased and offer my sincere apologies. In the meantime, the following is a list of warning signs that will signify the beginning of the end of any neighborhood, to whit; gentrification is coming fast and furious.

SUSHI JOINTS – few foods suggest yuppie scum like sushi. Unless you are born in Japan, if you eat sushi on a regular basis, you may as well have a gold card and a Beamer parked up your ass.

YOGA – yuppies without soul shop for religion. They already jog, but that’s free (except for the $500 jogging gear). What better way to satisfy the exercise instinct AND the craving for something ‘meaningful’ to fill their empty, materialist lives?

GALLERY / ARTIST LOFT DISTRICTS – this one needs no explanation. First comes the cheap gallery / artist loft spaces, next comes the barrage of Beamers (God, I hate Beamers, but you may substitute whatever trendy piece of crap the yuppies are driving these days: Lexus, Hummer, etc.). Here’s an actual authority: http://einstellung.so36.net/en/ps/524. And a concerned post by myself (dunkin’ berliner) on the gallery/artist space rental situation in Berlin: http://www.toytowngermany.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=91587&st=0

UBER BRAND CAFES – Starbuck’s, etc. Overpriced ‘half-caff-triple-latte-lemon-bullshit’ is for yuppies. Nobody else drinks that shit. Ever.

Following is a historical timeline of some grass roots struggle for our turf. Call it Crips vs. Bloods with slightly fewer bullets.


Thwarting Gentrification Strategy I: Grass Roots Class Warfare

San Francisco, CA, mid 1990s:

Threatened District: The Mission District, predominantly Hispanic families, students and artists.

The Threat: Encroachment from neighboring hip districts, rising rents displacing generations of original residents.

The Response: Whatever vehicle the yuppies were parking in the Mission District too long would receive a welcome basket in the form of a bumper sticker applied to many a BMW, Lexus, etc: ‘Die Yuppie Scum.’ The Mission does not fuck around. They managed to thwart gentrification much longer than most other S.F. districts. In the end, the dot com craze swept almost everyone under the income level of 80k per year (who didn’t already own their property) out of the City. Permanently.

Sacramento, CA, late 1990s:

Threatened District: Midtown Sacramento and surroundings, a mix of every race, income level and lifestyle.

The Threat: Suburban yuppies stuck in gridlock on the way to their downtown offices are drawn to the newly-renovated Victorian architecture in the old Midtown neighborhoods, which happened to be much closer to their offices. In addition, a large influx of Bay Area urban refugees hit Sacramento, driving up the rents.

The Response: Sadly, almost none. Residents sat around for years with their thumbs up their collective asses and watched their rents go from $400 per month up to $1200. Then they left. One response of note: a punk rock couple who ran an independent video store in a prime district in Midtown Sac fought back. Their store bulletin board was designed for other musicians, artists and film people to post notes to each other. A preponderance of irrelevant New Age fliers started to appear, aromatherapy workshops, yoga lessons, etc. The staff responded by placing a large notice on the board: NO FUCKING YOGA FLIERS!!!!

Thwarting Gentrification Strategy II: I Wish I Had One

But in lieu of a competent strategy, I would suggest that all foreign language media publications (i.e. anything not published in German language) start a disinformation campaign or at least a misinformation campaign. Everybody who has read anything about Berlin knows that it’s ‘poor, but sexy.’ That unemployment is high. This doesn’t discourage anyone from coming here. Especially yuppie scum. They are desperate to be hip. They can buy almost anything with their salaries and their credit. But they can’t buy cool.  I am not cool.  Nor are most of my friends.  We are mostly poor.  But we care about our neighborhood, our city and our lives. Dear Editor of a Foreign Language Publication in Berlin, pretty please, with sugar on top: tell the yuppies to fuck off. How you do it is up to you. A little hint: don’t advertise ‘penthouse flats with a view of Berlin for only 1200 euros per month!’ That’s a start.


Sincere thanks,

Craig Robinson
Veteran of the Gentrification Wars

Crap! Forgot to Blog About the May 1 Kreuzberg Riots!

Oh, yeah, they didn't have any this year. The rioters were too affected by the Global Crisis, Inc. to afford Che Guevara shirts and gas for their Molotov Cocktails. That and I got too pissed from drinking beer in the sun all day to post. I slept for 20 hours or something. I did manage to get some purty punk pix, though. See some of my punk pics and commentary here.

Currywurst uber alles?

Normally I’m not the kind of guy to go to another country, live there, and then tell the natives how to cook. I just accept the global cornucopia of culinary goodness in whatever country I lay my head. I revel in the vast diversity of the worldwide palate. If I’m in Prague, I am a smazeny syr (fried cheese) addict. When in Mexico, give me carne asada in a fresh, warm corn tortilla. And when I’m in London, I bask in fish and chips, Guvna. That and curry.

But then there’s the Berliner Currywurst. Good God. When I wasn’t basking in fish and chips in London, I did curry. A lot. I think I can say with reasonable certainty that I know what a proper curry tastes like (don’t say India, please. I’m sure theirs is full of worms, field mice and dysentery or something. Give me a London curry any day). Then I heard that in Berlin they eat something called currywurst. Hmmm, I thought. In Munich I’d had the obligatory Bavarian sausage feast with pretzels, mustard and beer. Beer in very large mugs. I thought maybe the Berliner variety of sausage would combine the best of Indian culture and German culture. Y’know, like, sausages in (perhaps) a spicy curry sauce. Cuz in Berlin they say ‘multi-kulti’ a lot. Good GOTT no. They take a hot dog—not even a decent sausage, mind you—and smother it in (wait for it….) KETCHUP. With about 20 flakes of curry powder sprinkled on top. And these people eat this sheise.

Once again, talk amongst yerselves, feeling a little verklempt ovah heah.