It’s hard to accurately describe the feeling of stepping off a plane into a city that you’d heard was harbouring some of the finest clubbing on the planet. It’s like an overwhelming mixture of anticipation, excitement, and apprehension... anticipation and excitement at the prospect of finally getting a first-hand account of the experiences had by those who had been before you, and apprehension at the thought of A) allowing enough time to take in everything you’d promised yourself, and B) whether the nightclub authorities would grant you access to their respectable sonic temples.
Naturally, one does not simply turn up at a city like Berlin without having done sufficient research prior to flight. That sort of approach is usually reserved for pauper-frequenting culture-dumpsters like Magaluf and Ayia Napa (and, to some extent, Ibiza these days). Don’t get me wrong, the afore-mentioned holiday destinations are perfect if all you’re after is a 10-day kerb crawl with your mates, and not everybody is as much of a muso snob as those constituting our Germany-bound ensemble. However, for this particular excursion (our man Kieran’s stag do), there was but one thing on the agenda: Techno. With Berlin being regarded as the mecca of Techno these days, it’s perhaps no surprise to hear that the Germans are extremely keen to guard what they have spent so many years establishing. Clubs like Berghain, Watergate, and Tresor have been known deny you entry based on whatever reason they deem justified... be it the way you’re dressed, the amount of people you’re with, your attitude, even your gender. To most out-of-town folk, this may come across as pretentious and rude, but it’s a simple fact of life in Berlin and there’s little point contesting it unfortunately.
With that in mind, I thought it best to play it safe, and packed my suitcase to bursting point with attire to give me the appearance of a fully-fledged member of the Technorati (or auditioning E4-presenting bellend.... your choice). First port of call was to be a small nightclub called Chantel (?) to catch a friend laying down some records to a gathering of homosexual partygoers on the other side of town. Ordinarily I wouldn’t bring sexuality into the equation when describing a clubs demographic, but when you take into consideration the fact that the poster for the night had a picture of a naked woman with her penis hanging out, then my tone-setting intentions become a little clearer... I think it would be accurate to describe the clubbers as extremely liberal-minded. That aside, the atmosphere in the venue was amazing. I could safely say it had been a while since I had been to what I would describe as being a ‘proper underground party’ (even if, for the locals, it wasn’t). It felt like how I imagined the early days of clubbing must have been, with stylishly antique decor eschewing the usual cold wine-bar arrangements that have sadly become commonplace. The music provided by our German contact was nothing short of top-drawer as well, and it was a pleasure to watch him work the room with his brand of no-nonsense House, on nothing but a mixer and a pair of 1210’s. Certainly it was extremely refreshing to witness, in a world where many DJs have a penchant for turning up to a gig with enough equipment to make NASA blush. We stayed at the venue til the early hours and headed home at about 5am so as not to burn ourselves out on the first night.
The following day brought with it the rest of our crew, as the Luton lads arrived shortly after Dave (as a result of a missed flight debacle which I can’t be arsed to go into). With our group at full capacity, tonight’s destination was the legendary Panoramabar, to catch John Tejada play live. This was to be the night I had most been anticipating, yet sadly it was also to be my first taste of Berlin’s selective brand of door government. With three members of the stag’s assembly already inside (including, thankfully, the stag), and no queue whatsoever at the door, confidences were high and we paired up (rule of thumb: don’t attempt entry into said clubs if you happen to be in any group larger than 2). Strolling towards the door, there appeared to be a large-shaped man carrying the appearance of someone who spent his spare time running an abattoir... the sort of abattoir that specialised in ‘taking care’ of bodies that the mafia couldn’t be bothered disposing of. Certainly not the sort of accommodating chap who would take kindly to any ill-advised attempt to relate to him on any level, so we felt it best to shut the fuck up, and await the inevitable judgement which would surely be passed upon us for trying to walk through the door he so militantly guarded. He signalled us to wait, and spent what felt like a week looking us up and down, whilst he patiently stroked his chin... and then it happened. He signalled for us to remove ourselves from the line and try our luck elsewhere. We didn’t argue. Instead we met up with the slightly-deflated Luton brigade (who had also been denied entry to Watergate due to there being “too many man” inside) and headed to Tresor to utilise the guestlist passes we had kindly been offered from Alex, the DJ at Chantel. Entry came as sweet relief and we dug in for a night of whatever they had on (there’s only so much refusal a man can take before he settles for the first thing to let him in, as most guys will testify). The basement (which looks like a nuclear bomb shelter) was hammering out an odd blend of ropey Breakbeat and uninspiring Techno, so we relocated upstairs and spent the rest of the night enjoying some pretty good Tech-House at the hands of TicTacToe/ConnectFour label-bosses Lars Gregers and Patrick Bateman. Night salvaged, as they say.
Awaking at around 2pm the following day (standard if you’re serious about taking on Berlin’s nightlife), we were informed of Tejada’s predictable excellence, and that Sascha Rydell was still every bit as pant-wettingly incompetent as previously experienced in London. Apparently, calling his mixing dexterity a perpetual trainwreck is in fact an insult to trainwrecks. That in itself is probably worthy of paying him a visit if he happens to be trainwrecking at a club near you. Inevitably with all the talk of Panoramabar, conversation drifted toward our second assault on the club, only this time for Berghain – the epicentre of German clubbing that Panoramabar is attached to. Len Faki and Dave Clarke were on the line-up, and DVS1 was rumoured to be dropping by for a spin, so there was everything to play for. Personally, I was adamant that I wasn’t going to leave Germany until i’d seen the inside of this converted power station, and spend the preceding hours mulling over all possible strategies for currying favour with the notoriously fickle bouncers. After much deliberation, we headed out but in different pairs this time to try and avoid any familiarity issues from the previous nights rejection. Reggy, Dars and Nick (our Dutch contingent, who were also regulars in Berlin) were optimistic that there would be no problems tonight, and rightfully stated that we could always try again later if at first we didn’t succeed. With the club remaining open for the best part of 2 days, there is always the option to repeatedly try your luck, so long as you leave a decent 3-4 hour gap between efforts (or enough time for them to sufficiently forget you). Buoyed by 3 pints of Warsteiner, and dressed head to toe in black (recommended), we made our play...
After progressing through a lengthy queue (which, oddly enough, only took about 15 minutes – German efficiency, innit) my slightly-more-experienced wingman Pagey and I reached the front. The last time i’d been this nervous was the visit to the urinals at Chantel. Three German lads just in front of us went up for judgement. Again the bouncer gave them the same milk-curdling stare and quietly contemplated whether he liked their haircuts or not. He shook his head and gave them the same signal he’d given me the night before, as they stepped out of the line and wandered off into the night. Suddenly I was hit by a huge wave of optimism as I realised this could be our chance, and my stomach tightened. We approached the door and he asked us how many in our group, for which I answered in the most piss-poor attempt at a German accent “Zwei, bitte...”. He looked us up and down and looked towards one of his workmates who nodded..... and then turned back and waved us both inside. I was fucking elated, and it was all I could do to retain composure as we walked into Berghain.
Inside, I was greeted with a deafening roar, much akin to listening to a jet engine at full grunt. After asking what it was, Page smiled and simply said “That’s Berghain, mate”. Walking up the stairs into the cathedral-like main room and suddenly the sound crystallised and we were presented with possibly the purest of club setups that i’ve ever seen. No visuals were apparent, no glorified DJ booth, and no overblown pyrotechnic shows anywhere to be seen. In their place was probably the biggest Funktion One sound system that cocooned the elevated dancefloor and drove sound into the centre like an acoustic battering ram. Blue lighting strafed the room from the lights mounted in the rafters, and panels of light mounted in the far wall fired off in sequence. For a first-time visit, I was sufficiently blown away by the drama of it all. We took a quick tour of the place, including a stroll through Panoramabar, and past the arty anus pictures (you havn’t lived until you’ve seen a 5ft high mural of the inside of someone’s ass). After grabbing a drink, we headed back into the main room and sidestepped the walkway down to the Dungeon (seriously dodgy bumming bunker where i’ve been informed “there is no safe word”), meeting up with some of the others. I can safely say i’ve never been anywhere like it before, and as I stood there at the balcony overlooking the Panoramabar dancefloor at 3am whilst a young couple casually had sex on the sofa next to me, I could see why it had become renowned as one of the best nightclubs in the world.
By the time I was done listening to Faki and Clarke rattling the brickwork at 12noon the following day, I was already thinking about how much I was looking forward to returning one day soon.
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