10.04.2006

Itís All About Gude LauneÖ








I can swear in Argentinean now. "Boludo" for example, is absolutely essential and therefore a very handy word as it can be used for absolutely everything and everyone, the meaning ranging from nice banter to super heavy insult, which makes it the best all-round word ever! But exactly that made it really hard to use for me. I just could not get my head around how to throw it into conversation and in which context: The younger lot which is as verbally versed as the "cool dude" fraction in the US of A for example use it all the bloody time. Usually like this: "Che, boludo!" or ďBoluda, sos re boluda!Ē which is about as meaningful as anything you say fifty times a minute. As this kind of talking is somewhat heavy on the good old tongue front and can only really happen if you are really quick talking in your own language, I prefer not to say anything too slangy as it's just not authentic. When I got a hang of this expression, I could just about talk like an innocent schoolkid, no use to pretend I was an Argentinean teenager. However, the first time this much talked about, proverbial "boludo" slipped right over my tongue totally casually and perfectly timed, I felt like I really succeeded on my mission here. I finally blend in in some situations where casualty is a must, and it suits me rather well. Itís not always like this. Sometimes, I feel perfectly misplaced. For example last night: I actually ended up on an underground party held in a super under and well-equipped mini warehouse photo studio art space. Tobias Thomas from Cologne and DJ Koze from Hamburgo were to spin the wheels of steel later but at the time we got there Ė way too early Ė there was only us shuddering in our thick winter robes as well as a high-heeled leather-clad gay geek, the host. Boludo.

An hour later, there was some real influx. More anorexic gay geeks in crazy frocks and rimmed glasses from the Eighties. Flash back. Some people who started building some spliffs looking for conversation. I felt faint. Some truly stylish girls swept in but none of them introduced themselves to me. I felt even fainter. While all the boys got kisses, I was ignored. My self-esteem shrank proportionally to the number of sexy hotties making an entrance. Wherever I go, I stand out of the crowd, but here I was no more than a grey mouse. Super boludo. Parked in the corner. The uncool kid sweating in discomfort. Una boluda re boluda que no tiene nigun nivel de boludesa. Boohoo. Oh bueno. This reminded me being at some big festival here in Buenos Aires trying to execute an interview with one-of-the-most-famous-whatever DJs. When I got there, the press girl dragged me backstage and introduced me to all the VIPs who were all nicely donned with this vaguely bored blasť look that somehow seems to be a result of years of "private" education. I wonder what they do in privacy? Take sleeping pills and other sedatives? "This is Kat, she is working for that REALLY big magazine in Germany, what was it called again...?" she said. Her introduction almost made me burst out in laughter Ė "actually, quite a lot of people read it, in Germany, eh Europe actually, you know weíre kind of the biggest mag in the whole world?" would have been an equally stupid reply but I didnít say anything. I felt overwhelmed. I am not good in shameless self-promotional banter when itís on that level. Too late to leave an impression anyway. The group of VIPs turned away, uninterested in finding more about me.

Being backstage at big electronic music festivals means being special. No matter where in the world you are, if youíre behind the scenes, youíre in the game. AhÖ the game. Here in Buenos Aires, everything seems even more glossy and hedonistic than in Germany, partly because there are some truly beautiful people here who, even though they might abuse drugs, have bronzed skin. Partly because electronic music is still considered glamorous. Glam. Yeah. Why the fuck not? Gimme what you got. Nightlife is highlife. Time to celebrate, baby! There are spotlights in bright colours in which the models and part time models and page three models and ultimate page models and wannabe ultimate page models as well as all those who just wanna pull someone who wants to pull models sunbathe themselves. They get out their raciest look, usually something between Ferrari and the Tigra, and walk around with their sunglasses on, totally entranced by their own appearance. They love it. It's super orangemoccafrappucino. However, I was a little to heavy on myself on the good ole ganj front, didnít wear my sunglasses and therefore just felt like I was not connecting. Even worse, I didnít feel the vibes of any of the 60,000 people, and that's the sad truth. The only person I liked was the DJ I interviewed so big up to him to keeping it real with select weirdos cos his whole life is a whole orangemoccafrappucino party that never ends. In the short time we were standing together backstage, the people were buzzing around him like flies. To tell him some stuff like: "The way you dropped the firth tune in the second half of your set was mind-blowing. Fabulous. Congratulations" or "Man, here's my new tune, it's somewhat like that stuff that's was kicking off in Miami, only with a little more Berlin, if you know what I mean. Check it out and let me know what you think, maybe I can arrange something with your manager". He was like "ye, ye, sure, sure", just standing there, a skinny boyish guy with a mischievous beam of a grin he only let out when he looked me straight into the eyes. I saw a bonfire burning in his. Rrrrrraw.

Hidden behind the cultivated faÁade was the diabolic wildness of a true party animal who cares fuck all. A player in the game of fame. He loves his music so his job is something he is always happy to do, dealing the records not giving a shit who will listen to them and what their intentions are. Fair play methinks. Some people are hardcore. I quite like to meet these kind of people sometimes. They don't waste their time on this planet, they do the stuff they want to do. A great way of living up to your good ol' Karma. Uff. Heavy shit, huh. I didn't have the feeling on that party last night. I didnít meet people who seriously don't give a shit. But maybe they didnít. Maybe it was just I not connecting. Making myself the ugly duckling. Why did I care that some of the sailing in guests were true super model girls with braided hair and black lined on their black tights that could be chased up all the way to the rim of the dark dress that only covered the necessary. Why did I care that everyoneís out fit seemed carefully constructed. Donít I pay too much attention? Why waste time on that? But I wonít budge. I am thinking. It's a fucking Monday and I am feeling sick and tired after a heavy weekend of party excess. I cannot help but be a little jealous facing all these vital party people who seem to love being here so I go home. I am a lousy sport tonight so itís the best for all involved and no thing to be ashamed of. You canít always be a party tiger. Let the others, for once, be happy and beautiful. Sometimes I forget the world does not revolve around meÖ I am in a world capital where also the truly radiant want to lose themselves to music. Even though the lame house beats of the DJ couple that spun did not really do the trick for anyone. Whatever! It's about Gude Laune with all it inthralls.

Instead of moaning and complaining any longer, itís now time for a big up: does anyone know www.rave-strikes-back.de? When I saw this page, and upon clicking through absolutely all the seriously nice contributions of some people who really believe in the authentic innocence of rave music culture I felt homesick. For the first time. Where are the people here who sing, accompanied by guitar music, about their first experience on the dancefloor, tripping out to Sven Vaethís fat beats? Home is where the heart is, says an old saying. And I say. Yeah. Itís all about Gude Laune. Or whatever. That's the German way Ė at best, itís ironic but at the same time deeply immersed and emotional. When it fails, it fails cos itís just not sexy. Itís just not hot. Because itís too serious. Too intellectual. Kopflastig they say in German Ė the weight is in the head. Which really means weíre out of balance. The ultimate cool: A balance of mind, body and soul. The ultimate way of being cool in Germany is being not too cool. Being low profile is the cool of cool. So cool itís actually uncool again. Sweater and horn rimmed glasses kind of brotherly discussion group kinda uncool. Indiedesignercool. But tonight I am just like that, canít escape my genes. I am a sole wooly jumper person amidst some ready-to-have-it-large party geek stroke model posse. In moments like this, I start to love my fellow Germans. But if there is a whole party full of this kind of energy, I canít help but loathe it a little. But right here right now, I would love some criticizing, some analysing, some reason why I just canít get into it. Some justification why itís okay to be outside instead of feeling like a loser. Where are the really cool people? Those who donít need to paint themselves or dress up to the max to feel good? Some Germans please? Or some Argentineans who think just like me? Let's get together...

P.S. I actually did. More about this soon. Here on Planetkat. Where the beasts and the beauties connect. Zitat Sven: "LeudeÖEnergy, Energy, Energyyyy sozusagen, denn ihr wollt feiern, wir wollen feiern, wir geben Gas, ihr gebt Gas, itís about love, peace and gude Laune! The message is gude Laune, Leude"!

KLinks:

www.rave-strikes-back.de
www.tdk-timewarp.de/e913/e3469/gudelaunesvenvth_ger.mp3

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