Of Fansites and Foreign Guests
Once upon a time, I used to lurk a bit around a certain Nine Inch Nails messageboard, but eventually gave it up as a bad job as it was overpopulated with NINnier-than-thou sorts, forever wanking about how hardcore they are based on their opinions of "Deep" and "Perfect Drug" (the correct answers are apparently that "Deep" is teh sUxXx0rs [Trent said so himself, you know] and "Perfect Drug" r0xXxOMGlolz11!!!eleventy-one!! [it was the song Trent "needed to write," even though he acknowledged that it didn't really fit Lost Highway]). Endless are the pissing contests on this board over -- well, pretty much everything to do with Trent Reznor (with special attention to his hair), so long as the upshot is Who's The True-Fanniest Of Them All, which makes for mind-numbingly tedious reading if you don't happen to define your existence by your taste in music. Besides, Trent looked directly at me, once, on accident, so clearly he's my soulmate, bitches, whether or not you are aware that Mr. Reznor owns a Les Paul in a rare shade of green that was discontinued by Gibson because the paint contained metallic flecks which were creating undesirable feedback.

Anyhow, before the With_Teeth a_Tour_a was quite underway, I wandered off the board for good and completely forgot that, in a thread devoted to the then-upcoming Berlin show, I had mentioned that I lived near Tegel and could, if needed, meet a group of Foreign Guests who were flying in and feared getting hopelessly lost in the transit system. A couple months later, and a couple days before the concert, I got an email notification announcing that I had received a private message on that board from the Foreign Guestish spokesman. He had not forgotten, and so, early in the afternoon on the fifteenth, I took the bus to the airport to greet the plane from Another European City.

The Foreign Guests turned out to be a Foreign Guest who had hopes of hooking up with some other Foreign Guests he knew would be there, but whom he did not know in real life. Nor had they arranged a particular time or landmark at which to meet, nor even exchanged either pictures or phone numbers. The Foreign Guest was whinging from the second he stepped onto the concourse and it went south from there. He had planned on sleeping at the airport, and, probably not realizing that Tegel isn't exactly a bustling international gateway (it can't even accommodate a 747), he never thought to check its opening hours. These are 5:00 a.m. till midnight. This was somehow my fault. Still, there were those other Foreign Guests, and he expected he could crash with them. I sincerely hoped so, but I figured that if worse came to worst, I could take him to Schwarzes and buy him coffee till sunrise.

In the meantime, however, it was not quite three in the afternoon, and doors at Columbiahalle weren't until seven [read: no sooner than seven-thirty, and more likely eight]. The Foreign Guest had never been to Berlin before, but while he was not anxious to get to the venue right away, neither was he interested in seeing anything in particular. I thought lunch would be in order, and figured that, since we'd have to change trains at Zoo in any case, we could kill some time in Kurfürstendamm. While in Ku'damm:

• The Foreign Guest complained till I located a restaurant with a bathroom (he was not amused by the public pissoir).
• We then had to run from the restaurant because The Foreign Guest did not wish to eat there, and yet chose not to pay the 50-cent non-patron fee.
• The Foreign Guest posed for a picture in front of Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedächtnis-Kirche.
• The Foreign Guest complained about the heat.
• The Foreign Guest flatly refused to try anything at a Turkish Imbißstand I found that had vegetarian options (but I don't blame him; that was absolutely the direst non-falafel I have ever had).
• The Foreign Guest complained that blue is the code color for extra-added tar and nicotine in Germany (even though I told him this was the case before he bought the cigarettes) when it's red where he lives.
• The Foreign Guest, now hungry, rejected every restaurant we saw and finally opted for Burger King.
• He demanded that I order for him, as he neither spoke German nor wished to ("Hat er bitte ein Nummer Vier mit Cola und King-Fries?").
• He was insulted (not unjustly) that he was given only one packet of ketchup (for which I had to ask repeatedly) and baffled by the little wooden fork provided for his fries (it was an odd-looking utensil: a tongue-depressor crossed with a spork and reduced by half).
• Having eaten, The Foreign Guest now wished to continue straightaway to Columbiahalle.

Waiting Outside The Venue And In
I should have brought a book. I really should have brought a book. A long one. Good grief, was that ever dull. And for all that getting there a zillion hours early, once inside, I wound up starting in just about the same place that I had started in at the Astoria, to which I had gotten ten or fifteen minutes before showtime: stage right, a little too far back and a little too far to the side (like I was ever really going to do the balcony thing). The Foreign Guest, who had failed to identify his countrymen, was not game for the pit and remained behind the soundboard, where he said he would look for me when it was over.

This was a different crowd altogether than in London. Oh, it was a sea of black eyeliner and fishnet, of course, and I was Jeordie-side, after all, so I expected the demographics to lean heavily toward more-gawth-than-me, but whereas at the Astoria this had meant a lot of pretty long-haired Gothboix with necklaces (and belt buckles to match) that spelled Cunt, at Columbiahalle it meant every lookalike Mansonite east of the Rhine. There was one girl who, although she was otherwise entirely Mansoned out, had dumped a box of corn starch over her head to indicate that she was, in fact, hip to Nine Inch Nails, and not just Twiggy. Her boyfriend was made up and coiffed circa Mechanical Animals, had all of Manson's tattoos replicated on his own arms, and, for good measure, a Golden Age of the Grotesque-style MM engraved on his neck, and did not partake of the cornstarch.

There was much smoke, there was much screaming, there was much pushing and shoving. And this was before the lights went down. When they did, it was to (yay! Mary Chain!) "Darklands".

The Dresden Dolls
I had a wonderful view of both Amanda and Brian from where I was standing. It wouldn't last. They opened with "Good Day" and the girl beside me lost her mind. Her exuberance forced the folks behind us to give us a few feet of clearance, and, more importantly, they took with them the business ends of their cigarettes; to my dancing friend I owe several scorch-free moments, may she live long and happily and never lose her passion for punk cabaret. She mouthed the words to the next song, too, which impressed me, because I could not place it to save my life. I want to think it was "Bad Habit", but I don't know why I want to think that, and, if it was, it was the Perry Como version. But then they played "Coin Operated Boy" and a whole bunch of people knew it, so they started warming up and making like a mosh pit.

My dancing friend disappeared thereafter, but then came "War Pigs", which is sort of my favorite thing that the Dresden Dolls do, and they did it very well indeed. As in London, it took all of two notes for most everyone to realize what they were playing. As in London, a great cry of ecstatic appreciation soared through the house. Not at all as in London, which would bury its head in shame if such a thing ever did happen there, many were the gleeful shrieks, accompanied by extended forefingers and pinkies, of "It's AC/DC!"

I'm not joking. AC/DC.

There were no Beanie Babies decapitated and thrown at the audience, but then, to my knowledge, Angus Young has never bitten the head off anything small and furry in public.

Anyway, keeping to the theme, Amanda next asked the lighting guy to shine a reading lamp over her piano, "so we don't totally fuck this up." This was, auf Deutsch, "Und was bekam des Soldaten Weib", which no one recognized (nor can I claim any such familiarity with Brecht & Weil and Weimar Kabarett; I later Googled bits of the lyric), but it was quite lovely and terribly sad (and they didn't fuck it up).

They finished with a new song ("This is new," said Amanda), a seriously extended "Half Jack", and Mr. Toad's Wild Ride "Girl Anachronism". They made lots of noise. They made lots of faces (especially Brian). They knocked things over. They were magnificent, and I can't do them enough justice.

And the instant they left the stage, that pit got so ugly that I entertained the possibility that the balcony really might have been a pretty good idea after all.

The Pit
I'm getting a little too old for this, yet I still can't bring myself to remain at a safe distance. A safe distance in this case would have been across town, in my apartment, watching a live webcast. Across the Atlantic, in one of the darker corners of New Orleans, would have worked, too. There was no webcast available, however, so, even though I knew better, even though it had only been five days since I'd been to Queens of the Stone Age at the same hall (which was when I swore I would take to the balcony for Nine Inch Nails), and I still had the bruise from someone's elbow in my throat, and puncture wounds to match from the railroad spikes that pass for facial piercings round here, I forgot to flee while the path yet lay open.

I mentioned that I was Jeordie-side, a few people away from the barricade, and just about level with those candelabra-lights. When "Pinion" came through the PA system, the crowd compressed and I bounced off the edge of the barricade. I tried to grab it, but no luck. Then Nine Inch Nails started actually playing.

You know, "The Frail/The Wretched" is not exactly what I would call violent music. Nevertheless I found myself dragged from Jeordie's area to Trent's, then sucked deep into the middle of a raging vortex and thrust forward again to Aaron's left before they got to ...God himself will reach his fucking arm through just to push you down....

Since there was absolutely no space between bodies, the laws of physics would ordinarily dictate that displacement of mine should not have occurred, but, as far as I could tell, if Columbiahalle ever heard of Newton, it didn't give a good goddamn what he had to say, which is probably why it claims 3500 capacity for a room that holds 1600. Eventually I was forced back to somewhere between Trent and Jeordie, and remained more or less fixed there.

Truth to tell, I couldn't get out.

Yes, shameful as it is to admit, I wanted to get out. At some point during "Closer", I realized that I had missed a few bars. I had, you see, lost consciousness, probably due to aggravated anoxia. It wasn't for more than a verse, and the sheer press of humanity had kept me vertical, which was a good thing, anyway. I came to with this enormous bald guy at my side trying to get the attention of an equally enormous, equally bald security guard so he could pass me over the barricade. Having noticed that I still couldn't breathe--or see what was happening on stage--or even hear very clearly--and that my right arm was being crushed between two more enormous bald guys who were three people behind me and providing more insight on the sensation of being drawn and quartered than I had ever hoped for, I decided that the pit had stopped being fun, really. But I wasn't quite so defeated that I could have lived down an emergency evacuation. Especially since the security guard was too busy evacuating everyone else who could get close enough to him for him to grab. But when I got a knee in the head, I gave it up pretending I could take any more and tried to escape. Right about then, they started playing "Love is not Enough", which was just not the soothing lullaby that would have been my new best friend, oh no. It took till the middle of "Burn" to reach the rail on the edge of the floor, where I spent the rest of "Burn" adjusting to aeration and trying to snap my arm back into socket, and there I remained till the show was over. Do note the corresponding distances between the ten feet from the enormous bald guy to the rail on the edge of the floor and the placement of "Closer" and "Burn" on the setlist.

The Setlist
Pinion
The Frail
The Wretched
Wish
Sin
The Line Begins To Blur
March Of The Pigs
Something I Can Never Have
The Hand That Feeds
Terrible Lie
Closer
Love Is Not Enough
Home
Burn
Reptile
You Know What You Are
Suck
Gave Up
Hurt
Dead Souls
Starfuckers, Inc.
Head Like A Hole

Buddyhead's Rules for Audiences of Rock (© Buddyhead. Used with permission. Thank you, Travis!)
If only these had been posted in the bathrooms at Columbiahalle, alongside the posters demonstrating the correct application of condoms and warning against the dangers of sharing needles...

1) Don't sing if you aren't one of the dudes on stage getting paid to do it. Nobody paid their hard-earned money to hear your dorky, untalented ass sing. We came to hear the dudes on stage sing. Paying 40 bucks to go see Tool, but instead of hearing Maynard, you get the dorkus malorkus with mad zits standing next to you singing "Sober" really loudly and out of key in your ear, is enough to murder motherfuckers for.

Substitute €42,-, Nine Inch Nails, Trent, and "Hurt".

2) Also, if the singer on stage does decide to either: pass the mic around for the "sing along" song, or: motion to the audience to sing aloud at key moments, and you know beforehand that your singing ability is severely limited, you MUST waive your "sing along" rights. Leave the crowd participation parts to those that do not fall under the "musically retarded" category.

Trent, thank goodness, is not that stupid.

3) This is possibly the oldest rule in the book… yeah, you know what we're talking about… don't be THAT guy. We KNOW you like the band, that's why you're here, you don't need to wear their SHIRT to their show as well.

There was a rather heated argument over this on that messageboard I was talking about. There were a whole lot of NIN shirts at the NIN show, too.

4) Also, no wearing shirts of ex-bands either...

Like there weren't half a squintillion Manson tee shirts. There was at least one Icarus Line shirt, too, but I didn't see any modwheelmood. Or Option 30.

5) The "merch guy" is not your friend...

Having been a merchgirl myself, I can verify the truth of this. I can also verify that nobody believes it. So can the merchfolk who were selling the NIN swag.

6) Dancing is ok, as long as you don't get all fruity. Air-instruments are NOT ok...

Tell it to the dorkus malorkus with mad zits who was standing next to me singing "Hurt" really loudly and out of key in my ear. And banging my out-of-socket arm with his imaginary tremolo bar.

7) If you yell out "Play some Skynyrd", you deserve immediate castration...

How about "Freebird!"?

8) Don't be the buff steakhead dudes in the Jeep blasting Radiohead as you leave (or enter) the parking lot of the Radiohead show. WE KNOW YOU LIKE THE BAND! THAT'S WHY YOU ARE AT THE FUCKING SHOW CHAMP! HOW MUCH OF ONE BAND DO YOU REALLY NEED?! Actually just don't be the four buff guys in the Jeep at the show…

Or a SmartCar. Since we're in Europe and petrol's really expensive.

9) Tall dudes that stand at the front of the stage should have their testicles pureed...

Yup.

10) Don't yell songs at the band, especially if it's not a super rare song or something...

"Head Like a Hole!!" "Closer!!" "Starfuckers!!"

11) Anybody who utters the word MOSH PIT deserves to die.

See two sections above.

12) Don't take off your shirt. We know you're sweaty dude, taking off your wife beater isn't going to stop that.

Nope.

13) Don't be that fat lame bitch that gets crushed at the front of the stage at the barrier...

In this case, they were the only ones in the pit to thrive. Somehow they not only held their ground, but they walked away with their hair in place and their makeup intact.

14) Don't buy those shirts in the parking lot…

Or cheap posters in the U-Bahnhof.

15) No making out at shows...

I think teeth would have been broken if anyone had tried. Besides, everyone there got inadvertently dry-humped by at least thirty total strangers.

16) People who stand outside the whole time, and never go inside to watch any of the bands should be shot in the face...

This rule applies to venues with fire codes and maximum occupancy and stuff. At Columbiahalle, anyone who kept to the patio was doing the rest of us a favor, so no points off.

17) Don't be that guy who sells your zine at shows...

Did not notice any. Wait, yes I did.

18) Newsflash for kids starting a new band… it doesn't matter how many flyers you make for that first show you're playing at that coffeehouse… if you pass this flyer out to every last fucker in front of the show, NOBODY WILL CARE AND NOBODY WILL COME...

We followed the trail of flyers from the exit to Bahnhof Platz der Luftbrücke.

19) No crying.

There was crying.

20) When there's a brand new band that a lot of people seem real excited about that features ex members of other cool bands or something, and they don't have any releases out yet, just a demo, or a couple mp3's on their website or something, don't be the jackass at the front of the stage singing all the words...

I'm afraid my dancing friend was among the guilty, although the Dresden Dolls did have a couple of CDs out by then, even if only eleven people outside Boston had ever heard them before they toured with Nine Inch Nails.

21) "Moshers" who lose shoes, keys, wallets, etc. and then stop their kung fu fighting to try and look for those objects, then get clobbered and fall to the ground…… no wait, keep doing that, it's funny.

They did. What was even funnier was that when I got home, I found I had lost a bracelet, but there were two picks in my pocket (one of Jeordie's [a big blue bass pick] and one of Trent's).

22) Sometimes when your favorite band is playing their big hit as their last song, you think it's a good idea and really cool to jump up on the stage and dance with the band...

German security guards rather discourage that sort of thing. Credit where due.

23) If you go up and begin conversation with the band while they're loading equipment out at the end of the night and you don't at least offer to help, you deserve to be cut into little fucking pieces...

N/A: Nine Inch Nails pays people to haul their gear.

24) Street team people passing out the latest Mudvayne cassette sampler in front of the show should be crucified. Yeah, give me a tape dude. I want a fucking Mudvayne tape.

I don't think there were any, but probably the Mudvayne tapes would have been quite welcome. It wasn't all Nine Inch Nails the four buff dudes in the SmartCar were blasting.

The Conclusion
The audience sucked. Not for lack of enthusiasm, though.

But Nine Inch Nails was terrific.

And I put the Foreign Guest in a hostel afterwards. Never heard from him again.