December 31
END OF YEAR REPORT
Speaking personally, financial disaster. Otherwise the most productive and successful year of Wally's life. High point was surely the recent and extremely silly Wallywoods appearance on Berlin's TOP.TV. Ken and Siggy, among the few to witness the hour-long Xmas spectacle, connected on the phone immediately after but couldn't speak for laughing. Had the off-set pantomime of technical bungles and frayed nerves been filmed too, we might have knocked Mr Bean out of his dusty old Yuletide slot.
December 26
HAPPY UGLY ONE
To say that the five "X Mass Murder Parties" went well would be both under and over-statement. Arcanoa and Acud were barely attended, even though Infamis, who haven't played for a year and a half, filled the latter dive with family and friends who all then followed the band to White Trash nearby for a second bigger and louder set, pissing off Corbett's boss no end. The two bands remaining then played admirably to an audience of, I hear, as many as three. The jam at Arcanoa, witnessed mostly by the barman and three chicks, led by the evening's headliner and new friend Evil Mr Sod, was cream of Wallywoods absurdity. The Sod ploughed on professionally and bravely, regardless of the antics of mainly stoned Wallywoods All Stars M.C.Lutta, D.J.Klausie, H.Hinterhofdichter & rising opera talents A.Tornado & Wally Whistler. The half-empty yet half-full King Kong Klub concert co-organised by Lady Gaby, when it FINALLY got going, ran smoothest of all considering the number (and technical intricacy) of acts and the time pressure (i.e. the loudness problem). Nu Ride ruled that night. At White Trash, the biggest concert-party I've presented to date with about ten acts, was hectic but jolly as hell; even though the Trash hated upstairs hosts The Ugly Americans and, very probably therefore, ripped me off (and therefore most of the performers) big time, charging just one euro on the door after a certain, way premature, hour so they could cash in on the bar - instead of the agreed five euros for live entertainment upstairs and down for most of the night, including The Methylated Spirits and Hugo Race and guests. The last and hardly at all organised Kaffee Burger do, 'A Lovely British Christmas' on the other hand, the titel of which changed at the last doubtful minute to 'Scrooge Christmas' to cover up why, among other things, no type of Turkey or Queen of England was to appear (only M.C.Ken of New York), fattened up wonderfully on Xmas night, ticking over on the door, stage and dance-floor better than possibly prepared for with fun, last-minute band, 'The Hot Eskimos', Christmas cracker jokes, dancing oldies and guest Brits. Crowned by late arrival M.C.Ugly "Hey, wow, now this is a REAL party! What did you do?".
In all, came out owing more dosh than the events generated, and was sadly unable to contribute in any way to the 'British Airways' cause, as was hurredly planned at the Cafe Zapata benefit a week earlier. My apologies have since been accepted, I think, by Bruno (who by some fluke appeared in person at the last party and introduced the Eskimos) and most, if not all, the entertainers involved, each of whom I thank heartily and honestly.
Ho ho ho. Lesson learned: Trust no-one. Least of all the most successful clubs. ALWAYS have your own man on the door.
Here's trouser-dropping Ugly One on the White Trash dining-room fiasco:
"Dear wally,
bless your little heart. you made our xmass. you were right of course. even if a lot of the audience dug it, the owner and the whole staff really hated us. it will always be like that. corbett told me the sad reality of nitelife. bands bring a crowd the first nite. then it's a loss. people go out to square places like white trash or discos. the money is in serving food and drinks. there's no money in art. and i actually think his own music is some kind of art. he played to an audience of one. i had so much fun and fysche is vowing to start her own ugly american franchise in LA. thanks from all of us and sorry for all the hassles."
"Dear jason,
75 degrees in LA??? wow.
great fucking show tonight. too great. it went right according to plan. i told paul the deal and bless his heart he let us do it even though he knew he'd get shit for it. and he did. the place was packed. with the most square people imaginable. we did, as planned, a minute or 2 between mellow performers, the full set planned for midnight. each 2 minute segment was perfect. the farfisa amp had that psycho jukebox sound and the ugly americans were redeemed for the lounge band shit of the night before (kkk). i will not play anywhere without my own amp in future. and yes, sig played like i told him. no lounge sax. just craziness. and fysche, bless her little heart did what i told her. don't sing, scream. she screamed her gills out. we mc'd together. she told the audience to eat shit and fuck themselves. i spoke german, incredibly bad german. then brunhilde did her nice set of chansons and paul warned us it was too loud, which really means, it's too wierd. then we played another 3 minutes and introduced helge. and paul told us that the owner of the place walked in and told him to tell that bitch to stop screaming and that the whole thing was too loud and wierd. so i promised to play really softly for our last and final set. i said i would play the acoustic piano. which i did. i apologized to the audience for our performance, told them that we were asked to play softly and said that we would do a special christmas song. fysche had prepared to sing last christmas of george michael. a favorite of mine and yours. i played that thing so syrupy and stupid, like twinkle bell at the ivories and fysche sang 2 verses. it was so ugly american i started visibly crying on stage, so drained from emotion that i started hitting the piano with my fists. then i said fuck this shit and turned on the amp. we played about 7 minutes of pure mayhem until paul told us that the owner told him to throw us out. so i apologized once again and gave the audience a parting present. mind you, our feet were eye level. i dropped my pants and mooned a full house.
some people shouted. the waiter called us idiots. (he was from the west coast, dressed in full LA punk costume, chains, tattoos, only his mind was so pc he couldn't handle what he was dressed to be). meanwhile one very spiessig woman came up and told me that it's really a shame. she just loved us and wanted more more more!!!!
so we loaded up the truck and moved to... acud. corbett was playing his guitar on stage and singing. audience of three. two people left. sig wanted to play when he saw the marshals. i just wanted to sit and cruise the one man audience, who just happened to be gay and very sexy indeed. fysche wanted to go home and sleep, exhausted from all that screaming. she was so inspired by the ugly performance she wants to start an ugly franchise in LA. then thomas and ceci showed up. ceci was all over the gay guy. i had to fend her off. fysche was yawning. sig was begging us to plug into the marshalls. fysche said nothing could possibly top that nonperformance at white trash. she just wanted to go home and sleep before her 8 am flight to lala land. so thomas offered graciously to drive fysche home. i think his exact words were: can i give you a lifting? we saw her off (poor dear had the look of a virgin being driven home by an axe murderer) and ceci took to the stage. solo. without any accompaniment. she whined and howled while corbett stared at her pussy obviously very taken with her singing. so i told her as a christmas present i'd plug my farfisa in the marshall and she could sing over that. and it was a great big sound indeed. not just the marshall. the bass amp. but not like that psycho jukebox farfisa thing. and a little crowd showed up (on their way to the disco upstairs) and everyone clapped and howled along and loved the performance including corbett who really fell in love with ceci's singing and sig loves playing with a good professional sound and i enjoyed hearing the little farfisa pump... but it wasn't ugly. it wasn't the ugly americans. and fysche was right. nothing could top what we did at white trash. except of course, if you, Jason, had been there."
December 18
SORTED
All problems moaned about recently in these often jagged or bleak diaries have been sorted out. Yesterday, Sir Thomas gave me a pretty little Christmas present; a ten percent share in the Art Pub (of profit left over once bills are paid). There were a small number of conditions, on my part too, and as a result of a new clearer understanding we will continue to work together here under our original name, Art Pub Wallywoods. Long may it live and prosper!(*)
Was up all night working on and sending the e-mail invites to the ten Wallywoods events taking place in the next seven days (not counting the TV show; seen by the fewer the better I reckon), finishing off with probably the silliest, A Lovely British Christmas! at Kaffee Burger on the 25th. On that one I can relax.
After going to his benefit concert at Zapata the night before last (am still hung-over) I decided that any profit from the four 'X Mass Murder Parties' should be split between Bruno (British Airways) Adams and Wallywoods. Basically, couldn't think of a reason why not. Of course, may get stick from some musicians already booked, but I'll do my utmost to see to it that nobody goes away unhappy.
This won't be the busiest week of my life; anyway I can retire between times to the flat, quiet and comfortable, the address or phone number of which I've given to almost no-one, not even Sir Thomas. But it will be one of the most significant.
(*Turned out complete bullshit. Nothing got sorted. The disasters continued (I even had to leave the "nice little flat" because I couldn't pay a bean towards it) until eventually I left Thomas alone at the pub, to start - or rather continue - a real Gallery Wallywoods again under much improved circumstances; i.e., my own boss for three incredible years at the historic Kulturhaus Peter Edel.)
December 13
THE RETURN OF WIELAND
Any establishment which tolerates even the irregular appearance of that foul-mouthed imbecile Wieland the Cunt is not one at which Yours Truly wishes to hang out. Tolerance is indeed a wonderful thing. I wish I had more of it. But Sir Thomas! how can I possibly make your place funky and attractive to the locals, young sophisticates and fantastic performers and artists invited from all over the world with that viscous criminal git turning up whenever he fancies to vent those beer-rotten bowels and intimidate anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in the same smoky little room. During that first confrontation shortly after opening, Wieland clearly and before witnesses insinuated that he and his penknife-proud street-kid gang could and would trash the place and close the business down whenever he/they felt like it. Just one of the reasons I called the cops - for which he is still extremely pissed off. He insinuated to the same effect again last night. That was after I put out my hand (I was in a damn good mood), looked him in the eye and suggested he apologise. Fine, it's not my place. But what, in the worst case Wieland scenario, could I possibly say to my new friend Horse?
Gathered my stuff and moved in fully, at least for now, to Johanna's nice flat-share. Paradox Paul, Wally and I will support the Art Pub as much as we can, arranging the events, hanging the art on Saturdays - assuming Thomas still wishes me to do it and to pay me for it.
Anyway, can now concentrate better on my Big Chairs stuff for Bert's magazine as well as the BBC3 exhibition, next Tuesday's TV show, the Christmas parties, this website, writing and documentation for the book; and above all finding Gallery Wallywoods II.
LONG LIVE GALLERY WALLYWOODS II !!!
December 12
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Good things happening all round, thank you very much world. Find myself in a cosy little room in a cosy little flat-share one minute's stagger from the Pub. Don't seem to be allergic to the cat. Don't mind a bit not understanding Spanish. However, uncountable tasks not being attended to (will make another list shortly). Why not? Unofficially running Uncle Tom's bar till the last guests and piss-takers leave (just one bad case these days, I'll call him Professor Klein) between witching hour and sun-up; sleeping far into every day. Why hang around that smoky art'n'beer hole every god-given hour? There's no ventilation system yet and I cough like a smoker. In fact I smoke now like a smoker. And ashamed to say, still drink like a drinker. So why hang around? Here's why:
Last night the God guy came in the Pub. I recognised his side-burns from the Sunday lecturer's platform at Burger. One of Bert's mates (the only funny one). The place was full of 'em. Achim's first Rumpy Dumpy Berlin writer's evening. Even Paradox Paul was mildly (or bitterly) impressed and Bert himself didn't stop laughing. Before I spoke to the God guy I said to Achim, whilst remembering a plan that he, Pohl, Krohn and Woods would irregularly host the shows, "I'm setting up the stage, how many are reading tonight?" He said, five excluding you. Right then, I said to Paradox Paul, we'll stay clear of these German evenings, as jolly - indeed Wallywoodsian - as this one turned out to be, and bomb the place from January with something a little less dry (or wet). No time to write anything anyway. Had the printer functioned I was ready to bung on the end of their show 'The Pub Rules' just for a laugh - hastily updated with black-listed names and a new category: types of people not to employ. I said to the God guy, how can we stop Sir Thomas hiring every possible description of character who fancies the project and, over multiple free beers, tells us at great length what complete amateurs we are? The God guy said, what project are you referring to, Art Pub or Wallywoods? I said, er.. The God guy said, what are you still doing around here anyway? I said, er.. and then I made this list:
What am I doing here?
Looking after Horse's exhibition. The guy came all the way from Australia with his genius thirteen-year-old, Zorro, to put on the current two week exhibit. Certainly in the top three shows Wallywoods has ever hosted (up with Miss Demuth's Future Food and BBC1). Paintings, prints and exquisite sculptures worth a lot of dosh. Must inform him tonight that a bit got busted off one of his phallic boats next to the stage.
Wallywoods is otherwise homeless. Does it need a home? Yes it fucking does. Am collecting addresses around town suitable for the new gallery/club/office/whatever. All too expensive so far; still no second backer found. Wally of Wallywoods World Wide Enterprises still does not have two pennies to rub together. But he is obstinately relying on his F.O.W. money collecting scheme which will kick into action the moment the fitting property rises from the Berlin dirt like Paradox Paul's Culture Castle.
Food. Over-looked coins in the till pay Wally's daily food bill. Apart from that, Thomas at last has the license to cook, a small woman with a briefcase gave it to him last week, and has started to cook himself (excuse that ambiguity). Apart from that, Thomas now seems to agree with Wally that the now extremely disgruntled cooks (who claim they were promised chunks of his cake in some fictional four way partnership) generate more problems than they solve. He returned from a meeting with them, that wonderful night Nu Ride played (the neighbours took me two floors up so I could hear their complaint without shouting), drunk out of his head. The next day I asked how it went. "Drunken." "But what do they actually want?" "They want to control me." Aha. Penny finally dropped. As his irreplaceable favourites, all that complaining to him about Yours Truly, who they knew they could never control, was intended to squeeze me out. It very nearly worked.
Am not yet here on the internet. The tiny office behind the bar with phone and grubby mattress is still Wally's cock-pit. Pardon the pun.
Chicks. In fact one in particular. Have added her to the list of gorgeous young women I am asking now to marry me. So far that's Tanja (who thinks I'm an asshole), Maya from the Comic Shop (who just left the country), funny girl Katja (who falls asleep drunk on the sofa) and soon, why not, Caroline Ceramics and Miss Demuth. One day one will say yes.
Above all, having on-going influence on the place, already startlingly popular, set up with Tom's fifty grand and, only slightly less important, two years of Wallywoods experience, contact building, blind-faith, hard unpaid work and magic ingredient X. Strike that. Magic ingredient W. Already, according to Thomas, the Art Pub is breaking even. That's after just three months and without the kitchen yet rolling. Ken said at the beginning that if Thomas had opened on his own, it would have quickly developed into the most boring pub in Berlin. I believe - even now, after all these hick-ups - that he and I make a fantastic partnership.
After announcing all that, like the state's poorest paid libel lawyer smelling of piss and drink, I asked the God guy if he would like to read something hilarious at our wonderful Art Pub. Even in German. He said it was not possible. Visibly taken aback (but secretly relieved) Paradox Paul said, why not? The God guy said, he supports a wife and three children and already reads twice a week (or twice a month, can't remember what) and couldn't possibly put his family through more. Perhaps he was miffed at the content of Achim's first Rumple Pumple Käsebuhne, which turned out to be a masked piss-take of the God-guy and some of his seriously dull Reformbuhne book-buddies.
The night before that, Bob and Stef dropped in. Much more fun. Stef back from England, where someone ripped him off three grand, and Bob on a visit from Prague to get some teeth pulled - therefore drunk even as the night started. Anyway, full of advice and ideas, animated, enthusiastic, encouraging. Until Boss Tom left. Upon hearing that the original plan of my buying over two or three years into a fifty-fifty partnership had been quietly and mutually abandoned due to Wally's famous unhappiness around drunks, to be replaced with a frugal monthly wage for odd-jobbing and playing 'events manager', Bob then voiced the opinion that Wallywoods had been hijacked. Now, exactly this phrase I've heard before, from Ken the Sharp. But back in that car trip to his Kopenick castle, I pointed out to Ken and myself that things were more like the other way around. Anyway Bob, by now falling off his stool, raved that I should stop being a wimp and demand eighty per-cent of the Art Pub, ready to be knocked down to no less than fifty. I nearly fell off my own stool and patiently made the point: why the fucking hell would Sir Thomas feel obliged to do anything like that? He's got a hit location on his hands, with eternal popularity and happy retirement guaranteed. Bob's answer, through beer and bits of rotten teeth: BECAUSE YOU FUCKING DESERVE IT, YOU WALLY!
Apart from that, here's a list of things to do which are not getting done:
Meet Brunhilda and the film crew this evening to discuss the Wallywoods tv debut. Doesn't bear thinking about.
Edit and burn Dahlia Ross's recording from last time around. She needs it. It's great. She also needs to escape from that pair of creeps she got tangled up with. Doesn't bear thinking about.
Write and deliver to Bert by tomorrow a Big Chairs text plus publicity for the coming BBC3 exhibition for his last Tor Tour publication. To be illustrated throughout with old Big Chair sketches.
Let two or three people know that Wallywoods presents The Ugly Americans' Bad Taste Christmas Sing-a-Long at Burger on Thursday. Expect almost no-one. Doesn't matter.
Meet Wolfgang at White Trash. Can't put it off much longer. Wallywoods biggest night ever and have hardly even glanced at the logistics.
Get a hair cut, sort out passport, buy shoes.
Persuade Sir Thomas to take Wally seriously.
Find a new space.
November 24
SUCCESFULLY RETIRED
for three days to George and Ken's little mansion at Lake Kopenick. Gorgeous place. TV, healthy food, piano in front of the large (cold) fireplace. George in the roof in his schick but disastrously under-busy Apple-Mac strewn architects office; Ken in the middle, cooking healthily with almost no ingredients, but mostly attempting without enjoyment (according to he) to finish dodgy book number four 'Grandma Gets Laid'; Wally in the basement granny-flat (no women around for miles) with lawn-level view of the lake, the ducks, a bit of sky, spiders. Did not ramble further than the patio for a smoke in the damp cool air. Did little of intended writing, instead reconstructed the website parallel to reconstructing the whole Wallywoods plan, and in fact the whole world and each of the people I know in it. Made some more lists. Decided what to do with the Nikki Sudden recordings. Had a shower. Spiders everywhere. The low ceiling starts where my head stops, if I leave alone the fucking computer for two minutes to stand up straight for a bit of exercise before making another fucking cup of tea. But I do not feel the weight of this house, like that other place. There are dumb-bells and stuff here, and a stash of Farfisas, but the website was most demanding. Added some new bits, but spent most of the time redirecting the surfer's attention to pages of information which already exist, or have existed for years. The plan to put a Big Chair on Mars is not merely a month old. Neither am I, though I've been treated like it by some. My brain has developed slowly since that horrible childhood (no disrespect here to wonderful parents who can't be blamed for not knowing what to do with me) but I feel wise enough at last, and therefore older, than Frey Gang and all the other opinionated, frustratied or tragically big hearted local boozing philosophers plus the older half of the Wallywoods crew all boiled in a soup together, in Thomas' lovely kitchen. On the contrary, I'm now just beginning. I have not lost an argument, because I am always right, in everything I do; I have only lost some ground. This project does not fit inside an Eck Kneiper. Neither do I. But I will support it as long as it lives and deserves my support. In any case, Sir Thomas will always have my support. He's like family. Like infuriating. Ken correctly puts everybody in their place. He tells things to them just as straight as he sees things. I do exactly the same but with too much diplomacy. Between us we know a particular circle of people particularly well, and have come up with various solutions designed to keep everybody happy, above all Wally the Underpaid Social Deconstructionist (in fact Unpaid Social Deconstructionist since coming off the dole upon moving in the Pub.) Our conversation in the car was a major chapter in itself. We speak as though arguing, go round and around, round and around, disagreeing, eloquently convinced that the other just ain't gettin it, but converging at the end of it all in complete understanding of a given situation or character stance. My own character stance, rather stances, is now, rather are now, more important than ever. Too far up the glacier with no biscuits left. Only a few flakes. In Cécile's case too I must be adamant. She's terribly affected by this break-up and I cannot afford to be misunderstood by her. Wednesday was her birthday and we drunkenly invited her to test the piece here, but changed our minds at the crunch. I imagine she is furious. As importantly, I cannot afford to be misunderstood by any of my guests, colleagues or psuedo colleagues at the Wallywoods stop-over, already infamous, Pub of the Year. Return to meet them all, like old chums after summer break, in about an hour. Ken wanted to go into town today, not tomorrow. So I'm saving the HTML to disk and will drop the breaking news on-line at the internet cafe at Rosa Luxemurg Platz, whilst Ken and the cooks or some local drunks throw this pc back in that smoky cramped room behind the kitchen. May or may not have already missed Brunhilda Amanda's debut at what is still referred to as Art Pub Wallywoods. According to Jason, Wednesday night was choc-full for Bev Lee Harling's second appearance this week. Sir Thomas is certainly happy about that..
Can't finish this now, Ken wishes to leave in fifteen minutes, and he's got the car. He's as impatient and bossy on his own bit of homestead as I am on mine.
November 20
IN OUT IN OUT SHAKIN ALL ABOUT
Trapped at the Pub. Ken refuses to rescue me. Problem with the car. Or George. Wrong coloured tyres, or over-worked, or something. Maybe tomorrow. Either way it won't be for very long. The pot is boiling around here and Wally won't allow it to go cold. Not now.
Am expecting Julian Hinton and girlfriend Bev Lee Harling, nice couple fresh from England, to enchant the stage tonight, among Peter Hecht's big animal sculptures (his exhibition drawing to a close - more about it later). Have hardly slept (my usual twelve hours). Someone didn't show, so did a late bar shift. Last of the regulars left shortly after five this morning. Am getting used to them. No more problems with Egon I think. Relaxed a lot recently about that side of things. Anyway, no trouble of any kind has occurred in the place for a couple of weeks (neighbours apart). Haven't seen the cook since around then. Super atmosphere. Guests and friends very encouraging. Kitchen construction going slowly but surely to plan. Christmas dinner really ought to be on the menu.
Still feel I have one foot out the door, however. Ken recommends moving on, taking Wallywoods with; but I don't yet see it as all or nothing. Anyway, chance would be a fine thing. Need another partner first. So, taking it one nicely productive day at a time (and one nicely stoned evening after the other).
Phoned the old poster shop next to Burger this afternoon. Sadly, has been rented.
Gallery Wallywoods II must land elsewhere.
November 18
DEAR WALLY
"I'm a bit confused about this night, don't know why. it was an interesting night, i stayed as long as possible to watch what's happening. what i mentioned was that there is no real border between people behind the bar and guests. in my pub (stammkneipe) "bornholmer hütte" absolutly nobody is allowed to go behind the bar, not even to pick a pen or a lighter or anything. i did that once and mathias, the wirt, sayed to me "next time i cut up your hand". he gets realy angry! and the second thing is that everybody with no exception has to pay all drinks. if he has no money he has to go to the next bank and get it. only very good guests which come for years are allowed to pay the very next day if they have forgot theire money, but even then he preferes it to send them home to get it. The guests know that and there are no problems. such a funny thing that somebody goes behind the bar, takes 4 glasses and tries to get beer in them, and then because it is not that easy as it seems the 4 glaces stay around anywhere and thats it. ore somebody takes 5 or 6 bottles of spirit and mixes a shit and gives in a few glaces ... and lots of other funny things .. and what are all these people doing in the kichen? maybe it must be a bit like that in an art pub because everybody is some kind of a friend and they trust each other. but a pub is buisiness as well, and a buisiness has rules. thing i want to say is that i mentioned that it went a bit out of control. i enjoyed the jamsession as well, but most of it was party nonsens. listening to sister chain singing "i'm waiting for my man" from velvet underground this night was a great thing. i realy enjoyed the night because it all went mixed up, all got more or less drunk, and it was just a very nice party. i think that you'll get much more guest whithin the next few weeks or month, and might be a bit dangerous to let it flow like that. ok, don't take it too serious, it's just an impression. good night and good morning.
Joachim Wendel"
It was Maya from the Comic Shop's Official Surprise Birthday Party and Wally's favourite night so far. Busy, relaxed, classy, cheap and loud. Classic Wallywoods. Two sets of neighbours complained. They should have come to the show or left town. A spontaneous hit-list of whatever talents happened to be around the place, quite a lot as it turned out, starting with Spinster Sister, who almost didn't make it because one sister is sick, but they got on the stage first and looked and sounded right as rain. Who else was there? Alex Tornado and his sister (she don't sing, she just looks good) and her dog wearing the same clothes, Marie Cécile clad in sexy 'I'M SINGLE' tee-shirt with new songs learned during her seven week's absence, nervous about seeing her 'ex' at the pub but not about improvising mad stuff with the Tornado, then there was some guy who plays didgeridoo with or without a didgeridoo, Maria, our stunning bargirl from Omsk with the deep voice, accompanied by Red Joe on mandolin, Sister Chain and lover Brother John, everyone's agony aunt Frau Puschel with the shocking blond hair and tongue to match, Helge der Hinterhofdicher, who after reading a few poems spends the rest of such nights banging on a bar stool with a spoon, Paradox Truly who on such nights won't stop whistling, Mad George Kerber the friendly Satanist, Ugly Ken of course (nuff said about him) and very probably someone or other else.
November 15
WEIRD
evening on Monday at Kaffee Burger. Group Therapy. Well done Paradox Paul, host of this black sheep event as both therapist and patient, of absurdly inspired banter musically accompanied by Neil and Nicole from somewhere lovely in England on background effects guitar and electric cello. Almost no-one turned up. Bert loitered bravely on the outskirts and didn't join in. However, the experience was worthwhile, the idea is in fact fab, the entertainment was dry and strange and yours truly, and especially Pub barman Karl the painter of buildings whose motor-mouth saved the show, as well as, I reckon, Boss Tom and Maya from the Comic Shop ended up nicely therapised. So did, or did not, Joachim of the coming 'Achim Wendels Rumpelofen' reading sessions at the Art Pub (first show in December featuring himself, Pohl, Krohn and someone else) who in recent years successfully gave up the drink and believed Wally Lügner's rumour-spreading that the topic for the evening was alcoholism. The subject was in fact "how to further P.P.'s secret career as ridiculous events constructor". If however to the next session (to take place, or so it was announced, at the new Gallery Wallywoods II somewhere nearby, i.e. next door if all works out) we see not-microphone-shy characters join the group as Jason Elephant Lungs san Francisco aka The Shitty Listener, Ugly One himself, the porn-penning queen of Wallywoods gossip, fucking comic phenomenon Alex Tornado aka Adolf Torpedo aka failed singer-songwriter, Siggy The Ugly American sax player and post-Shakespearean writing genius, professional glamour photographer 'C.I.A. Fred' of the America-Hating Conspiracy Therapists, black Englishman religious freek Anterny Riley the painter and apparently old mate of Basquiet and Andy Warhol, Mad May the mid-life-sex-driven comic sessionist (joint female winner of Wallywoods Motor Mouth Mother of the Year along with writer Mad Anna Panek in her floppy red hat) and perhaps quiet K-berg literary celebrity and Casanova, Another Bookshop Alchemist Alan, eccentric sometimes to beyond a joke and long haul fancier of Marie-Cécile; then the discussion may have turned out more like a discussion.. than.. "glibberish and albernheit" (Yours Idiot Servant Truly was heard to put it so after unpacking the impromptu dance-floor art installation back at the Pub - the items purposed to decorate this non-event whilst encouraging a few stiff Burgers to loosen up and take part in something informal completely unconnected to dance music or speech making - and lying down in the back room to sink in a whirlpool of dreams and incredibly good, incredibly useless ideas after this foggy yet star-spangled night's fifteen joints).
*P.P. takes a break to turn down the music in the Pub front. It is beyond midnight and some stone-walled singing Scots buddy of Brian Poet Burgess is on the wrong side of the bar cranking up The Dark Side of the Moon; as if it were needed. It's a rowdy one out there, tonight, amongst the smattering of guests. Always is when B.B. comes around to lap up Wallywoods ambiguities and preach Yen drunkenness. We came up together with a poem (he is invited to co-host some of next years Wordy Nites), actually a P.P. oldy, but B.B. suggested changing the first line. Original version appearing somewhere earlier/later in this journal, it now reads:
JESUS WAS A GOOD MAN
JESUS WAS A GREAT MAN
JESUS WAS A DEAD MAN
WHO LIVED UPON THE CROSS(*)
Can't remember if that was before or after Brian sang his recently invented and somewhere, for some reason, professionally recorded Christmas goldy "Happy Christmas", to which we all listened with painful ears and joyous hearts, as someone put it two-thousand chapters earlier.
Did not leave with Ken tonight for a warm bed and some bit of peace in the pleasant Berlin country-skirt; too busy keeping the cap on this mad house. May travel back with him after Maya from the Comic Shop's Surprise Birthday Party featuring Spinster Sister here on Saturday (we do little other advertising around here other than what you read on this site) but not before The Uglies plan to hit some place with a surprise terror concert - the boys' latest idea. I suggested that dull Beat Club, would serve them right and be more than they deserve, but on the other hand, why don't we blitz Another Alan's Bookshop after Thanksgivings Supper for Crazy and Homeless Book People the night before?
Haven't seen Cécile yet; since she returned from her mother's Alp to find she has lost that wonderful studio space she has worked in for some years. Karl, who with Jason helped move her stuff out today, said she appeared and even behaved cool and collected.
(*Somewhere later in the Wally's Log this is changed again, for the better, though hardly for the last time.)
November 11
MOVIN' OUT
Well, that was a short book. Ends when yours truly removes himself from a situation he sees no other remedy for (if you write rules on a pub wall, expect them to be broken immediately, especially those beginning with YOU) and lands, after more heated words with the cook, who regularly and publicly erodes the fragile Wallywoods atmosphere with bitter drug-drunken outbursts, and a sad but inevitable exchange with partner Thomas (who never appears to mind, so concerned is he with other matters) in Wally’s old office... for two nights at the family home of Jon Punk Brains Evans and his family Oscar, aka Stormy, who is five and a half and acts like it and Agnes, who prefers to paint with children at the local Heine Platz project rather than for her career as a painter.. and lands high - very high indeed as it turned out - in the popularly secluded Oderburger Street of Numerous Cool Bars (untested on this exceptional visit). The perfect landing indeed for a bit of mind-cleaning and a bout of brain-storming, more productive than possibly expected. A little earlier, wistful ideas of landing third time lucky on Carmen, at that heavenly sun-flooded apartment across town (now around the corner) entertained Wally Lügner before considering instead a pop around to Anja’s again, after catching her too late last week when she answered the door at 11pm clad warmly and lovely-ly in dressing gown and sheepish smile, but at least handed Wally warmly-ly, etc., the phone number missing from his record book since around the time of her previous (first and last) visit to the Pub, when, having not chatted, so to speak, for over two years, occasional regulars Anja and yours truly were interrupted by the unawaited entrance of a shattered Marie-Cécile, who had missed her train to Switzerland and demanded with or without words, as she is want to do, Wally’s immediate and absolute attention. Wally says, I thought you were in Zuoz, (for six weeks), but drink some red wine and meet my old girlfriend Anja from way back when. She got two girls now (once I thought one was mine). And they got on fine. Sooner or later Anja leaves the joint to Wally and M.C. and more red wine and very last tears and none of us saw neither of them since. Until this recent encounter with the warmily one who stayed in Berlin. Wally, after last night's tantrums at the Pub, also decided not to visit the mysterious chick in the sun-flooded apartment across etc., etc., because they are too well suited. Instead he plumped for an evening on the couch, so to speak, with Punk Brains who happened to be in and happens to have a TV too. (First world news seen in two months. Israel want to bomb Iran. Great stuff.) As well as home made food. The eating around the Art Pub is rich enough in range but poorer in taste (if you don't want to pay restaurant prices) and one looks forward immensely to real fish’n’chips, like soggy and slimy, which otherwise still do not exist in Berlin. They will make Tommy a timely fortune, when they are finally ready, if the kitchen is finally ready before the Art Pub sinks boringly into incredible debt. Instead, above the Street of Numerous Cool Bars, Punk Brains made vegetable soup from real vegetables while Wally Himself worked on the next phase of his secret plan to become a multi-millionaire. Another project is on the menu, probably "Gallery Wallywoods II" with a spare room and booking facilities (i.e. internet access), toilet, mattress, preferably heated this time. Run the Pub events and the others at a distance. But before all that, latest idea is a short retirement to a private guest-house between lake and woodlands, at just the right distance from this boozy city centre; namely Ken and George’s mini-mansion in the Kopernick suburbs, where Ken has recently been writing like the devil, where he keeps his WMD’s, where he still doesn’t like the ducks and where he will land himself tomorrow after two weeks getting up to Lawdy knows what in home town New York - to find Wally and a few possessions waiting in the autumn cold to use his facilities. Spoke to George today about it, he said it should work out; though probably not the internet. Oh well. Need to write first, fuck the internet, whilst taking some air and pondering my existence as an artist, which is after all, top of all the other priorities.
Intend to pick up my things from the Pub with Agnes and the Evans family mini-bus in the morning (i.e. when I roll off the sofa sometime in the afternoon). Quietly marvellous haven, this wood-floored studio flat, high as a kite above Oderburger Street, stuffed with Agnes and Jon’s art and books, during a rain storm with the windows open, the family warm in bed, little Stormy himself dreaming in all innocence and ignorance of twists and turns of fate awaiting him and us dusty old farts in the real world.
I suppose, given a moment now to think about it, as I very occasionally do, I would like one day to have a home of my own. A private place, warm, and un-alone. I have never felt permanent in Berlin (or anywhere since Blake House) although I've always been happy, even in past misery, to imagine myself at home in this city. The question was always - and I rarely knew an answer - But what should I do here, to earn what I wish for and keep off the tedious black dogs who have always been on my trail? What should I do next? What should I do… ever?
The answers are clear at the moment. Few doubts remain.
Everything.
November 6
WALLY'S PUB RULES
For the staff. Painted on a post behind the bar:
A.
ART PUB WALLYWOODS (crossed out)
ART CLUB WALLYWOODS
Find it - somewhere nearby
B.
BIG CHAIRS (crossed out)
THE BOOK (crossed out)
SELL BEERS (underlined) (then crossed out)
BOOK KATE BUSH
C.
Cecretary (crossed out)
Wally needs a secratery
D.
DEMON ALCOHOL
Wally don’t drink (much)
(‘much’ crossed out and re-added four times)
E.
EVENTS
The more the merrier
F.
FUCKING EVENTS
The more the fucking merrier
G.
GUESTS (crossed out)
GIRLS (crossed out and re-added four times)
GUESTS
All guests are equal (but some are more equal than others – added later)
(all crossed out)
GUESTS
They respect us: we respect them
H.
HOSPITALITY
Reaches a limit
I.
INCASSO
Or some such copycat periodical tracking Art Pub events, projects and jokes
J.
JOKES
Paradox Paul is assembling an Art Pub Book of Jokes
(Why? – added later) (crossed out) (Seriously? – added later) (crossed out)
K.
KILL WIELAND
L.
LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR (crossed out)
LOOK BOTH WAYS BEFORE TAKING A TOKE
(This one by Big Al, one of the singing cooks from Canada)
M.
MAKE MONEY
Underlined and decorated with odd looking flowers
N.
NAZIS
Beware
O.
OLD BILL
Our new friends
P.
PARADOX PAUL
Knocks off at midnight
Q.
QUEERS (crossed out)
QUESTIONS FOR WALLY
If he ain’t here, by e-mail please (no questions before midday)
R.
RULES
Are fair to everyone
S.
STYLE
T.
TOMMY
Is boss (crossed out) (re-written) (crossed out) (re-written)
U.
THE UGLY AMERICANS
Rule
V.
VIOLENCE
Earns zero tolerance
W.
WALLY DON’T DRINK (Written too big)
X.
EXTRACT ENEMY GUESTS (or staff – added later)
From one another before they reach V.
Y.
YES SIR
The customer is always right (crossed out)
YOU
Will be supported by your colleagues in public
Z.
ZEBRA
2 beer limit for zebras
November 4
MOVIN' IN
Last chapter of the book...
"What book?"
"ART PUB WALLYWOODS"
"Oh, that book."
Paradox Paul decided today to document, backwards, Wally Lügner’s decision to move in and take over the place. About bloody time. Anyway, no other choice. No other time to do it. Everything back-logging. Wally Himself will be moving out soon enough, to make a bit of space, and work from a healthy distance on his own bit of the project. Soon as he finds a chick with an apartment.
Tonight, at this ultimate end-of-book moment, Nurse Anna sleeps soundly on a Pub sofa, too drunk to get back to hers. Wally Lügner locked up for the first time and tried to sleep on the other Pub sofa, his fingers all a-stretchin and a-wanderin, but his eyes did’t stop a-rollin in his grass-stuffed head while he feverishly remembered a party he slept through once - too paranoid to allow himself to remain awake - upon a Hard Green Corduroy Itching and Stinking Bonking Sofa; so he got up off it to find Paradox Paul and instruct him to update those precious fucking diaries of his, in which newcomer on the Mitte Scene, Cockney-Berliner Wally Lügner had no luck either till now – but it’s only his first night. Got nothing but a nighty-night kiss from Timski’s mum, snoring attractively now. He knows she’s a sex maniac – he knows as well she likes it that way. Anyway. Save this last paragraph and drink some banana Juice PP. You deserve it. Work! Work! Work! 24 hours a day, says Wally Himself, whenever he wants sympathy, or to excuse himself for annoying, ignoring or boring others. He sleeps twelve hours a day - but those twelve still count because of his dreams, which never stop. Specially now HE don’t drink either. Insomnia in the family, always was, but he forgot; always slept like a drunken log. Till now. MY POOR BRAIN NEVER STOPS MAKING ART, apparently. Paradox Paul couldn’t put it better. Or doesn’t agree at all. Mad Uncle Wally – who still drinks like a mad fish – said, last time he showed his poxy face, CHICKS WANT ART. THAT’S WHY YER BRAIN DON’T STOP. So its your only chance, boy. We all drank to that one. Yes indeedy, there is still time, for a certain scaredy cat to get blitz drunk before the first and final tattooing ceremony. “I’M NOT DRUNK” is the name of a drinking-song sung at the Pub earlier this night by a good old Canadian friend called, er.., oh yes, Octoberman (countryman Joe, one of the singing cooks, says: Yer late Octoberman, it's November. Ho Ho. That's Canadians) old friend of Wallywoods old favourite Old Seed, aka Craig; and that drinking-song title will now be the message tattooed on Wally Lügner’s right forearm at the first Wallywoods Group Therapy evening at Burger Bar next week. Not WALLY DON’T DRINK. That would be ridiculous. Pretty much everyone agrees that would be ridiculous; so that’s why he’s doing it. Onwards and upwards! Will have to get nicely rolled first, though, if Shy Nigel really can be convinced to perform his supernatural art in front of so many other patients, in a circle of chairs on the dance floor. But, really, what am I thinking? What will be said? I'm planning nothing at all myself, except to provoke people, whereas Wally Lügner is going to say to Bert, for instance, that they should open a club together someplace soonish and nearby. Why not. He’s asking the same of everyone he meets right now who ain’t half ways a dickhead anyway. ART CLUB WALLYWOODS is a fair working titel, but who cares about the titel. Art Club Burger sounds delicious too. So what, just ask the man.
On the foggy subject of that novel therapy session, Mad Uncle Wally is making a list of people he knows, or strongly suspects, and therefore knows very well, of being alcoholics. The list is practically endless but he wants to read it out loud and accuse his sitting partners collectively - whilst pointing to his own MAD UNCLE WALLY DON’T DRINK freshly inked tattoo - of destroying the atmosphere in the Pub where his nephew works so hard to sell too little beer and smoke too much dope.
Wally Himself has actually booked a month at his parents rest-house out on the Island, assuming he gets his passport back in time, after the half dozen Xmas Murder Parties nobody is particularly arranging, intended to launch the new place, like, get it on its legs before the new year crushes the last drip of energy from the old; in order to clean his nerves of alcohol and secretly finish the prologue to ‘Art Pub Wallywoods’ – a book to be of joint manufacture. The prologue to ‘Art Pub Wallywoods’ will be called, as if it needs mentioning, ‘Gallery Wallywoods’. This gathering of documentation, a kind of vocation since it struck him in the head recently that he had curated for the past twenty-three months the finest gallery project seen and heard (notwithstanding very little seen or heard due to failings in the advertising department) in Berlin for quite some years, he intends to do, as usual, live online; adding material yet missing from the widely popular "Wallys Log" as it arrives to him, collected and donated by such anal-retentive recording stalwarts as Jason SF (The Shitty Listener), Omnoise (Wally Himself spells it Ohmnoise, but no-one notices the difference), Hanno the Secret Nikki Sudden Taper, Tommy of course, Father Clive and Mother Siggi, and such characters who fell out big time as the Pub thing started, as Dutch Ritz and Nathan, photographer extraordinaire from Hull. Even if Nathan, photographer extraordinaire from Hull is currently extremely pissed at yours truly for sabotaging his first and last chill out evening last month by throwing into his hard works, in the shape of a very shapely young spanner, young Miss Roxanne and her foxy guitar. BUT I ONLY SABOTAGED ONE HOUR OF YOUR BLOODY NIGHT, said yours truly, who prefers live things to CDs any day of the week, obviously referring to ‘The Principles of Wallyism’, which a workman will discover one day still etched high into the toilet wall of the Old Gallery. But it’s mostly Tommy’s photos, 5000 by now, and the 100 gigabytes of live recordings, plus oddities like some seriously funny or terribly distorted video clips produced during that short era, recently re-discovered, which he intends to throw on the website as soon as he can make enough space for it all, inside and out, virtual and other. For which, first he needs a room. With a pillow for his huge throbbing head, in a room with chick and a TV. Fairly Urgent. (F.U.)
(*High as a kite, this text. Should actually read it one day and de-bug it. Or de-bag it. Or bin it, or whatever. Or not.)
November 3
PARADOX PAUL'S
perfectly dodgy recording of THE SHITTY LISTENER featuring LILJEQVIST and the resultant triumphant jam-song-thing entitled Slag Slate (yes you can hear it too) improvised during this evening's mildly mad open stage night at the lightly inspirational Art Pub Wallywoods (or Art Pub, or whatever it's called). Free this month only to blog readers through Art Pub Music, whatever that is. (Further explanation? Jason san Francisco, aka J.H. sings lyrics from The Shitty Listener, Mark E.Smith and Led Zepelin, to new friend Pete's Swedish guitar.)
Stuff like this makes Wally's strife worthwhile.
October 29
OFF NIGHT
Soaked up a film at the cinema this evening, accidentally, after snatching a night off to get some fresh air. "The Perfume" (at least that's the translated German titel), about a man born out of historical Parisian stench to create greatness on earth, achieve hardly imagined fulfilment, receive adoration after a lifetime of pain and hard work and finally disappear forever, literally disappearing in front of an ecstatic crowd. Like my hero of all time Bilbo Baggins (see the end/beginning of these diaries). Bit of an old yarn, but from quite a novel point of view, very well delivered, and it kept my sober and otherwise unusually drug-free attention for most of its extremely long length.
Got back to the Pub on a rare downer, for these days, to find a young lady puking in the men's toilet. That's not art, that's boring. But nobody else seems to worry about these things. I really got to get more distance from here. Need more than a curtain to separate zones. Need a life too. A flat, a girlfriend, and a computer which doesn't make me ill if I'm at it for too long (the other reason I don't write much here).
Apart from that I have everything I've wished for and more, since returning from the Island three years ago. So many open doors now. Things are great, life is great, and better is on its way.
But much much better has always been on its way.
October 28
NO TIME
to write nowadays, which is a shame as there is much to report. Fantabulous goings on all around, peppered with behind and front stage muck and explosions of all kinds. So, have decided to write lists. A list of rules and regulations from A to Z written on the Pub walls, one behind the bar for the crew, another for the public; an A to Z of Wallywoods projects; an A to Z of connected musicians and artists; a comprehensive CAST OF CHARACTORS to stick at the front of the book, or the back, which is at last taking shape in Wally's relentlessly under-stretched mind.
But let's start with a simple list of THINGS TO DO (dictated to Maya from the Comic Shop on the new stage built by Gerhard L. at Art Pub Wallwoods, yesterday):
1. find wally a flat / room / quiet cupboard with pillow & tv
2. get the kitchen running
3. get the curtain up (separating lounge from drunks in bar)
4. posters / flyers
5. soundproof windows
6. soundproof ceiling
7. soundproof the ugly americans (get all performers to play more quietly than ever)
8. paul's passport
9. find event co-organisers (lady gabi, heike puschel..?)
10. cast of characters
11. red carpet (for stage, inside stairs, outside stairs)
12. halloween-party (support clive at arcanoa)
13. wallywoods logo / signs outside
14. the x-mas-parties
15. a good selection of alcohol free drinks must always be available
Regarding the last point, Wally has given up the drink. Well, Wally has taken a tipple or two, but not much more, over the last four days or so since deciding it's the only way to stay alive in his new chosen business. Apart from that, he has been drunk every night for a year. And about every other night since he left school. All in all, that's quite enough for one lifetime. Tuesday afternoon he has an appointment at Nigel's current haunt "Angel's Place" down the road where he will receive a first tattoo on his right fore-arm: WALLY DON'T DRINK. After that he won't.
Life is sometimes simple.
(*Never got that tattoo. Never gave up that booze.)
October 16
QUIET
Saturday night, followed by a very quiet Sunday night. A world of good.
October 15
LOUD
Against Wally's strict orders The Uglies actually played a second set that night, while the walls got graffitied, the bar got white-washed (literally), the bar staff got more wrecked than anyone and the next day we got a contingent of neighbours from the flats directly above. No more crazy parties for a while. Even on 'normal' nights we are apparently indecently loud.
So it's singer-songwriters week this week, unplugged if possible, and if we can't keep the lid on a few strummers (Ken calls them strummers) we could lose everything. That would be a shame. Although I'm starting to realise that this Pub project is by no means enough to be anything other than a base for wider Wallywoods plans. Those plans now include our 'X Mass Murder Parties' or whatever they will be, at Acud and White Trash in December, a one month festival next year (coinciding with the Isle of Wight festival?), the search for warehouse type event and art spaces, another Gallery Wallywoods somewhere close by (as much to store stuff as to show it - there is hardly room now to move here), and above all of course, the landing of a Big Chair sculpture on Mars.
October 13
BUSY DAZE
and drunken nights. Just called the cops again. Why Alan and Karl have allowed Pseudo Nazi Guy to stay again so long, feed him drinks to sing god-knows-what for drinking songs, shout uncontrollably ("Ich kann nicht mehr! Ich kann nicht mehr!") and generally disturb our pleasant guests - many pleasant guests tonight - and above all myself, I don't get. Will mention it later or tomorrow. Doesn't help that I'm still sleeping in the back office. Socks in ears don't work, no matter what position I try. Didn't drink tonight for the first time in a month - a lot longer if I think honestly about it - and therefore cannot sleep. So tired most of the time. But good evenings here for the most part, tonight too with The Uglies on a last minute Friday the 13th gig rampage plus Rob, the inventor of Emily the Strange. In fact, Emily herself was here for a dose of Ugly concert - she looks more like Emily's sexy young mum in reality. Wherever reality is. Last night reality was at Kaffee Burger where Pescadores played in front of a hundred wet young groupies. Gustavo took off his shirt whilst dancing on a chair. He's getting well known and well liked around Berlin. Grand energy. He's also getting a job here behind the bar. Supey dupey. Bring your pleasant girlfriends Gustavo.
Just checked through the kitchen door. All quiet at the front now. Cops don't seem to have turned up. Whatever. Looking forward to a bit of sound-proofing. Local lady Evy, nice as pie through most of the evening, screams obscenities at the top of her lungs too. Nothing entertaining, a right lot of nonsense in fact. Thomas says people who work in bars are drug dealers. Of course they are. Problem is, I just opened a bar and I don't like drunks. Other problem is, getting undesirable visitors to get the message that they are not at home here (it is indeed looking cosy. Nice chairs). Drink a couple of beers if you must, but kindly leave before you grow intollerant, intolerable and agressive. I hate it. The night after putting out the last diary entry, the Real Nazi Guy showed his true colours. Got drunk (our fault of course) and ranted evil brainwash about Jews and the gold in their teeth, the fact that National Socialism is the only true Socialism, the Big Bollocks himself, and fuck cares what. On and on he went, refusing to leave because we are so nice. So tollerant. Thomas, Kai Pohl and I were the only witnesses to this living obscenity. After I told him I was half Jewish (little white lie to guage his reaction) he steaded himself as if ready for a glorious battle, looked me hard in the eye and provoked "Ahhh.. that's it then. Are you insulted?" Not really yet, I mumbled, and paced up and down the lounge while Sir Thomas attempted conversing with this concrete-for-brains, unable to finish a single sentance because after a certain point, or beers, they are no longer capable of listening, believing they are instructing us normal wimpy semi-fellow humans about real reality.
Off to check on the party.
October 4
APPARENTLY
Wieland wishes to drop in and appologise.
Must add pepper spray to Sir Thomas' shopping list.
October 3
WHAT A START
Two and a half weeks at the Pub. Knackered but content. Still confident we made the right move. Already on our third exhibition, "Créatures de la Mer" by Gallery Wallywoods' favourite gay artist River Dillon. Semi nude photos of mostly gay men (Jason san Francisco features, but he only sings gay), superimposed on French sea-life. Fishy stuff from Brittany or somewhere. Before that was a little visited week of my own BBC2 (Berlin Big Chairs Part II), mainly unfinished works and old posters collected from the gallery (BBC2 was the last exhibition there) an hour before the presentation and thrown on the walls as the evening progressed and then disintegrated. Before that, photographs of Nikki by Dora Dinse and Sir Thomas, kicked off at the official Pub opening party; an evening of fun, dread, chicks, drunks and various cases of near violence. Since which time, so much has occurred that I've rarely the energy left to sit in this little backstage office-nook and continue these diaries.
Start, then, with the unofficial opening celebration of Friday, 15 September, the day we got the keys. In at the deep end. A few friends and one unwelcome guest followed by, in the early hours after the few friends and one unwelcome guest had staggered off, the Pub's first fight. The Battle of Cécile and I. Thankfully unwitnessed (though surely heard by all the neighbours). Cécile, awaiting Yours Truly to fulfill his promise and meet her after midnight, got a lot more upset when, in a crazed attempt to shut her up, I screamed in her face that I hadn't kept our date on that very last night due to a very last one night stand in Kreuzberg with an old fling which meant nothing anyway. She trashed the place, broke countless glasses, then attacked me, no holds barred. For the first time in my life I think I hit a lady (Cécile doesn't recall whether I did or didn't), a number of times around the head. Odd feeling. Absolutely last resort. Madly satisfying. A tragedy played out in three minutes, marking the mind for life. After deeply marking my right hand with her teeth (leaving a painless impression for some weeks) while I gripped her wrists (leaving painful bruises for five days), she ran off into the early morning; the heavy Pub door slammed and locked with a "thankyou and goodnight" behind her.
Couldn't reach Cécile the whole of the next day.
With the real opening evening looming, felt driven to find her in Kreuzberg, where I waited two hours in the flat (my home for the last thirteen months, but no longer. Felt too weird even to turn on the tv). No sign, so headed for the grand opening in Prenzlauerberg shortly before it grandly opened.
A major event in Wally's life, a time of transformation and reward, worked for and half-planned for for so long, and hardly in a state to enjoy anything of it. Thoughts of Cécile passed out in an alley, or a lot worse. Problems with mega-boozer A.P.S. Having put up A.P.S. in the gallery for seven months and spending most of those months trying to get him out again, having as a last resort to buy my own keys back from him, at the cost of a precious month's rent; having spent the whole of the previous night prying him, swearing and threatening, from the nice new bar, A.P.S. rolled up on this enchanted evening too. He didn't manage to get blind drunk, however, as Wally put his foot down, placing him on a permanent two beer limit. Amazingly, managed to relaxed slowly as The Ugly Americans christened the place with nutty noise performance. Wally hammered an organ to bits again, then Sieg Heiled across the room at M.C.Ugly One, natural entertainer and foul-minded comic (Wallywoods photographer Nathan from Hull took a picture at that moment, then stuck it on his website - oh boy). All in all, the locals were shocked and almost equally amused, and later Cécile arrived - to be whisked out the door for a quick chat & check-up in the park opposite. Everything fine, both sorry, teary, but cheerful again. Back to the booze up, which went most of the night, ending with a few more tears, and a great lifting of weight from Wally's currently over-extended existence.
The first week was, of course, quiet; getting to know the regulars who, we are pleased to see, happily still drop in, comprised mainly of ex-DDR citizens whose lives, loves and conversations still revolve around the ex-DDR. So what. Good people, including Bert and all his good advice, and members of Frey Gang, apparently the biggest rock-thing in the ex-DDR, of whom Wally had of course never heard.
Began to paint the walls Wallywoods Light Grey. The whole place had been Intensely Disturbing Orange for so many years that pre-owner Klaus and his confined guests must suffer from that same terrible hue plastered on the insides of their skulls. It's probably why he got sick. The Nikki Photos show over (oh, what happened to sexy Dora Dinse? She never returned, not even to pick up her photos, now on permanent display as a kind of shrine with the hammer on the smashed organ), the party nonsense advertised for Wally's BBC2 exhibit featured 'Kamikaze Karaoke'. A classic. Quite as whacky as anything we've done in the gallery. Awful beyond belief, and therefore brilliant. Hosted by Ugly One on the Farfisa, his first choice of song was unpredictably 'God Bless America' which, unpredictably, no-one wanted to sing, until Cécile agreed to decimate it, and various other ditties, till no-one was left in the room. Cécile is excruciatingly gorgeous sometimes. The icing on the Ugly fruitcake. Fantastic avant-garde bollocks. Intend to do a regular comedy night hosted by Ugly Ken and of course, supporting the Germans, Adolf Torpedo, who used to be called Alex Tornado.
Then what was there? Lots of drinking I guess. Some nice singer-songwriter sessions; and plenty of planning, brainstorming, kiffing, discussing, cleaning. But I just can't get out of my head much more recent disruptions. That stupid ignorant fucker Wieland, demanding more alcohol whilst demanding money from Sir Thomas, who has already lent him a great deal of Wieland's favourite stuff to help build his greasy spoon cafe project on that mad piece of land of his in Pankow. Wally called the cops when he verged on violence, but Sir Thomas, tired, tipsy and too nice as always, sent them away in order not to upset further our Very Worst Guest and diffuse the situation. Ten minutes later three Turkish lads pile in the door, just summoned per mobile phone from a waiting car outside (all observed by astounded witnesses) to assist their criminal mastermind, who is by now screaming in heaviest, dumbest Berlin gravel, "Who dared call the cops on ME? Was that YOU! Well, these are MY friends.." and only the Turks can hold him off Wally, who storms backstage to call the cops a second time. He is followed backstage by the leader of the Turkish teeny-gang who, fairly excited himself, advises Wally that the call is not necessary, rather that we should all sit down, drink a beer and talk about it.
"RAUS HIER!!!" blasts Wally, performing his loudest Hitler impersonation plus facial expression, and the lad scarpers, managing to take his school friends and leader of the pack Wieland the Failed Extortionist Shithead with him. A fourth Turk was seen to drive them all away in the car. The cops spent the night patrolling the area.
Sir Thomas is too forgiving to send the man to prison for a year.
Wieland is the first to be barred from Art Pub Wallywoods. He or his cronies step in the place, we call our new friends the cops.
The next night we had Pseudo Nazi Guy again, with more of his mates (till now he brings different ones each time). Guess I shouldn't say Nazi Guy, pseudo or otherwise, might get myself into trouble. He just slags off the Jews, allures loudly and oddly to homosexuality, looks like a chiselled blonde Nazi hero, does Doctor Strangelove semi-Sieg Heil arm jerks, and is perhaps only a little bit crazy. I asked him over a good number of beers and joints (he knows me from somewhere - he wracks his brains to know where - and seems to like me for some reason) what his motivation was, or however it was I put it.
"Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love!" he passionately explains, one moment smiling like a sweet boy, the next screwing up his face and punching his own head to more of the words,
"Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love!"
An hour before this necessary tete-de-tete he invited an otherwise unassuming neighbour who had suggested he to cool it and be quiet, to step out for a round of fisticuffs. The neighbour left quietly, alone, but successfully intimidated.
Looking forward to my next chat with Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! Love! I wonder what he wants. During the crazed BBC2 party he must have seen my various pictures featuring Swastikas, hanged 'niggers', myself dressed in white holding a sign 'England' with the caption "White Class" (the 'ass' of Class in bolder print however); or did he just discover Nathan's website?
Wally was glad to lock up that night. He is feeling rather exhausted.
September 16
THANK SIR THOMAS
Photo: Nathan Wright
September 15
GALLERY WALLYWOODS IS DEAD!
LONG LIVE ART PUB WALLYWOODS!
Thomas and I collect the keys this morning to open the pub a day earlier than first expected. Will move the main stuff over in the afternoon; chairs & tables, personal crap, organ to smash, art. So, before Saturday's party, a quiet informal start with a few invited guests and the odd curious regular (DDR rockers from what I've seen) who may or may not miss out-going Klaus and his sleepy "Gen30". Will replace that eye-catching sign above the door with Gerhard's colourful "Art Pub" display, purchased through his Find Art gallery. Sad that his Find Art gallery, just completed earlier this year, has been unexpectedly and immediately ordered to leave, along with the rest of his project (by default my gallery too), by owner of the house Herr Sendelbach and his cronies. I heard from a neighbour who played here with his band a few days ago, that the reason they never considered entering this place before was they thought we were connected to "that guy with attitude" who drives very expensive cars. That's not Sendelbach, who I've never seen, that will be Mr G., who has actually supported this project from the beginning. Principally by leaving us alone. What he liked most was our volume levels, hopefully (on his account) making it uncomfortable enough for the immediate neighbours that they pack up and move out too. For myself, I would not have lost a night's sleep if this plan had worked out in one particular case - the German in the above flat who has been the cause for my stomach aching before and during every musical event at the old Gallery Wallywoods. However, looking back, Wallywoods was at fault, not the unhappy neighbour with screaming baby and anger-management problems.
For many of these landlord types, an empty building is worth more than a rented one and the tenants, with their complaints about leaky windows, crappy heating or rodents in the stairway, merely get in the way of good business. The nice lady of east-European origin who has lived on the top floor for thirty-three years, told me a few days ago that she has contacted a lawyer regarding the state of the place, and intends to move out.
Well, so what. These are no longer my concerns. First one now is, how to performance-destroy the billiard table. Thomas is coming around to the idea, despite its 500 bucks or so worth. Have invited the great Andreas Kaiser, from our old Kunst Fleisch days of ridiculous adventure, to cast an eye this afternoon. If I can get him involved in the weekly auctions, the art side at least may just be a hit.
As for the pub side, Thomas and I start learning-by-doing in about twenty-five minutes.
Bought new clothes yesterday, first time for countless yonks, including a wicked shirt I might just have the guts to wear at the opening.
September 11
WHAT A DAY
Photos: Deb Ross & Wally
Disaster in the morning with exploding toilets, crap pouring inexplicably from both of them, debate in the afternoon with the plumbers (rough translation: "Ere mate, don't you get any bover, showin' all these 'ere Swastikas?"), and equally serious fun in the evening with gorilla poster activist Robbie Conal and his US politics show. Old hands Lee Viajero and ex-squater Wally in the back room were not quite as impressed as the pretty chicks and other dedicated supporters out front. More later - or write your own report.
Better things to do. A better place to go...
September 10
SEPARATED
but still good friends.
September 9
END OF KREUZBERG BIG CHAIRS
Photos: Nathan Wright
Put the Crucifix Chair in the window - daubed street-side with BYE BYE KREUZBERG - and stuck up the three biggest and best Big Chair paintings, including the squirrels (never did work out a name for it) recently sold to newlyweds Cord and Birgit; for the last one-week exhibition here at the gallery in Kopisch Strasse. The singing-pub-cooks-to-be, alias Red, strummed and sang accompanied by Mr Tornado on a bassy organ. Mr Hinterhofdichter accompanied Mr Zabala's guitar on the snare drum he found recently outside in the gutter. A pretty lady called Dora stuck up some pretty Nikki Sudden photographs in the back room, as a preview for the first exhibitions taking place from next Saturday at the Art Pub. Relaxed party atmosphere. As many new faces as old, culminating in big storm back stage, and outside in the gutter, twixt Wally-the-by-then-Very-Tired and just -about ex, M.C. The neighbour's wife complained again so Wally pulled the plug on the musos with the famous last words, "Let's play unplugged, guys".
Helge der Hinterhofdichter, Dora D. & Sir Thomas
Worth mentioning, here at the end of this gallery's near two year life of frollicks, bollocks, scandal and below zero financial gain: a huge American turned up with some friends, never seen before, but apparently been just around the corner for years. He asked how much the Squirrels were. I told him the newlyweds Cord and Birgit just bought it for 500 euros. (Ugly One: "you didn't have to tell him that!"). The guy slapped his head and said he would have paid 4,000 for it. On consideration, looking at the larger pictures and rubbing his chin, he beckoned over his timid friends for second opinion. He was talking up to ten grand.
Yeah, yeah, whatever. Haven't seen him since. Fuck it. Pack up. Carry on.
September 8
NOISY NEIGHBOURS
How nice. Only recently met the guys from the flat-share two or three floors above, who suggested holding a little concert with their GUSTI DJUHS ORKESTAR, a mixed band of Jewish-Spanish-Balkan influences plus a bit of flamenco dancing. The flamenco dancing didn't happen, someone was under the weather, but everything else went to plan. Even broke even on the drinks. Why didn't we do this before?
Got very drunk. Cécile and I sang a poignant duet.
September 6
DEAR FRIENDS
"After 100 events and 23 months of secret preparation, Gallery Wallywoods at Kopisch Strasse is moving on September 16 to Prenzlauerberg, with the new name "ART PUB WALLYWOODS". You will then find the Wallywoods project, and more, on the corner of Christinen & Fehrberliner Strasse (U-bahn Rosa-Luxemburg Platz / Senefelder Platz). Artists, musicians, writers and other performers who wish to do something there, one-off or regularly, should contact Wally now.
+ wallywoods v.i.p.s / surprises
+ provocative art with friendly service
+ nightly live events / concerts /sessions
+ british style food / singing cooks / food events
+ on tap guiness / bud / berliner + bottles /coctails
+ weekly exhibitions / weekly art auctions
+ film / literature / quiz / discussion
+ chill out lounge / secret events
Be there or fuck off."
September 3
TILL THEN, BOLLOCKS
"My Farfisa was no louder than your stereo system. What is loud is the sax and all the jammers banging on drums and silver trays. Jason was barely audible over that. Live recordings in bars you always hear when the waitress drops a tray of glasses over everything else. One of the reasons I blast the beat is because the beat is the only thing holding it all together. Anyway it's a moot point. You have been telling us to shut up since the day you told us to play. Paradox Librarian. Maybe it's a question of different musical taste. You obviously like strumming. I don't. The Uglies are not an Art Pub act." (Ugly One)
"I don't like strumming so much. I like the Uglies. All will be solved when we get Club Wallywoods, with Danny, Gaby, or whoever. Have faith, have patience. Till then, bollocks." (P.P.)
September 2
JEAN-KARL WALDHUBEL'S "STADT-AQUARELLE"
Photos: Nathan Wright
Send your memorable memories of Jean-Karl's tidy little pictures debut to Wally, who recalls only attempting to persuade Ugly One - who finally walked out in a huff - to at least consider playing his WMD at some kind of level at which guests, and crucially, future customers at the pub, can communicate with one another and perhaps even the barman. Spunky little concert in any case, followed by some kind of jam. No windows broken. And no cops for miles around, apparently, to Sieg Heil at.
September 1
DER TRAUM VON GROßEN STÜHLEN
At long blooming last, an article about the gallery, with the above headline "The Dream of Big Chairs". Page twelve in September's edition of Kiez und Kneipe (Local Community and Pubs - it has a better ring in German). Nathan from Hull is pretty darned upset he is not credited for the featured picture. But Wally is happy. Journalist Dieter (he used to run a gallery of his own and we talked at length a few weeks ago) upon proudly delivering copies of the finished article, was slightly taken aback that Wallywoods is moving out of this sleepy little community quite as soon as it is.
Here's the wee feature:
Über eine Galerie in der Kopischstraße.
Ungewöhnliche Projekte und schrille Entwürfe locken die Kunstfreunde immer wieder in die Kopischstraße. Hier hat vor zwei Jahren die »Gallery Wallywoods« eröffnet. Zuerst von den Kiezbewohnern prüfend beäugt, hat sie inzwischen ihre Freunde gefunden. Der Galerist P.D.Woods stammt von der Isle of Wight, war Arbeiter in London, bevor er sich der Kunst widmete und schließlich in Kreuzberg landete. »Hier passen solche Dinge hin, die ich und mein Freundeskreis entwerfen«, meint Woods zu seinen Präsentationen. Die zuweilen seriösen Nachfolger des schrillen englischen Punk sind aus der Kulturlandschaft des Kiezes nicht mehr wegzudenken. Das letzte Projekt der jungen Fotografin Simone Demuth aus dem Bergmannkiez interpretierte mit sehr guten Fotoarbeiten eigene Ansichten zum futuristischen Kochbuch des Begründers dieser Kunstrichtung Fillipo Tommaso Marinetti. Wem nun nicht nach rohem Huhn mit ebensolchen Innereien ist oder nach Regenwürmern mit Salat, der kann sich nach der Schau in eine der vielen Restaurationen am Chamissoplatz begeben. Die Ausstellungen werden von Woods immer mit Konzerten von Freunden aus England oder Nordamerika und Lesungen oder Performances garniert. Sein größter Traum ist die Realisierung seiner überdimensionalen Stühle in der Landschaft der Insel Wight, in London, Berlin oder anderswo. Zunächst jedoch wird es ein zweite Galerie in Mitte, in der Torstraße neben dem Kaffee Burger geben, mit jenem Kulturklub, mit dem der Kreuzberger seit einiger Zeit zusammenarbeitet.
(db)
*Original article at www.kiezundkneipe.de (September 2006, page 12)
