Berlin's Derelict Beauty

Berlin’s club culture is a sneaky bugger, as are most of the places worth finding in Berlin. This isn’t London, with garish signs made of obnoxious neon lights. No, here you have to be in tune with your instincts and think like the strong silent type. Keep your ear to the ground, listen for the buffalo. Which way’s the wind blowing? Aha! There, that back alley that’s the place, I guarantee you. How? Trust me. This isn’t Christianity, sometimes having faith does pay, and in this case it certainly did. The first rule of Panorama Bar is; you do not talk about Panorama Bar. The second rule of Panorama Bar is; you do not talk about Panorama Bar. Im not at liberty to say where exactly this rainbow lit warehouse of twisted dreams is, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. This is not the sort of club you get directions to. Oh no. This is the type of Club that finds you, if you’re worthy. So, were we?

East Berlin. Ostbahnhof station. We stumble upon a working-class darts bar. A men’s club for hard grafters. We obviously don’t belong here and after a night of asking apathetic Germans, “where’s Panorama bar?” we’re sure to get no welcoming vibe in this incestuous pit. How wrong we were. The third rule of Panorama Bar is; don’t judge foreigners by English standards. We’re not in Panorama Bar yet but the host of this little establishment is more than inviting; it always pays to have a blonde with you. His German still sounds abusive, but there’s no doubt of his willingness as he encourages his mate who was happily propping up the bar before our entry, to fetch us some beers. But these aren’t just beers; these are pint and half glasses full to the brim of cool crisp Berliner Weisse wonder, all for just 2 Euros. Good stuff. After broken dialect on both sides we’re wooed further with some sort of regional liquor, a peppermint spirit that slips down the oesophagus like liquid toothpaste.

We leave. Our focus is impaired. That’s fine. It probably helps us as we fall upon our holy grail. The fourth rule of Panorama Bar is; digital cameras are confiscated at the iron door entrance. No Google images here. Word of mouth is the best form of advertising. Steel steps and corridors of peeling wallpaper are packed with paying nations spouting all sorts of gibberish. What was this building before its makeover? No, that’s misleading, more like a takeover. A forced intervention by some psychosomatic European raver’s on a poor unsuspecting abandoned building. That’s the beauty of Berlin. The intuition of artists and musicians to set up shop in such derelict structures as this and use the space however they see creatively fit. And more importantly the freedom they have to do so. No health and safety regulations here. No hard hats provided. Keep your wits about you and trust your instincts. When you walk around this city, day or night, in just a few steps, you can go from a vibrant, graffiti filled street packed with colour and visual noise, to a deserted, melancholy council blocks full of bombed hopes and dreams, empty except for the malaise.

We enter what must be the main room. The fifth rule of Panorama Bar is; you know it’s going to be an interesting night when you see transsexual strippers sitting inside speakers, pulling pills out of their panties. Quite a sight. The steady thump of European Techno pumps away from stacks twice the size of your average man. But there are no average men or women here, no ladies or gentlemen, just the weird elite of Berlin’s club subculture. And you can sense these party fiends are just hotting up. Wetting their appetite. The place stinks of smoke, brilliant. What a welcome smell filling us with nostalgia of old civil rights and public freedom. After the ban in England most clubs now reek of sweat, vomit and stale beer. I know what I prefer. Indeed we have arrived. We get our groove on and there’s a subtle undertone of unity and mutual understanding between everyone in the high ceiling space. We’re all here for a good time, and unlike in London we’re all going to help each other have it. After the first hour and a disco biscuit later we sit down for a quick rest and casually observe the human sized picture of a pussy on the far wall. Garish for the sake of garish. How Postmodern.

We survey the scene. The sixth rule of Panorama Bar is; the club dancefloor reflects the city streets – you’ve got room to breathe. You can move through the crowds without getting elbowed in the ribs by angry shape-cutters or egotistical businessmen. In the unisex toilets girls and boys alike have time for conversation rather than rushing for the tube and only concentrating on their individual destinations. The seventh rule of Panorama Bar is; don’t judge Germans by English standards. This war torn city has learnt its lessons from pissing off the rest of the world, twice. Perhaps if the Middle East conflict ever resolves itself or if Bush makes as big a balls up as Hitler did, which arguably he has but its less easy to recognize because of all the paid for bullshit these days. Or if English politicians such as Blair and Brown grow a pair between them, then maybe just maybe we in the UK can be as free and forgiving as those in Germany.

No time to get sentimental though. Orchestral horns chorus a pounding bassline. The eighth rule of Panorama Bar is; Gregorian chant and minimal Techno is a lethal concoction only for the most refined musical palette. And we’ve definitely got that. The tempo slowly but surely increases as we become loose of mind and tongue. Beer, wine, drop. Beer, wine, drop. Drop beats, not bombs. Drop acid, not bombs. Drop judgements, not bombs. Join in, let go. Limbs to and fro. The throng of people flow in the unspoken communication of body language.

The ninth rule of Panorama Bar is; it stays open until the last person leaves. The windows are blacked out so you forget about night and day. Time has no relevance here, only the subtle certainty of seamless mixing. One track merges into the other without as much as a hint. You’re in for the long haul my friend so stop clock watching and just dance. We break down the language barrier as the doors of perception open. Have time for humans and hallucinations alike. Don’t dismiss people and accordion playing panda bears just because you’re not familiar with the dialogue. Stop, collaborate and listen.

The tenth rule of Panorama Bar is; when a whole nation has been persuaded into persecuting an entire race they hold very little against unfamiliar foreigners, quite the contrary. Maybe all countries need to admit to falling into the darkest depths of discrimination, in order to climb out of the rabbit hole and learn to be open minded and less easily led. And it’s not that Germany’s still paying for its mistakes, not at all, rather it’s realised. It’s realised she has been stripped bare, economically, politically and socially raped – to be made a global example of. Therefore it’s evident that from nothingness comes everything. Rebuilt trust between the people of the homeland with honest communities who openly invite the eclectic myriads it attracts every year. This is why it has grown to be a beacon of diversity for artists and musicians, intellectuals and homeless, students and professionals, all like moths to the flame of its naked capital.