Genau! Berlin Diary: Day 1.

So while everyone in this fine land o’mine was using some regal wedding or other to get (royally) drunk and gasp “Oh, ain’t they nice?” at some people they bear absolutely no relation to, I went to Berlin. This is what I wrote.

“Tired. Lack of sleep. Fidgety man beside me on the plane. Arriving in Berlin, I’m struck by a couple of things. One, Tegel airport is small. Two, am I on the right subway train? All I can see is industry, bare brick warehouses with blown out windows and overgrown grass. I’m not in the right place, I think to myself.

But eventually I arrive at my friend’s ‘hood. Prenzlauer Berg. We meet at his flat and quickly decide to go for a morning coffee. As if a sign of things to come, we both sit down at one of (what I soon discover) are innumerable stylish cafes, converse about music, life in Brockley and other such matters, only for a bird to relieve itself (in fairly voluminous fashion) on my glasses, which are perched towards the centre of the table, rested neatly beside the sugar dispenser. “Good luck!” exclaims the old lady sat next to us, who up until now has had her head buried in the newspaper. A bird has just excreted its lumpy mess all over my glasses and this lady seems animated, a beaming smile stretched across her face. I learn that in Germany, contrary to pretty much every country I assume, bird shit actually brings good luck. “So die sagt”, nods my friend in recognition. So they say.

Having been promptly booted out of his apartment for the afternoon, I leave to wander the streets, chancing upon a disused water cooler tower and synagogue (Berlin is riddled with abandoned buildings – many of which are curiously lacking in any kind of signage, suggesting perhaps that some things people just want to forget), as well as some beautiful cemeteries, laden with Roman-style structures that form tributes to entire families in some cases (this is not so unusual, my mother tells me).

The day flitted between sunshine and cloud and, having later learned of my route around where the wall once stood, I started to understand better how strangely Berlin alternates between sparse and dense. The evening finished with most delectable Thai food eaten outside in the evening sunshine. Every cafe and restaurant seems to have outside seating in this city. I’m starting to feel at home already.”

The aformentioned water tower.

Around the top of the tower was a small park space. I snapped these two young lovers "at it". Reading, that is.

Prenzlauer Berg street scene just around the corner from my friend's flat. I arrived on Easter Monday, hence the empty street.

Prenzlauer Berg street scene 2: the bicycle parking edition.

There’s something in this Kronenbourg…

It’s remarkable how quickly the memory of complete freedom dissipates. Work does that to you. It thrusts itself up against you, pins you to the wall, wraps you tightly in its skin, but with a pressure that leaves you just enough breathing room to cope, where just enough of a vacuum exists between irritation and outright despair that stops your body from bleeding itself into your soul.

And then of course, there’s the whole culture of work; bred and nurtured over the decades, refined and tweaked as part of a set of cultural ideals that operate in tandem with a consumer-driven social model. The whole operation is so seamless that to complain about work life, to the degree that most of us do, is just seen as “one of those things” that we all feel we can never change and therefore are obligated to observe. It’s a kind of acquiescence that makes the soul wilt a little I think, this feeling of helplessness over a force that so governs our life entirely, in terms of the degree of comfort that we can afford, as well as the sense of authority, social status and identity that a particular employment path can bestow. And that’s really the trick of the working life, the way it creates reward in return for individual duty, entitlement, devotion and commitment. For most, I imagine, this monetary reward is enough to keep despair at bay; the trade-off between self-sacrifice and financial comfort being sufficient to suppress any of the soul’s deep, probing reflections on the nature of work and its effect on individual enrichment. Money has such force nowadays that it doesn’t seem to just brush these inherent, human concerns aside, it scrapes them away, such that the thought of the new suit, the possibility of owning the next car, the exotic holiday, the luxury of it all, straight blows away all of the soul’s tender, delicate inquiries.

But if we were to assume that man’s modus operandi were unspecified, that each individual only operated according to a kind of “happiness maximisation”, which incorporated an understanding of the need to find balance between work that was truly beneficial, both to himself and others, and activity that would truly nourish the soul, then would we in all likelihood have invented a system such as that which exists today?

Studied objectively, it’s pretty much staggering that a 7-day week accommodates just 2 days of relaxation, but the honourable reverence that has been cultivated in relation to work, means that to object to it, or to actively take a stand against it, inspires accusations of indolence or even failure.

But there should be a way out for those of thus that reject a system (which, it seems, exists and flourishes because it marginalises those that inevitably fail to benefit from it, while those that do benefit are rewarded monetarily, as well as by virtue of their decision-making authority and overall power) for simply calling it out for what it is. An affront on the soul. An affront on a decent standard of human living (where decent is a byword not for the physical practicalities that we all need for survival, but decency of overall individual experience).

You’d think recent events could have prompted such a re-evaluation. But it hasn’t. And it probably won’t. Unless we all stub our collective toecaps into a polluted and ruthlessly self-interested form of governance that wields just enough influence to convince detractors of its moral awareness and servility towards those that were responsible for its existence. The real problem is that the whole of life’s structure has a dizzying complexity to it; purposefully so, to enable us all to be shuffled around and re-arranged without us even noticing.

So what would it take to completely re-evaluate everything we have known since birth? To question everything on its merit, rather than its place an function within an overarching structure? Is it even possible under the circumstances? What form would that re-evaluation take and where would it lead?

It’s the latter question that makes me muse on the idea of protest. The current situation makes it valid, compelling even. I’m sure I don’t need to wax lyrical on the harm that spending cuts are likely to bring on communities across the country. These effects are well-documented and the veritable hypocrisy of a system that lets grievous error float into the ether unpunished hardly needs to be elaborated. But I wonder, if protest is a response, or a rejection, to corporatism and greed and the idea that it is allowed to breed unfettered, or worse, that such activity is actually beneficial to others less fortunate, then should such a protest not equally reject the idea of ungainly profit, in whatever industry, or whatever guise that may take?

If the answer is yes, then should a process of complete societal re-evaluation not be the logical recourse? If not, what kind of model for “sustainable” capitalism exists, such that profit exists in a way that’s fair and does not diminish or restrain the level of opportunity for others? Would a greater degree of community-led governance be enough?

Or if we were to question every commonly-accepted protocol and subject it to ruthless evaluation, what alternative to the current social order might actually work for us all?

The shadow proves the sunshine

 

Sunlight! Sweet brightness! You’ll have to forgive me for my overearly dreams of summer, but look at it. Quite a sight, no? Almost makes me want to lie on the grass and drink ice tea. The rays hit me almost dead on my eyes this morning. Usually that would be enough to provoke violence, or at least marked agitation, but look at it! It’s the sun! What a lucky thing – people can hate on all kinds of luminous balls of plasma (ok, perhaps not hatred, but you can mildly appreciate big guns like jupiter, saturn and suchlike for their impressive otherworldliness), but the sun gets unanimous praise. And I don’t know anyone, living or dead, that can get people of all ages and shapes to willingly expose themselves so readily like that big ‘ol tangerine circle in the sky. A quick wink here, a flash there, and suddenly great hordes are found submitting to its lustre.

Lots of people tell me they couldn’t live in sunnier climes because they’d take good weather for granted or become so used to warmth that they’d crave the variety of autumn and winter. Well, you know what? I’ve *seen* winter, and it ain’t all that. I don’t think I’ll ever crave ‘grey drizzle’ as long as this life keeps churning out minutes. I mean, this is the sun we’re talking about here. You wouldn’t say no to free chocolate every day for life would you? And you couldn’t hate on Mother Teresa now could you? So think of the sun as a chocolatey Mother Teresa and then go ahead and try with all your might to justify taking a break from all that imperious goodness.*

*On second thought, don’t. Just think of the warmth, the comfort and nature in all its technicolour triumph.

**Just as a wrote this, a small bluebird bounced off his perch in the trees and into a patch of sunlit grass, breast outstretched. See? Even the beaked ones can’t get enough.

Put yo’ hands up for Detroit

I haven’t paid much attention to Detroit techno in the past. I own just one record regarded as a typical example from one of the pioneers of techno in the motor city; Jeff Mills. I go back to his record a lot more regularly nowadays, and each time I end up nagging myself to dig a little bit more into a genre of music with an intriguing history.

Techno was born in 1980s Detroit, following the city’s struggles to recover from the aftermath of devastating riots in the 60’s – a turbulent mix of racism, crime, suburbanization and the gradual but crushing decline of the city’s identity: the motor industry. The sounds borne from these ashes were driven by a curious sense of otherworldliness, futurism and the sci-fi visions of a technological wonder city – the kind of language that was thrown in Detroit’s general direction back in the day, such was its place at the epicentre of technological innovation. In the early days, the heaving, industrial strains of the techno sound encapsulated the mechanised echoes of that cutting edge industry – the repetition of the robotic, steel against steel, chipping, sparking, drilling.

The result, as you’d expect, is a stirring mix. It’s at once jarring but beautifully exact and well-defined. In fact, it’s so industrial and of it’s time and environment, that it’s hard to imagine this sound coming from anywhere else. In many respects, it’s a pitch-perfect aural representation of a mega city – which Detroit was in the first half of the twentieth century, as the fourth-largest and most rapidly growing city in the US.

While techno wasn’t born of the age, it encapsulates much of this pioneering spirit with a piercing sci-fi sound and a twist of blind optimism, the kind I imagine the people of Detroit to have been infected by before the rioting, the retreat of the middle-class to the suburbs, and the whimpers of the dying automotive industry.

Detroit is a sad city to read about and contemplate now. The decline in population has been so pronounced, that the city’s inhabitants now stand at half of its 1950 peak of 1.8m. Just 900k now inhabit a city that appears to have been built for 4m, such is the grandeur of its downtown avenues and squares.

But just recently, there’s been a hint that things may be about to change, with a few quite alluring developments in what appears to be an enormously driven and dedicated effort to rebuild the city into something with a social purpose and vision. I won’t go into too much detail, but a lot of examples and ideas are in the links below. It’s fascinating to see how much of the latest influx of creators, artists, environmentalists and designers are looking to Detroit as an opportunity to learn from the mistakes of the past. Without wishing to jinx the whole affair, it seems as though with the slate wiped clean, Detroit can rebuild and redefine.

http://travel.nytimes.com/2010/09/26/t-magazine/26remix-detroit-t.html

http://detroit.blogs.time.com/2010/07/06/rebuilding-detroit-a-community-effort/

http://detroitworksproject.com/

All of which gives me a relentless itch to actually do something – like actually book a ticket and go. And I think I just might. But I can’t imagine what my parents are going to think when I tell them I’m thinking of taking a holiday in Detroit.

The bedsprings of life

Another weekend slowly morphs into the early hours of Monday morning and I realise I’ve spent another weekend in gross, slavish obedience to the DIY beast. This weekend was, however, the last in the current series of “Let’s Do DIY: The Endurance Edition”, which is to say, I have learnt much, but at a cost of the usual gratifications of the eye and of the ear. Now all I need is a desk upon which to write and a corner within which to strum.

For the time being, I shall be reading Proust’s Swann’s Way – a book I actually feared I would never readily become accustomed to for its prolonged, verbose sentences. There is a point though, after about fifty pages, when words stop appearing as faded, black stamps on mustard coloured paper and collectively start to form the backbone of a wondrous craft. It’s the kind of book whose sculpture is so meticulously composed that I can’t think any word I write from this day forth would ever be of any use, value or importance to anyone but myself. The last time I was this struck by a novel was the Glass Bead Game and that wasn’t so much a slap in the face as a metaphorical scholarly beating.

Having just finished a freelance web producer stint, all my mind’s eye can see as it creaks its neck into the distance is Proust, bike rides in Dulwich and Peckham, and penning some musical notes on paper.

Ah life. How I have missed thee.

Tyrwhitt, Tressillian & Breakspears

After months of endless deliberation, visitation and cogitation, the home is starting to look real. The walls have been burnished with fresh paint. The floors scrubbed. The kitchen has acquired the necessary clutter of a man that feeds off a variety of carefully chosen nourishment. After four weeks, I’m coming to recognise the various quirks and oddities that time, in its slow unravelling, reveals to the new inhabitant of every home.

Running has furthered the acclimatisation. Street names are starting to stick. At the mid-point of my run, when my paces transform into fully charged strides, I cut across a darkened pit of mulch and set towards the overhanging branches that line the outer fringe of the fields, after which I begin to trace an outline of the tree bark that lies next to the bright blue bin, as if toppled during battle – just beyond all this, I remember  that sweeping left-hander past the sign for Montague, writ large in faded black type, the postcode nestled in red in the corner.  And soon after, a slew of others – Tyrwhitt, Tressillian, Breakspears – a trio I think of fondly for their originality, which in turn has given me a small sense of identity in an otherwise unfamiliar place. Should I ever have to defend my turf, these honourable gentlemen (for that is how I now think of them in a world of Smiths, Bennetts, Johnsons and Davies), would be sure to leap to my defence, with a sharpness of tongue that only men with such surnames could possess.

I’ve learned the curvature of the pavement I turn to during the final straight, raised and exposed, crackled by the uprooting of the nearby trees – each ridge cradling a nest of autumnal dirge. It’s here that I know I am amongst my last few steps, the pace winds down to a slather, a quick check at the iPod watch, a finger slide across plastic pauses the notes in my ears. I’m here, I think to myself panting. And for a split second I see what I saw the first time I walked up the path towards the grand black door – when what struck me most was the building’s height and it’s gleaming yellowstone brick. A home not a house and that peculiar feeling of being able to call something – beyond a mere book, bike or strained pair of trousers – one’s very own.

All work and no alcohol makes Billy a dull boy.

Growing up in this country, let alone this city, it’s difficult to live past your teens without encountering the effects of alcohol. For some, the inaugural experience is a direct, and in my case often forceful, provocation from your peers to indulge in the fine liver-wasting pursuit that is the all-night “binge.” For others, usually those that manage to extricate themselves from such collective pressures, their first glimpse of youthful inebriation arrives sometime at midnight on a typical Saturday evening, when the rumpled and dishevelled frames of many a youngster slump helplessly against the very wall they decided to urinate against mere moments prior.

The truth is, we don’t do “moderation” in this country, particularly not when it comes to alcohol. We either drink ‘til it’s messy, or we don’t drink at all. Living in a society where a steadfast adherence to this maxim is not just the norm, but actively and aggressively encouraged, it’s small wonder we see stories like that of a 19-year-old UCL student, who died last week of suspected alcohol poisoning during an “all-you-can-drink” freshers’ party.

Is this the result of irresponsibility on the part of the organisers and manufacturers of alcoholic beverages? Given that students were given the opportunity to drink as much as they liked for the princely sum of £15; yes, perhaps it was. But we also need to realise that we live in a culture where the alternative, (teetotalism), is not just frowned upon, but so alien a concept as to be hugely impractical. Moreover, it’s a choice that in male company is all too often a source of ridicule and derision.

It’s clear that even a straightforward increase in the price of alcohol, coupled with a discontinuation of such thriftily themed student nights, will do little to affect the binge drink phenomenon. If we are to seriously tackle drink culture, and prevent future alcohol-related fatalities, we need to consider not just how alcohol is dispensed in our society, but the very fabric of society itself.

Tokyo Love

What makes a city “world-class”? This is a question I have found myself registering in lieu of my recent trip to Tokyo and the environs of the Japanese archipelago. Major world cities are usually recognised through their unique and iconic distinctions – London its black cabs, red phone boxes, pubs and renowned architecture; New York by its yellow cabs, its scale shattering, inflated urban core, and its much vaunted claim to being one of the globe’s true 24 hour cities. In identifying commonality and the characteristics by which the modern “world class” city can be defined, what is the common denominator? Or perhaps the recognition of a major world city is more nuanced than the simple unearthing of one common trait – in that a city of global reach achieves its lustre by laying claim to a set of bounteous energies, whose synergy lends a metropolis its dynamic and beguiling edge.

Whatever the reasons, I couldn’t help but find myself lamenting London’s seemingly muted approach to round-the-clock living. While London enlivens through its classical architecture, its rich tapestry of international culture and its residents’ voracious appetite for all manner of cultural pursuits, other cities adopt similar templates, and do so by casting aside the shackles of traditional opening hours.

This is where London fails, and Tokyo succeeds. To be fair, perhaps Tokyo’s endless idiosyncrasies would prompt any worldly resident to question the authority of their city. But it is a deficiency that visits to both Toyko and New York have strikingly exposed. And we all like to think our city is batting in the same ball park as those two don’t we?

An Open Letter To BoycottScotland.com

Hi,

Since reading your website, I have felt compelled to write this email, for I wish to try and understand the reasons behind your vociferous opposition to an entire nation, on account of the action of just one man.

Have you stopped to contemplate the notion that “compassionate” release actually ameliorates a country’s standing as a progressive society? A country such as Scotland, or indeed the US, which is proud to portray itself as a free-thinking, progressive and advanced society, has a responsibility towards upholding the values of humanitarianism. This is one of the fundamental constructs in the foundation of an advanced society. Without governance that accepts humanitarian values, the world’s “advanced” nations would be nothing more than quasi dictatorships. And if that were true, we wouldn’t have democracy either. You get the picture.

One of the most notable differences between what we perceive to be openly “democratic” and “undemocratic” societies – and one upon which the west’s social model is sold as superior and therefore desirable for all nations – is the spirit of compassion. We forcefeed nations our tightly wound idea of democracy, because we believe it to be founded upon essentially humanitarian values – freedom of speech, freedom of political expression, freedom of the press, civil liberty etc – which themselves are grounded in principles of compassion and acceptance. Tell me, how would we differ from the repressive authoritarian regimes we hold as abhorrent, if we cease to accept a decision that takes into account these qualities?

The Libyan reaction was deplorable, but the Scottish Justice Secretary can hardly be blamed for that. His role was merely that of a mediator – upholding the values here mentioned. Further, if the role of prison is to punish and deter, could you tell me in what way a man who has been incarcerated for his crime and is now weeks/months away from death has not been punished?

In what way will future terrorists not be deterred by the knowledge that life imprisonment will be the result of a similarly executed crime? I hardly think that potential terrorists would fail to take seriously the prospect of retribution on account of the possibilty of a release engineered by terminal illness. Tell me, would leniency shown towards infirmity convince you to risk life imprisonment?

It is fine to disagree with the decision – many people do – but to revert to the boycott of an entire nation, in my view demonstrates an immaturity and temperament that is characteristic of the “backward” societies we in the West are so quick to scorn and deride

English Football – A Fantasy Death?

The recent storm over Kaka proves that the Premier League is an over-indulgent beast, and needs to be starved if its beauty is to be preserved…

It has been pretty difficult, over the past few years and months, to have failed to notice a lurching shift in the power dynamic between players and management in the top tier of English football. Beneath a litany of acrimonious managerial departures has lain a concealed but no less obvious truth – namely, the deteriorating stock of the Premiership manager. The reasons that lie behind the constantly spinning wheel of appointments and departures are multitudinous, and the subsequent repercussions wide-ranging, from spiralling ticket prices to the gradual deterioration of a the “footballing day out” and perhaps the slightly less palpable, but no less worrying truth of a stifled new breed of reluctant managerial hopefuls. Has management, particularly at the top level of English football ever appeared less attractive?

It’s probably an important starting point to state that much of this concern stems from the ‘corporatisation’ of the Premier League, transforming it from a league that was essentially self-financing, existing as it did as a constituent of the Football League establishment. In February 1992, British media conglomerates must have been ogling the typical League One stadium with glee, faces gorged with the rapacious intent of individuals excited at the popularity of a sport with inherent potential as a lucrative revenue source. While poor attendances, hooliganism, decrepit stadiums and the resultant inability of clubs to provide adequate facilities marred English football in the 1980s, the 1990s saw a distinct reversal of the previous decade’s pervasive disaffection with the footballing spectacle. This in itself was triggered, in no small part, by England’s relative World Cup success, as well as UEFA’s lifting of an existing ban on English clubs from participating in European competitions.

The Hillsborough disaster further highlighted the fundamental structural and operational fissures at the core of English football. If a football match meant death, then nothing less than radical action was clearly required. Whilst this served to revive an ailing sport, the understandable conservatism that followed opened the sport to democratisation – with the financial strains that came with a forced policy of comprehensive renovation, football clubs perhaps realised that a new breed of spectator would have to be enticed into the stands. And so the Premier League was born, a machine whose operational capacity relied on the participation of football ‘consumers’, in addition to media revenues that are expected to propel total revenue to somewhere in the region of £1.8bn during the course of this season.

Premiership Managers: Courage Under Fire

So what does this mean for the manager? Firstly, the transient nature of the job itself has suppressed a manager’s natural proclivity for developing his own footballing philosophy. The financial implication of defeat, along with the potential to lose significant ground in the chase to stay in the upper reaches of the division, has robbed football of its usual patchwork of identities. Results need to be delivered, by any means necessary; style is a footnote that has become less compelling than the instant gratification of victory and an interpretation of success based on anxious short-termism.

As Roy Keane has discovered to his misfortune, a manager that forges a personality built on the unwavering courage of his own convictions, in a manner that is obdurate, unforgiving and occasionally, not without a smattering of outright vehement contempt, can cause ruptures in team spirit. When players speak, managers listen – mutiny in a climate where players exhibit ever-shifting allegiances and have the power to demand exorbitant wages, makes this a maxim that needs, at all costs, to be heeded. But management is a tricky skill to master, for it is dependent not only on natural ability, but appointment under the right conditions, with a manager operating under a vision reciprocated by all those who share roles as potential instigators of development and progression at a football club. Managerial reputations can often be misguided indicators of a manager’s natural fit, particularly when resources and a football club’s structural strength are commensurate with the level of on-the-field success.

The Death of English Football?

How therefore, is it possible to safeguard a passage of emerging managerial talent, in a job that Tony Adams recently described as ‘brutal’? The answers to that question are difficult to decipher; the Premier League remains chained at the whim and fancy of profiteering media conglomerates, who have long regarded sport as a business initiative that has yet to reach its natural conclusion. However, recent rumours of Gianluigi Buffon being offered £220,000 a week in wages to move to Eastlands – not to mention the royal £500,000 they’ve waved infront of Ricky Kaka’s eyes – must surely underline the patent legitimacy of implementing a salary cap structure at Premier League level.

The NFL has operated under such a structure since 1994, and its introduction in the Premier League would preserve the integrity of a sport under which ticket costs, diminishing player loyalty, an adverse economic environment and a discernable eagerness to eradicate football’s primal spirit, may be sources of increasing abhorrence in the eyes of grassroots supporters. Michel Platini is one of the few that embodies the desire to help release football from the vice-like clutches of business, embodying a spirit that seeks to re-establish football as an arena within which to admire the indescribable beauty of human sporting endeavour and achievement. We call football the beautiful game, but if we don’t act soon, it could turn ugly.