Against All Authority

Another insomnia induced entry.

Sometime last week while leaving the apartment we noticed a letter taped to the front glass door. The Polezi letterhead caught my attention and a short wave of panic set in, being foreign occupants of this very building. I quickly scanned the notes for anything else alarming or incriminating, like our names.

I read part of the heading and in quotes was written "(something)...gegen Herrschaft und Kapitalismus". I could translate enough to know that this was the international language of organized protest. Then I recalled reading that all protests and mass demonstrations in Germany must be registered with local police departments. This was an update from the Police forecasting the path of a protest on saturday that would be closely followed by riot cops and trucks with blue flashing lights. Yes, it strikes me as a contradiction that to protest against what you perceive as an authoritarian system you must first register with the local authority (begging the question, how do you protest against this policy?). But i know that this process is not isolated to Germany. If you want to organize a protest or demonstration in SF or NYC, that will last any length of time, you must also register for a permit. However, in the US it is often referred to as a permit to march or hold a parade, at least in Germany they are willing to differentiate between a parade and a protest. As stifling and bureaucratic as this process may be, the act of going door-to-door with notes acts as a form of public announcement and a social service (having seen no other flyers).

The specific translation of the protest's theme has still alluded me, 'gegen Herrchaft und Kapitalismus.' The best I have been able to decipher was Kapitalismus is obviously Capitalism, and Herrschaft is some combination of tyranny, authority and nepotism; and this protest was against both. The event went off on Saturday night as announced. We first encountered the group at the end of our street, a group projected to number between 500-1000, carrying signs and beers and followed by a group of police wearing olive green armor that resembled space suits. We crossed paths again on the way to the Montanaberlin opening and later outside of a falafel stand where we stopped to eat. By this time in the night the protesters were getting more drunk and the cops more bored, with the sounds of sirens and broken bottles a cat-and-mouse game ensued.



After this we regrouped at G's apartment nearby to watch a movie while deciding on any future plans. G's roommate N is a filmmaker and had quite a large selection of movies to choose from. We decided on a movie from the early 1970's called "McCabe & Mrs. Miller". A Western starring Warren Beaty and a soundtrack by Leonard Cohen that seemed an unlikely enough combination to produce some interesting surprises. As far as i could tell it paid off, but half an hour into the movie N came home and invited us all to go out to a club, where he had reserved a few spots on the guest list. It was both a generous offer and the kind that would be almost rude to turn down. Four of us decided to go under the clause 'as long as there is no cover' and S went home because she was in the middle of a juice fast.

5 passengers was too many for a taxi so we were left with the option of walking across town. Getting to the club was a bit of sight-seeing through Berlin's equivalent of the National Mall followed by 5th Avenue. N was unsure of the exact location so once we were close we just followed the groups of people our own age roaming around in the shopping district at midnight. We followed them into an alley, along a path marked by orange tape, that led to a loading dock where the line formed. This was the kind of club that had a different name on different nights and depending on whether you entered from the front door or the back door. Tonight it was called Crush and other nights it would be called Cookie. After getting in line we learned that the cover was 15 Euros and that N could only manage to get 2 names on the list. We debated about who would stay trying to do the math to make it equal for everyone, but in the end SS and B chose to pass. That left the three of us to wait in the less than celebrity status line while others eased in, on the right, after affectionately greeting the bouncer. Once we were waived inside we learned that the guest list had been discarded and that each of us would have to pay to enter. Standing there with a dumbfounded look on our face, we decided that since we'd made it this far why turn back. By then N, the only german speaker, had already paid our covers and we went inside promising to buy his drinks for the night.

We walked into a large dark room, with high ceilings and a dancefloor book-ended by bar counters. The interior design of the club was versatile. There were 12-15 digital projectors hanging from the ceiling projecting a red pixellated foliage motif onto the walls, allowing the club to change its image as often as it pleases. We each got drinks and N proceeded to show us around, while he told us of a British band he was interested in was performing tonight. The room was packed and break-beat house music bounced off of the walls and from person to person. N took us through a short passageway and into another room with low ceilings and simulated wood panelling. This room was about the size of your average trailer home with couches lining one wall and it had a different soundtrack than the previous room. In this room a DJ was spinning European and American pop from the 1980's giving the space the feel of a make-out room. There were people packed in the front dancing somewhat less self-conciously than on the other dance floor. This room felt a little more comfortable, reminding me of some of the impromptu dance parties in our kitchen in SF. N said there was one more room if we wanted to check it out, so we did. This room didn't quite fit. We had to climb a back stairwell that led to a door. We peered in but never entered. From outside you could see an abstract geometric painting with the word 'ficken.' stenciled on it. (if you don't know what this word means don't bother looking it up.) The room was rather stark and populated with tables where a few remaining couples were dining. I guess it is the equivalent of dinner and a movie.

We went back down to the main room to catch the band's performance. We all felt they would have been better without the singer. They possessed a coffee-house sound plus a keyboard. Since we fought this hard to get here I thought I would embrace it and proceeded to go out onto the dance floor. I stood there for a while listening to fragmented German conversations and checking-out the crowd. Everyone was dressed to 'go-out' but in a laissez-faire kind of way, including the girl standing in front of me whose outfit shocked me. I could only see her back, but she wearing tight jeans, flats, and Nike t-shirt, cut into a muscle shirt worn over a pink tank-top. In small print was a Nike slogan, "There is no finish line", followed by a swoosh. No finish line?...this was her party wardrobe. All of a sudden I started to picture all-night drug-fuelled raves, parties that never really finish just move from one venue to the next. Dressing up to go out on Friday night and not returning home until Sunday morning. I was in awe and dumb-struck. She had somehow managed to totally subvert Nike, turning one of their banal wholesome slogans into something impure. I know that Europeans have a different relationship to Nike's branding than Americans, that I cannot admit to totally understanding. A sort of appropriation that crosses all genres. This was a radical gesture that I don't think any American would every try. Even if they did I don't think it would have the same un-ironic effect. In America, Nike is a practically a uniform. It is so prevalent that their clothes are handed out to high school athletic teams, found in free-bins, and distributed by volunteers at clothing drives. She didn't know about any of this and she didn't care, this shirt was making a statement. A statement that was never sanctioned by Nike. I've seen many people try this but never overcoming the obviousness of protest or political art. Attempts ranging from street graffiti to gallery artists, including Hank Willis Thomas' digital photographs (Nike = racism) and Brian Jungens tribal masks (Nike = colonialism+ sweatshop labor). Their work leans on a common understanding of Nike-ness, that evening she managed to change what Nike 'means'.

I spent the rest of the night dancing and dwelling on this, leaving at 3:30 to walk home.