среда, 24 октября 2007 г.

Kölle, we come (Part II)

Somewhere behind Remscheid relax our faces. With the snow, it has largely ausgeflockt. The transport schliddert again faster progress, and in the vicinity of Leverkusen through us hoped, but still in time for the festival to start Palladium to come.

Clearly, we have calculated in the length of the queue in front of the entrance. Our snuggle jackets in the car trunk together, we have our quiet überplapperten cold, let us eisbetautem benieseln rain and remember once again how little cool but Pils helps itself up internally. But our place in the snake sausage approaching the front end. The Gods of rock already los lightning, it rumbles through the old stone walls, but at shortly after four and a half songs later, we, in the holy, warm lobby.

Gods of lightning

After a short stop at the merch swish we in the dark steel makers pillar belly of the concert hall. Surprisingly way it is not so much the music as the design of the Kopfbewuchses of us to start discussions:

With halbaufgeknöpftem shirt buzzes the singer and bass player with his hairstyle strubbeligen catalog on the stage and shows what he Volkshochschulkurs "Posing" has learned. The drummer shakes his hair for us and enters the evidence indicates that metal mesh but is not yet in danger of extinction, while his Guitarrero frisurell his old hero of Pantera appears to be shrill. The four Berliner schrubbeln solid down its program, including their small underground hits "Greetings from flashbackville" and "The rising." Full swing between Angel Franz Ferdinand, Hard-Fi, Mando Diao, Beatsteaks and just what else is applicable at the moment. Does a little like Reißgebretter, the whole thing. Visually and aurally. Are, but is not enthusiastic. The Koelsch, bar plörrt more than it into old, but I was thirsty and embark fix it down. Oh, concert already over? No matter. Holste still beer?

An unexpected but very friendly meeting during the renovation break with a hitherto unknown. The scent of Bock sausage, dumplings and potato salad schwabbert through the doors to the foyer. The tipsiness has now fuseligen its claws into the consciousness of the surprisingly solid represented Turbojugend gekrallt. Munter will lurched, stumbled to be thrashed, glasses zerdeppert, bawled, puking, however, still in steigerbarem degree.


The light falls again. Dredg make their waiting. In anticipation me feel tall and curiosity - I was by their lax performance to the best coffee and cake time on the "Rhine culture" in the summer but rather disappointed. But how much better this band does in the dark! Verhalltes chirps the guitar, caught at square motif in shreds, bulges on. The bass pulses, soft swish their fingers on the fingerboard. The drummer, a gifted Poser before the Lord plays with rhythm and meter as Ronaldinho with the leather ball, and it also creates yet, simultaneously with the piano to play left and right weiterzugrooven. Through the interim muttering fusseligen guitarist in his beard, grimly shrugs. His guitar or the cables are eaten only infrequently and do what they should. And yet. Just the chorus is the loose addressed and the pathos volcano can be ignited and breaks soon. Melody lines of weltentrückter überglitzern beauty of the massive, hot bubbling lava reef-the rhythm section. A heißkaltes alternating between dreamy and lyrical bretternder Rockkelle sphere. Again and again equally funny how fascinating at the end: Dino, the drummer, grooving in ecstasy continues, while two roadies piece by piece dismantle his drums until nothing is left of them. Gran Dios, rousing, candidate for the best concert of the year.

The Soundtrack Of Our Lives

The first Scandinavians to grab the baton. Eingesprungen for the grandiose Billy Talent, schwummern The Soundtrack Of Our Lives their schrammeligen, melodieseligen Sechzigerjahrerock. The buschbärtige singer Ebbot Lundberg has another familienzeltgroßen caftan over his body thrown crowned and preaches with a long white scarf, and well balanced as einladenenden gestures as a priest of the increasingly numerous influx of Rock community. The guitar roasts, which Schlagzeugscheppert, the organ schwurbelt. A set of great fun and Sweden.

Life Of Agony

The hamburger is still hard in the stomach, because the delicate Brachialisten come to the stage. The breakthrough is riveted, they are back: Life Of Agony. With orkanischer brunt of the blow earwax from the ear passages and doubt from the awareness, whether it is still a chanterelle they should set after its reunification. Keith Caputo is still the flitzeflinke, small globalization with the large throat, which Haifischfrisur like an elastic rubber truncheon on the stage rushes. Ultratieftönende Grummelriffs with explosive crash, razor rhythms together. The handle bass, the guitar thunder, the inverted baseball cap trembles in the crash thunderstorms. A few phrases Keith has also memorized. We are the best audience of the tour, or even of all time. He loves us. In between, there's side for all skeptics, and the Runterladefetischisten Unkenden the guys nothing but greed for the merger nerneuten assistant. There's also hits. Actually all. The rattle and ears whistle, as Keith us with warm, adopted exhortation: "Stay positive!" We will.


Every step now sticks. The cloakroom is closed because of overcrowding. At snack, there's the sausage only without bread. Schaler beer haze billowing through the foyer. Zertrampelte napkins, beer, brandy, cola, tilting überbappen the entire floor. Now, the big moment of uniformed. Several hundred denim jacket winners of the "FDTJ", the free Turbojugend have achieved their goal. Draw your heroes. The sailor caps are waved, the lipstick is warped and quickly followed up, the neighbors will be quick beer on the mat tilted, and together will bawled and rock that crackles rind. Turbonegro are in the house! With schwabbelnder Bierplautze, sweaty adhesive fatal black hair and make up around the eyes tells Henk in broken German Sweden in the breaks laden stories of Fotzen, tails, beer, Rock'n'Roll and St. Pauli. The mass bawls and fetch more beer. The fact that no one falls down, despite sturmflutendem alcohol level and roaring heat, is only the dense crowd. Together, rocked and gejohlt. Uououououooooooh! All the Hits Northern Lights in luggage and blare their prollig-selbstironischen reef rock of the community around the ears, at the end still persevered and weitergrölt minutes before they get, which is why they are here: "I got erection! Nothing for zartbesaitete minds. But major sports on the last Sunday of the weekend.

Mando Diao

For sweeping Hitreigen end to ensure the monsterhippen, gehypten kilometers Tommy Hilfiger-makers and advertising Schmockrocker of Mando Diao. Even at the sight of Bjorn sag Gustaf and the first girls screaming along too well oiled as folding the sponsor. The eardrum trembles before the frantic cheering. A few small spots twitch in the face at the sight of some of Gustaf hyperarroganter Posen, but the sweeping, and with melodieselige forward grooving Rock makes enormously good mood. Not quite as exciting as in track 22 next two years, but now, despite its enormous size, the band, at least not today enthusiasm missing. Scheppert and schwurbelt through verses and refrains, builds an unfamiliar phrases, a catchy chases the next. A stunning conclusion of a grand concert tags, we just before the encore. Finally, we have on the outward journey in accumulating enough already confessed. On the return trip we Gehügel kicking around Wuppertal extensive flee before us überfrierender moisture and ice bergaufbergab by comfortable and stress on Wuppertal home purr. Visions festival? Gladly!

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