“Ah yes,” Lena laughed snidely, “A true angel. Do you think the Catholics would like the lyrics about the shit, the fighting or the depression more?”
“Maybe you should write some religious music then!” Hans conceded, ignoring her tone, “Something you can scream about. Like Hell?”
“Maybe I’ll run that by the pastor,” Lena joked, finally warming up to human contact outside of a mosh pit, “and see if he would like me to sing in the choir.”
“Well, let me know if you do and I will wear my best jacket!” The two laughed as Hans tugged on his jacket—a dingy mix of denim and cobbled leather that looked like he had roughly sewn it together himself.
“I have to go, though,” Lena interrupted the exchange. “If I don’t smoke a cigarette, my voice will lose its sex appeal. That and I’ll start killing people.”
“Well then perhaps I’ll join you after you have had some time to yourself.”
Lena genuinely hoped he would—after the cigarette, that is. Her blood was beginning to ache. The two shared a final smile and Lena, staving off her carefully cultivated don’t-touch-me-vibe, managed an awkward, one-armed hug before darting out into the cold air.
Lena absentmindedly smoked her cigarette outside the small church. She should have been helping her band load up equipment, but they were used to it by now. Every show, she would give the music all she had, wasting her brain on the abyss of sonic warfare. By the time the shows were over she would be shaking with weakness. Now was not the time for conversation; now was the time for reflection and nicotine. Really, it was the same thing.
The air was nippy and filled with the promises that Eastern Germany always brought in the Falclass="underline" “enjoy your smoke break while you can… it will be colder soon.” Yet despite the chill (which Lena secretly enjoyed) evening-time in East Berlin was beautiful in a stoic sort of way. The German Democratic Republic (or GDR) was a big place. Much of its landmass was lovely forests and pleasant streams, with Summer-houses dotting the landscape. Nearly everyone in the GDR had a summer-house that they used from time to time to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. When they could of course—very few people owned cars in this country and the waiting list for one could take years.
Lena, however, actually preferred the city. It was filled with large concrete buildings that often sported a plain yet strong construction, and a plainer (yet somehow stronger) dressing that seemed comforting in a way. Perhaps it was just that it was familiar, but it also seemed to offer protection. Everything squeezed closer together the further towards the Wall that you went. This meant alleyways and a maze of fences, dumpsters and low walls to hop over for a midnight stroll past curfew. What few lights were on in the buildings added even more comfort to the locales. Everyone worked in the GDR, which meant that everyone who wasn’t throwing down in the pit had work in the morning. She knew the buildings were full of people warm and cozy in their beds, sound asleep while Lena’s people were roaming wild and up to no good.
As she took an indulgent drag she rested her weary bones against the tarnished stones of the old church. While small on the inside it had an exterior that communicated both charm and power. It was a saggy building but resolute in its foundation. As she considered it by touching the slightly damp wood of the building’s siding, she had to laugh to herself at the irony of the ruckus it had contained only minutes before.
This was far from Lebensmüde’s first show they had performed in a church. Hell, these days churches were the only venues willing to host ‘youth music’ of any kind. Originally punk bands and hip-hop acts had found some modicum of safe haven in the embassies, of all places. Apparently, the father of one band’s lead singer was a prodigious diplomat in the Yugoslavian Embassy and wouldn’t be bothered by the stodgy mewlings of a few stuffed-shirt glad-handers and their lack of understanding for naturally-occurring teenage angst. Of course, that was back when there were perhaps forty punks in the entire GDR; now there were hundreds in Berlin alone, and their numbers were growing every week.
Then the Secret Police, the Stasi, had put a stop to the embassies’ collusion with youthful verve, claiming that the punks were a threat to the State. So the churches decided to pick up where the embassies left off. “They are just children!” a pastor or priest would explain. “They are merely expressing themselves! It’s only part of the growing process, after all!” Regardless of their approval of the lyrics or Lena’s hair, or Lena’s clothing, or… well, Lena in general… they felt God charging them with encouragement. And so far, they had held to this regardless of how raucous the music became or how many rafters the bassist brought down.
Punk was hardly a controlled affair at the best of times, and East Berlin, 1981, could hardly be considered the best of times. Music was strictly controlled in the GDR. The only music that had been allowed (both on the airwaves and in the streets) were State-approved acts that represented ‘good socialist values’. Hell, you even had to get a license to perform sometimes and you certainly had to if you wanted to make any sort of money at it. Artists (just like the art they made) were looked down upon as ‘inherently seditious’– especially if the artist was young.
It hadn’t always been like this. The Politburo had wisely realized that they were old as dirt and had long forgotten the restlessness of hormones, along with the awkward romantic yearnings (and attempts) they brought. The Politburo just didn’t wisely realize much else. In a strange attempt to ‘connect’ with the youth, a few American films had made it into movie theaters, including an especially scandalous one about the American hip-hop scene named Street Beat. No doubt, the ruling class had hoped that the youth of the GDR would see the disrespectful and unruly behavior of their American counterparts—the dancing, free sexual expression and distrust for authority—as vile and reprehensible.
This was quite far from the case. Within months the GDR had a rather comprehensive and vivacious hip-hop scene of its own. It was a package-deal of newfound culture complete with DJ’s spinning turn-tables, hand-made ‘threads’, and wild dance parties. When this reached the Stasi’s notice, they made it their personal mission to shut it down as a public nuisance, threat to the peace and inherently ‘anti-socialist’.
Oh sure, a few western acts still made it onto the airwaves. But the Stasi heavily enforced the 40/60 rule—40-percent Western music to 60-percent socialist tunes. Even then, every single song that was heard must have first passed a secret and exhaustive litmus test for ‘social responsibility’. Love for a woman was ok, but love for your country was better. Pride in your physical prowess was acceptable, but pride in the GDR’s recently developed and ‘internationally adopted’ corn-husking techniques was better. Promiscuity and violence were, of course, not acceptable; what would the world think if the youth of GDR weren’t joining hands in a cultish display of fatalistic nationalism? And God help you, the listener, if you were found with the (gasp!) albums of the more prodigal of the bands. The Stasi could make anyone disappear.
Perhaps this was the reason why the Sex Pistols were so heavily lauded in the GDR among the punks. It seemed nearly ironic back when Lena had first heard their music on a smuggled record at the house of a friend. It was shocking—evil, almost. These were dastardly men, drug addicts to the last. And none of them were the least bit concerned with safety, longevity, the future, or even loyalty. They held nothing sacred—not the ruling class, not the laws, not the police, not even their country. They all wanted to watch it burn. Lena heard the message and she craved more.