Tonight, I’ve been to a punk rock concert, the most moving and touching – yes! – punk rock concert in my life. It was a tribute concert to someone who had just passed away two weeks ago. Cancer.
It was mere incident, more or less, that I had gone there. We – the dead guy and I – have most probably met or at least been to the same places ages ago. ‘Cause we’re from the same small town (yeah, fuck, yeah!). But we haven’t known each other. Not at all. Though we’re the same age.
A friend of mine took me to the concert. He had worked with the dead guy some years ago and thought I might know some of the people at the concert. True. People from (literally!) all over the world had assembled at the club at Schlesisches Tor in Berlin – to celebrate, to honour, to mourn the dead guy.
During the concert, I’ve seen and met many people from my past, from that small town. There were also some celebs, because the dead guy had worked for some TV productions. He was a punk rocker – hence the punk rock tribute concert.
I’ve seen them all crying, them all-over tattoed and wild punk rockers. Celebrating, honouring, mourning the dead guy. During the concert, I’ve wanted, no, I wished so very hard to meet that guy, to know the guy who managed to bring together all those people. I thought he must have been a great man.
At the end of the concert, the concert simply ended. Applause. Silence. The dead guy was still dead. Dead.