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The Civilian Industrial Complex | by elizagauger
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The Civilian Industrial Complex

I can't speak personally to the rest of Europe, but I can attest that

Berliners take clubbing very fucking seriously.


Berlin is a sprawling city with good solid breeding, and the grace to

never have any earthquakes. This means you wander around in a

fairytale castle courtyard the size of a United State, with cobbled

streets and luminous young women who are two feet taller that you

yelling at you the get the hell out of the bike lane. And when you

want to go party? Holy shit. Prepare for a pilgrimage into the dark

bricky warrens.


I took this shot around 1AM, after spending about an hour looking for

a club called Raw, where the Schlagstrom underground industrial party

throws down about once a month. It was way off a main street, back in

several square blocks of candy-colored train stations, warehouses, and

other bricked-up hulks just bursting with every kind of scene. We

skipped every door with visible colors or American Apparel clothing

inside, and honed in on the monochrome stoics gathered round a weenie

roast just in range of a punishing bassline. I don't know what the

deal is with German goths and weenie roasts, but I dare you to find an

industrial event that doesn't have toasty sausages with mustard

available right in the venue. In case it's not clear, I think this is



After doing a quick facial piercing spot check to make double-sure we

were in the right place, we got our wrists stamped. Then I waded into

the same goddamn crowd I've seen in San Francisco, Krefeld, Berlin,

Seattle, Toronto, Salt Lake City, Grabek, and Little Rock. All of

them smoking the same and drinking the same and smothering in the same

breathsucking fog-machine fug, so thick that visibility stopped at the

next mohawk. The immortal words of Beetlejuice's Lydia came back to

me then: My life is a dark room. One big, dark room.

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Uploaded on May 20, 2009