Drunk and Famous

Midnight at some Berlin venue and they’re handing out currywurst next to the bars, celebrities with new breasts bouncing everywhere, free drinks in every direction. Either I’d made it in Berlin or I was just really good at sneaking in.

The first day of the festival hadn’t exactly been orgasmic, so when someone mentioned this thing at ewerk, this VW-sponsored networking night, I figured why not. The kind of event where the important people from the important companies in the important industries were dancing around, and somehow so was I. Still pretty drunk.

I talked to Wilson Gonzales Ochsenknecht about a festival we’d both been to, to Bonnie Strange about idols and friendship, and to a bunch of music managers about the state of the industry. Got some advice that if you say business five times in a sentence people take you more seriously—though honestly alcohol does the real work, and after a few drinks everyone wants to sign you or manage you or put you on a stage, regardless of who you are or what you actually do.

The crowd was mostly sympathetic to itself. Celebrities annoyed at other celebrities, music people annoyed at music people, everyone united in their contempt for this guy Karl-Heinz who’d somehow won his way in and spent the night calling his girlfriend to report every famous face he’d spotted. That girl from Jungle Camp is here, she’s got huge tits, she’s at the bar right now!

But the catering staff had figured out the truth long ago: celebrities are just people. By 2am they were crowded into this tiny side room, throwing glasses and bottles around, stumbling through a seventy-meter line just to get a sausage with red sauce. Like right after the war, everyone desperate for a hot meal.

Eventually I’d had enough of half-naked models on coke and soap actresses pressed against me slick with sweat. I stage-dived my way to the exit in my neon blue jacket—the jacket of the oppressed—and left without even taking the goodie bag. I owe thanks to the band whose name I’ve already forgotten but who smuggled me in through their guitar case, and to Bruno the bouncer, who I gave a quick lick on the way out. He never asked another question after that. God protect him.