20th century boy

Protège-moi.

A declaration of love - by Gitta Lindemann

My first tour with Rammstein. I sat between people in dark clothes, which I had thought otherwise. They were calm and talked about study assignments, she passed the time with a surprisingly intelligent conversations. The concert was delayed by half an hour. So much time needed the guys to think about whether the program is objectionable, what might displease his mother. I had come secretly, he had not wanted at that time. But he had discovered me. Later, in large halls and stadiums, I was a natural host. Whether then or now in a small room in huge arenas - the experience remains the same. I stand between the other and the music rushes up to me and roars and throws up, runs into walls, falls into the sky, falls back and sits down on his chest, breathing becomes shallow. I’m wedged in music and rigid. With admiration. The trainer on stage is my son.

He conducted the masses with a wave of his hand, he proposes his forehead sore and it burns and he chases his voice rolling through space and time. What a responsibility. For all these people who cheer him enthusiastically and would follow him wherever he would lead.
Because I’m scared of him. What he does in itself, which must overcome it cost him to deliver Sun Night after night, country by country, continent to continent.

But he is relaxed when I’m backstage before the show and he takes care of me when we were home.

At home, this is Mecklenburg. His home, his roots, his source of strength.
Even as a boy - on holiday - he drove through the countryside, got up in the morning and went with the milkers to the fields to the cows. Slept in the open air under the wide sky, heard the apples fall or Switsch the ducks in the pond. In the fall, he scoured the woods for mushrooms, in winter a long walk through deep snow, with the cat in his jacket, because the snow did not jump from hill to hill snow.

And the people. Tell me from the past - he said to his father and to the guests in the village inn. As they have lived before his time. He is seated - then and now - with the
People from the village together and can listen for hours as they in their wide-mouth
springing art of dry humor and stories make.

He is popular, they seek his company. This has nothing to do with his job. His father wrote a book about him in which he tells of his amazement that his friends all thought themselves capable. One wants to have it repaired by his moped, the father asks in wonder - do you think he can do that? The boy says: Till can do. The father thinks incredulously particular nonsense. He is surprised that the truck is running again soon. “He can do everything - how much vertauen how much confidence,” writes his father.
Trust - that is the word. And trust, he dares. He goes up to limits and exceed them. What could happen if … this question he does not know. He tried, he tests off. His lyrics are not a question of courage, they are in it. Because he does not talk about himself, about his aspirations, his pain, he cries out in his poems. A friend has written: “There are wounds of despair and hope. Escape thoughts of loneliness from a heart full of courage and desire shot. “

When his grandmother died, he was by her bed, she cuddled up to her death. In a poem he can handle the pain so much different, so it hurts to read. Where he takes her ideas, I’m me and asked him. They are simply in it. But sometimes there is the grace of ideas also. Then it’s bad. Then he closes up, close off, then I am standing in the rain. But always there is the family that has grown. And he is now the family trustees, he makes sure that no one broke away.

There are many reasons to sit together. Here come his friends and family will be asked to add, as there are Christmas and Easter and birthdays or just a nice evening to sit together under the summer sky and tell.

Or it feels like to cook, he can excellently, especially venison and fish. He tries out new dishes and if we all tastes excellent, he constantly found fault, but there would have …

Sometimes he invites us to his big car and we drive to the lake or paddling, always the whole family. In our little boat we sit and let us drive through the water, above us shady branches. Then he looks for a rest stop on the grass and hauls all on land. From the cooler it gets burgers and bread and rubber toys for the
Children and water, and Pro Secco, he goes fishing, while we guzzle. In the evening there will fish with lots of garlic. Then it’s all on him.

This is one of his life, the other on the stage, his “job,” he says. Sometimes they coincide. If we for example on the beach in Costa Rica and sit three young men come up to him and ask for an autograph. This is embarrassing for him. But like he is friendly and the Signature.
My best
Reminder:

He picked us up in San Rose and we go through endless streets and bumpy, dusty roads, but he is getting faster and faster, I say wait, but I want to see the sunset, but he steps on the gas and on and on, finally a hill and stops at last and we see the sun above the sea. As it sets glowing red. This moment we should do from here out!

We have arrived, and he cooks and humming to himself. It gets darker and darker, about us, only the sky and we are alone with ourselves and our conversations that last late into the night. We have wonderful weeks driving through the country, swim and soar high above the jungle keep us firmly on a seemingly endless rope. Far below us the green thicket, above us the sky and the sea and far back with me a great anxiety in the stomach. When seat belts were suddenly to me my heart beats over 65 aware of.

Without him I would not have thought of this adventure. He inspires confidence. I remember when we - when he was 14 or 15 - had a walk through the fields by a bull herd. I was afraid he probably is, but he went up to the animals and called out to me that I should just stay behind him.

Then we had a stream, I introduced myself to scatterbrained, he laid a board over it and helped me to the other side.

Until recently had to the holidays for five generations gathered around his table. He took his grandmother in a wheelchair from his car and fed her and the great-great grandson child crawled on her lap. Everyday family life. His backing.

As well as nature. He goes under the wide sky along the lake and knows the animals that live here. He belles and then tells us amazing things. He knows the most countries in the world, and they know him. When I was in Moscow, I wanted to shake hands with many young people, because I was the “Rammstein mother” and was a man of my age told me with enthusiasm, the uniqueness of this band. On the videos of the guest performances in different countries, you see how devoutly and fervently sing the audience the texts in German. In Mexico City is no different than in Tokyo, Rio, Manchester or in Budapest. All this he experienced. But this is nothing against a Mecklenburg sunrise above the bog, he says, when you see how the deer come out of the bushes and you can perform in this great silence, the different animal sounds. This incomparable sky, clouds and mud lumps on the shoes, this landscape grounds, it makes him humble.

I am - like many - like to meet with him. The fact that he is famous, does not matter. But sometimes it falls on me with quiet astonishment: what kind of person.

If I do not by chance his mother would be with this man I would like friends.

The author, Gitta Lindemann is a journalist and was active from 1992 to 2002 for North German Radio in Schwerin as a cultural leader of NDR 1 Radio MV. On
17. December is “Rammstein”
perform in the Rostock HanseMesse.

Presos em triângulos rosas. pt2

Presos em triângulos rosas.

Acredito, sou muito mais do que aquilo que dizem sobre mim ou impõe para que eu seja. Não me curvo ante regras com as quais eu discordo e que não são compatíveis com o que penso acerca do mundo. Meu mundo, o mundo no qual vivo, é muito mais amplo e possui mais horizontes multicolores do que se pode imaginar. Contudo, apesar de mostrar-me altivo a todo o momento, não posso negar que sou tão frágil quanto vidro fino e estou à mercê de rotulações, ‘stupid labels’, originadas a partir de observações terceiras e errôneas, como se eu tivesse eternamente preso ao braço um triângulo rosa que diz o que sou, o que penso mesmo sem que a minha boca se abra.

Trata-se de um pré-julgamento baseado em fundamentos religiosos ou sociais equivocados, porém com os quais não posso brigar.

Sou fraco, também sei, e, certamente, sairei perdedor na luta contra o fanatismo religioso, ainda que eu esconda o meu triângulo rosa (invisível) que insistem em prender ao meu braço direito.

Durante a Segunda Grande Guerra, símbolos foram usados, nos campos de concentração nazistas, para identificar os prisioneiros sem que eles precisassem abrir a boca para se apresentar ou se defender. Literalmente, calava-os e rotulava-os. Judeus recebiam o triângulo azul, fixado no braço, lésbicas, o preto, e gays, o rosa. Apesar de tal acontecido estar guardado no passado tenebroso da nossa história, ainda hoje esses triângulos permanecem presos em nossos braços. Percebem?

Somos pré-julgados o tempo inteiro pelo que ouvimos, pelo que vestimos, pelo que falamos, por com quem andamos, por quem adoramos. Olham para nossos ‘triângulos’ e, de imediato, temos nossos perfis traçados, sem nem mesmo trocarmos uma palavra com quem nos observa.