Based along one of the most famously debauched roads in Europe, the Reeperbahn Festival brings an intriguing collection of big, small, new, established, occasionally legendary and sometimes downright barmy bands to the wonderful city of Hamburg. Here’s our hour-by-hour guide to this year’s hi-jinks.
THURSDAY
2pm. Straight off the plane, bussed in by a born-again Christian with a Michael Jackson fixation, we begin with a stroll along Hamburg’s main drag, which is abuzz with musicians, punters and label types urgently flyering. It’s a bit like the Edinburgh Festival but without all that fecking horrible theatre stuff.
3pm-5pm. Before the tunes it’s time for the opening ceremony. A few Hamburgian dignitaries big up the city’s musical history – The Beatles honed their craft along the Reeperbahn – before a slightly awkward Q&A with veteran pop mogul Seymour Stein. He skilfully bodyswerves “who are your favourite current German bands?” only to be hit with “who are your favourite German-speaking bands?” I think we’d all struggle with that one.
6pm-10pm. Time for schooners of beer outside a bar next door to what must be one of Hamburg’s finest sex shops, given all the guided tours coming in and out. The tourguides are all trannies, some of them ancient. Granny Trannies.
10pm–12am. Our gigs begin with the gifted Icelandic chanteuse Olof Arnalds at the plush Imperial Theatre, which isn’t normally used for ‘our’ sorts of gigs. Actually it’s so comfy we could easily nod off, so quickly move on for a burst of Brit/Yank combo Kurran and the Wolfnotes at the excellent Molotow bar, just in time for their quirky cover of Kelis & Andre 3000’s ‘Millionaire’. I’m a bit distracted by the barmaid’s tattoos, though. A lot of perfectly sedate-looking women here seem to have whole armfuls.
12.15am. To be perfectly honest we weren’t sure what to expect from Sussex duo Prinzhorn Dance School, at the classy Moondoo nightclub, as their shouty sparseness can be a bit painful for the unprepared. The sound system is so good that their drums and bass sound magnificently chunky, however, then a chap who’s travelled from a whole different city presents them with a framed print, which they’re clearly chuffed about. They’ve had worse reactions.
1.30am. To finish the night, Swedish duo Johnossi, who are a bit like Death From Above 1979 but not nearly as good. Suddenly a bit of Michael Jackson sounds like a really good idea. Time to find a disco bar that does requests.
FRIDAY
3pm. At the Warner label’s weekend base a few of their bigger acts rock up to be interviewed by the thumpingly attractive Eritrean/German MTV presenter Hadnet Tesfai. Cee-Lo Green, dressed like a green Adidas Jedi, is in particularly flirty mood, but Clash briefly douses the ardour by enquiring about his favourite ‘Crazy’ cover. Turns out it’s Billy Idol’s version, as he was a huge Idol fan as a kid. Then he buys everyone a shot and waddles off to stare in some sex shop windows.
4pm. We give Marina and the Diamonds’ interview the elbow and head to the Swiss showcase next door, for free cheese fondue and one of the unforeseen highlights of the weekend. Oy is a one-woman gospel-blues act who makes up for her lack of manpower by (a) utilising lots of clever samples and (b) flicking some little cuddly fellahs to set them off. In other hands this could easily have been gimmicky shite, but is actually jaw-droppingly inspired. One to watch.
7pm-9pm. Sadly I miss most of Wolf Parade’s keenly-anticipated set due to the need for a tactical comfort break after a large and slightly risky Chinese meal, then get lost along the Reeperbahn and pass the same hookers several times, which gets a bit embarrassing as they assume you’re just too shy to approach them and come bounding over, one by one. More of a dog parade, really. Thankfully I catch the fine Canadian outfit’s last few songs, and they’re in sweaty, noisy, very agreeable form.
9.30pm. Over to the Molotow, where the hotly-tipped but appallingly-dressed Egyptian Hip Hop aren’t the sexiest band you’ve ever seen, and are a bit droney early on. “Cheer up!” shouts a local, and they do, veering from intricate math-rock to full on funk. Talented chaps. From there it’s over to the rather less inspired Marina, who has inexplicably packed an enormous hall despite making a noise like an otter caught in a trap. A lot of the chaps here are clearly just watching her wobble about.
10.30pm. Meanwhile the rightly lauded Edwyn Collins has only half-filled the also pretty large Docks venue, but elicits twice the euphoria. His band are a fiendishly tight unit and Edwyn makes the effort to hobble off mid-song then back on for an encore which gets the most heartfelt cheer of the night. Me and the chap from Yahoo are that close to giving each other a moist-eyed man-hug.
11pm – 12.30pm. Folk-slash-dance act James Yuill, on the other hand, can’t be arsed to actually go off for his encore and just stays on for another couple of songs, the lazy bugger. They are terribly good though, and his pumping closer goes down very well indeed. Straight after him at Moondoo is Ali Love, who does some pretty nasty sub-soul stuff but does have a couple of mind-blowingly hot singers alongside him, writhing in tight leather suits. Clash stays slightly longer than necessary.
12.30pm. Outside I bump into Yuill, loading his estate car after what turns out to be the first date of his European tour. Most of the many cases belong to his visuals man apparently, who fulfils a further role for Team Yuill later on. “He’s the man to know if you’re looking for a party,” says James. “We go back to the hotel and leave him to do the rock ‘n’ roll stuff for us.”
1am. Next up, you can’t help but wonder how big The Irrepressibles’ bus must be. There are about a dozen members of this classical, theatrical troupe, all of whom utilise bulky instruments, are made up like something from a big, stupid musical and perform moves possibly inspired by Peter Crouch’s robot dance. It’s an arresting spectacle, not that their venue is anywhere near full. This isn’t a big money-making venture, you’d imagine.
2am. FM Belfast, meanwhile, are missing a member, but no-one seems to mind too much. For many in attendance their energetic high-jinks are a highlight of the weekend but this seasoned Belfast-watcher can’t help missing the distinctive screeches of moonlighting Múm-man Orvar. It’s like Bronski Beat without Jimmy Somerville.
2.30am. We end up in a street-corner bit of wasteland that’s been refashioned into a bloc party for the weekend – they even have tall cardboard tenement buildings – and blares pumping dance around the city until daybreak. The local residents don’t seem to mind. I make a mental note to move to Hamburg one day.
SATURDAY
3.30pm. Saturday afternoon includes a surreptitious trip to St Pauli, the world’s most rock and roll football club, who enter the pitch to AC/DC and their merch is to die for, really. Although several pints, a hefty sausage and lots of communal jumping about does necessitate a power nap afterwards. A late start tonight then…
10pm. We kick off eventually, after a queue, with the Treetop Flyers, who are a bit Magic Numbers for my liking and have made some deeply questionable decisions in the hairstyle/facial hair department. Ho hum. But the perfect antidote to their maudlin tunesmithery are scuzzy Norwegian shoegaze merchants The Megaphonic Thrift, who tear up a corner of the Molotow club and wrack the place with reverb. The Thrift have been known to knock whole sound-systems out, but this venerable old club copes. They’ve had some riotous outfits on here over 20 years.
11.15pm. It’s back to the Imperial Theatre for more countrified twangsmithery, and the oddly-named Musée Mécanique, who are actually from Portland, Oregon and deeply traditional. We catch them halfway through a Beach Boys cover, after which they do a pleasingly awkward plug for the CDs they have on sale (“management told us to say that”), but nothing hugely diverting musically. The theatre is pretty full again but on closer inspection it becomes evident that a good few punters are, in fact, asleep. Those darned all-too-comfy chairs.
12.30am. When in Hamburg you really should see some oom-pah music, and we very nearly do, with LaBrassBanda. But not quite. These southern Germans actually play a curious hybrid of rock, dance and funk, and are clearly hugely popular here; the hall is packed and someone even crowdsurfs. To a brass band. You don’t see that down the Salvation Army. Well, only when they’re all on poppers.
1.30am. Our final turn is Elin Ruth Sigvardsson at the worryingly-named but really rather nice Angie’s Nightclub. The Swedish singer-songwriter has a Betty Page look and though her heartfelt ballads don’t do much for me, the nice Swiss girl we’re with winds up in tears. Oh dear. Hanging out with Clash will do that to a person.
2am. With that we head off to the afterparty, and hook up with the excellent Icelandic outfit Hjaltalin, who I’d promised to go and see earlier in the day but went for a kip instead. Their set, then, I’m unable to comment on. Their patter, drinking and dance moves: absolutely first class.
Words by Si Hawkins
Photo by Sebastian Boettcher
