Rammstein
Rammstein
Wednesday night and a few shots in at Franco’s. Standard Datchet evening.
No Jamie, he’s off architecting in Ireland - its me, the woman and Dom.
A couple in their 50s enters Francos. I immediately try to figure out if they’re the drinking type. Being said standard Datchet evening the previously consumed tequila means that I decide that of course they’re the tequila drinking type, and thus drink tequila they shall. Oh tequila you cheeky devil.
It turns out that tequila was correct. Fifty-years young couple likes teqila. Fifty-years young couple are a German engineer and a German doctor. Fifty-years young couple live in the Black Forrest. Fifty-years young couple had travelled from Germany to see Rammstein play the next night in Cardiff. Fifty-years young couple had just landed at Heathrow and picked up their car, and were dotting into Datchet for a cheeky feed at one of the two available places - the pub or Francos.
Rammstein.
Mother fucking Rammstein.
The Ubermensch of metal. The 4th reich of industrial. Get. The. Fuck. Out.
I’ve been listening to Rammstein for 20 years; I was 13 and my eager little balls had dropped, were swinging and were ready to conquer the world. Eminem, Dr Dre and Nas were tough, dat hood life yo. And then I heard it; the angelic voice of Till Lindemann growling Du Hast at me, filling my ear holes in a moment of magic. Nirvana is real, and it exists in the melodies of Freur Frei and Sonne. And since that day I’ve been a loyal disciple of the church, with one of my regrets in life not seeing these angels in 2011 at the Perth Big Day Out. Like an itch it has sat in the back of my head for more than a decade, waiting to be scratched. Call it serendipity, but the gods of metal had smiled upon me in the quaintest village in Britain and laid my destiny before me: See Rammstein and swear fealty properly.
And who am I to argue to with the gods and their phophets upon this world?
