Watergate
We emerge blinking into the foggy daylight with the thundering beats fading behind us. The mist coming off the Spree and the perpetual dampness of November in Berlin contribute to an overall effect of alternate reality, of day and night in reverse. It’s 8.30am and my brother and I are waiting for the U-Bahn. Around the station the only people hanging about are the wasted remains of yesterday’s parties, some shuddering under winter jackets and some eagerly awaiting the next club where the DJs don’t start til 9am on a Sunday. I have my hood pulled down low over my eyes so I won’t make contact with the enlarged black pupils and gurning jaws. I’m feeling ropey and would like to be in bed. I've just thrown up on the steps at Kottbusser Tor.
Ordinarily techno is not my thing. I find it repetitive, monotonous, boring and fundamentally lacking the energy and community of the punk scene. But being in the techno capital of Europe, it would seem imprudent to make a judgement on this scene without experiencing it first hand. My brother, a drum n bass DJ from London, was insistent that we research the acts playing across Berlin the weekend of his visit, find out as much as we could about door policy, and prepare ourselves for an intense night of techno. Watergate was our chosen destination because it was Anja Schneider’s label night and the huge techno festival at Templehof airport was a prohibitive €42. We’d heard a lot about the Berghain door policy: no tourists, no groups, no photos, dressing 'gay', no talking in the queue, no anoraks, etc. but we weren't sure what to expect at Watergate.
We sat at home listening to music as we got ready, drinking rum with the people in our building. Around 1.30 (really early by Berlin standards), after a drunken U-Bahn journey and fighting through the hoards at Warschauer Strasse, we stood in the queue. Nobody was talking and there were groups of guys standing around having just been rejected. Two desperate rejectees offered to pay the entrance fee for my friend Lizzie and I in return for helping them get in. Apparently a touch of femininity at this sausage fest would help their cause, but my brother wanted to cut them loose, claiming we shouldn't endanger our chances of getting in for the sake of €30. Turning down free entry was like the first time I waxed my legs and felt incapable of ripping off the strips. After hesitating with my fingers curled nervously around the edges, I spent hours scrubbing them off with hot water. In this case, we know what we had to do. We ripped off the strip. We shooed them away and halted all conversation in English between us.
Approaching the bouncers we were asked how many people were in our group and our ages before being looked up and down with a torch. The rope unceremoniously slackened and we were allowed in.
The club itself has an ultra-cool set up with panorama windows looking out across the Spree, lit up by a huge Universal Studios logo. The downstairs area is small and intimate, whereas the upstairs is bigger, with a ceiling covered in circular lights. The toilets are unisex and constantly packed with people taking drugs in groups. When you finally gain entrance into one of the cubicles, the sides are covered in white powder and various other substances and you piss to the sound of beats, cheers and people banging on the door to hurry you up. A man in a bum bag hovers around the toilets selling drugs unsurreptitiously to anyone and everyone. Pretty much everyone.
Outside of the toilets the music swallows you up and hundreds of bodies throb to the relentless beats. We disappeared into the masse and didn’t emerge for several hours. At one point the darkness began to fade and a mist rose up from the water. As people stood watching the tentacles of daylight snake towards them, huge blackout curtains were dropped down to hide this evidence of a new day. Suddenly it was night again and the music just got louder.
Although I can't say I will now become a huge techno fan, not least because I don't think I can afford the techno lifestyle (15 euros on the door door, 4 euro beers, countless more on drugs if that's your bag), but mainly because I think I could never be comfortable with the idea of attending events where the coolness of your demeanour is instrumental in whether you're allowed through the door, regardless of whether you're a millionaire or a student. The stories of Berghain, one of Berlin's notorious clubs; bouncers beating up people who take photos, a Spanish tourist quota, a full fashion appraisal on the door; are prohibitive for anyone wanting to take their first steps into this scene. However, having made it into Watergate and experiencing the atmosphere, the music pounding through the floor and off the walls and the intensity and passion of techno fans, I am glad that I experienced the grimy and energetic underbelly of Berlin dance culture first hand.
Back at the station. The train rolls in. The majority of people inside are staring at the floor or curled up like hungover foetuses. We sit and shake and roll and mutter against the backdrop of the clackety clack from the tracks. I'm glad I wore flat shoes because every part of me hurts. My voice croaks like Madge Bishop, sweat is caked to my body and I smell as if I have rolled in an ashtray. Maybe I have. We stumble out at Bernauer Strasse, see someone from my building going to work and hide behind a ticket machine until she is gone, cackling like school kids.
Nearly home.
It was a big night in Berlin. And my bed was never more appealing.
By Christina Dixon
Thanks, Chris. Good stuff - love Berlin, like Techno.
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