Worm Leatherette II – a club night at OHM Berlin, 21 April 2016
Your DJs for the night – they called us the pop kids – are Roger Semsroth [Sleeparchive, once worked at Hard Wax], Finn Johannsen [Macro, still works at Hard Wax] and Philip Marshall [The Tapeworm, unemployable]. Plus a live PA by the incomparable Zerocrop, whom “age has not withered nor custom staled his infinite variety of sourness and ruin”, or so it says here…
You were thrown out of that posh private party in the suburbs earlier on. The beer was gone, so you nicked some fine spirits from the cabinet of the hostess' parents and shared generously. You insulted most of the male guests, and flirted with most of the female guests (or was it the other way round?). They discovered the messages you left on the bathroom mirror and disapproved, even if it was the best poetry you had ever written. At least they could not rub it off that easily. But now the girls did not flirt back any longer (or was it the boys?). You could not afford them anyway. The music was terrible, but you could do nothing about it, as you lost your tape at the station where you got your booze for the way to the party. You walked there, activating every motion sensor in every villa along the street with silly dance moves, and deactivating every second lamp post with a kung fu kick. For contrast. Before walking there, you took the bus.
Now you ride the bus again, into the city. You glance cautiously at the mulleted proles with similar intentions. They are as drunk as you are, and they stare right back. They hate your hair, jacket, badges, and shoes. They hate the rest as well. They are always more than one, never on their own. You hate buses. One day you will be able to afford a cab. Actually you could already afford it, but you prefer to spend your money on getting drunk and the outfit they hate. But until the night you can afford all of it at the same time you already think about what will happen if you meet the same bunch tomorrow morning, waiting for the first bus. You will run again. Weekends mean running. Maybe you can run faster. You better try. But you will be not in time anyway, and there will be further trouble once you arrive, either torn and beaten up or not, but wasted either way.
There had been a fight already as you arrive. You see the blood and broken glass. You see the blood on the broken glass. You see a badge on the pavement, and tonight you are wearing the same one. You encounter witnesses. You laugh them off for exaggerating, even if you know they do not. You walk down the stairs to the club. It is never a club with a view. You always descend. You pass the soccer table (it's those pros with the gloves again, waiting for victims) and head for the bar. You do not know as many people as you expected, and you wonder if this is good or bad. The DJ introduces the dark round. ALICE PRESSED AGAINST THE WALL, SO SHE CAN SEE THE DOOR. True that. Always keep an eye on the door, either for the next local street gang to feel lucky tonight, or the cops looking to boost a boring shift. Both know this crowd is an easy target. But maybe also that girl might come in (or was it a boy?) But the punk round always come first. DOWN THE STAIRS, NO ONE CARES. HE WHO WINS IS HE WHO DARES. It's either Buzzcocks next, or something for the scooter boys. But they are not that present tonight, so it means a shortcut to synths, and the floor is split between the heavy fog and the meagre disco lights division. VOLUNTARY EXPERIMENTATION, GOING THROUGH SOFTCORE MUTATION. Ha, softcore your ass. Bring it on. But for now, you compare your own unimpressed look to others. You realize the button on your jacket's pocket came off again and your cigarettes are gone. Your keys as well. You decide to postpone the consequences as long as possible. For the keys at least. You will have to wait until the lights come back up to fish for some cigarette money and you get one from the soccer table pros. You wonder if they have a theme song. RIPPING ROPES FROM BELGIAN WHARFS. Oh, please. BREATHLESS BEAUXILLOUS GRIFFIN ONCE REMOVED SEEMED DWARFED. P-L-E-A-S-E! You are determined your next drink will be something fruity that does not glow in the dark, and you wonder if that is even possible. You get a warm beer instead. And some mean shot. You want results. You take a leak, you hear someone snorting bad speed. As if anything in here really requires chemical pace. You read the same tired jokes on the wall. You check your hair in the broken mirror, even if it is does not need checking. You read the same tired jokes written on there, too. Back in, another round. A lighter one. Quiffs and Marc O'Polo sweaters, predictably. You recognize that girl from the party hours before (or was it a boy?). Of course you did not have your eye on the door, but there might still be time. DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT LOVE. Ha. YESTERDAYS SHATTER, TOMORROWS DON'T MATTER. Ha Ha. You think the DJ could be smarter than anybody else in here. Except you, of course. Later you wake up next to a girl on that dirty sofa (or was it a boy?). You are not sure if anything happened. It does look a bit as if something happened. No, actually you just do not know. Not many people left, slow songs already. WHERE HAS LOVE GONE FROM HERE? You watch the very recent couples, who do not know either. You are too wasted to join in with whomever. UNLESS. Maybe half an hour left before exit into daylight, and then you will have to run. Oh well.
This is not a true story.
Everything will be different.
We invite you to hear the BEST FUCKING MUSIC EVER.
NO TRUMPETS (some maybe).
Do come by and bring some love. And other people.
We love you (YOU PAY OUR RENT).
Finn, Roger unt Wyrm