ÜBER UNS

The winter of 2019 was particularly brutal in Berlin. The city was in the grip of a cold snap that had turned the Spree River into a sheet of ice thick enough to walk on (and, in some cases, to skate on, though the police strongly discouraged this). The squats of Kreuzberg were even more crowded than usual, as the homeless and the romantically destitute sought refuge from the freezing temperatures in whatever warm-ish space they could find. It was in this atmosphere that Kai, Volker, and Jürgen found themselves in the same place at the same time: Fabrik 17, a condemned textile factory on the outskirts of Kreuzberg that had been slated for demolition for the better part of a decade. The building was a relic of East Berlin's industrial past, a sprawling complex of brick and concrete where the walls were covered in layers of graffiti, the floor was littered with the detritus of a thousand illegal raves, and the air smelled of gasoline, cheap beer, and the faint but unmistakable scent of revolution. Fabrik 17 had been a squat for years, but in the winter of 2019, it had become something more: a sanctuary for the city's misfits, a place where the rules of society didn't apply. The electricity was stolen from a nearby construction site, the water came from a hose rigged to a fire hydrant, and the heat was provided by a series of barrel fires that burned in the center of the main hall. It was, in every sense of the word, a lawless place. And it was perfect. Kai had been living in Fabrik 17 for about six months by the time Volker showed up. He'd claimed a corner of the second floor as his own, a space just big enough for his mattress, his amp, and the ever-growing collection of empty beer bottles that he swore he would one day recycle. He spent his days playing his Stratocaster, his fingers moving over the fretboard with a speed and precision that belied the amount of alcohol he consumed on a daily basis. The other squatters tolerated him, mostly because his playing was the closest thing to a soundtrack that the factory had. Volker arrived in the middle of a snowstorm, carrying nothing but his bass, a backpack, and a half-empty bottle of Korn (a German spirit so strong it could double as paint thinner). He'd been kicked out of his previous squat after an altercation with a particularly aggressive anarchist who had taken offense to Volker's poetry. (The poem in question, Ode to a Burning Barricade, had apparently hit a little too close to home.) He set up camp in the room next to Kai's, and the two men's paths crossed for the first time when Kai's amp blew a fuse, sending a shower of sparks across the floor. Volker, who had been in the middle of writing a particularly scathing verse about the gentrification of Neukölln, looked up from his notebook, sighed, and said, You're going to burn this place down before we even get a chance to live in it. Kai, who was at that moment shaking out his singed sleeves, grinned. Only if you help me steal another one. Volker, to his own surprise, laughed. And just like that, a friendship was born. Jürgen's arrival was less subtle. He showed up three days later, in the middle of the night, with his drum kit strapped to the back of a borrowed motorcycle. The engine roared as he pulled into the factory's courtyard, the sound echoing off the brick walls like a gunshot. Kai and Volker, who had been sharing a bottle of Korn and half-heartedly discussing the merits of anarchy versus nihilism, looked up from their perch on a pile of discarded pallets as Jürgen killed the engine and dismounted. Who the hell is that? Volker asked. Kai squinted. No idea. But he's either here to join the revolution or rob us blind. Jürgen, for his part, didn't seem to care about the impression he was making. He unstrapped his drums, hauled them inside, and set them up in the center of the main hall without so much as a word to anyone. Then he sat down behind the kit, lit a cigarette, and started playing. Not a song, not a beat-just noise. A rhythmic, pulsing, alive noise that seemed to vibrate through the very foundations of the building. Kai and Volker exchanged a look. Then, without a word, Kai grabbed his Stratocaster, Volker picked up his bass, and they joined in. What followed was less a jam session and more a sonic exorcism. Kai's guitar wailed like a banshee, Volker's bass groaned like a dying beast, and Jürgen's drums thundered like the end of the world. The other squatters, who had been going about their business with varying degrees of sobriety, stopped what they were doing and gathered around, watching in stunned silence as the three men played. The music wasn't good in the traditional sense. It was raw, unhinged, dangerous. It was the sound of a building collapsing, of a city burning, of a world tearing itself apart at the seams. When they finally stopped, nearly an hour later, the air was thick with smoke and the scent of something electric. Kai's fingers were bleeding. Volker's bass string had snapped halfway through. Jürgen's drumsticks were splintered. And yet, none of them seemed to care. A woman named Ingrid, who had been living in the factory for nearly a year, was the first to break the silence. What the fuck was that? she asked. Jürgen, still catching his breath, grinned. That, he said, was Volksranzler. The name stuck. The first official Volksranzler rehearsal began the next afternoon and lasted for the next thirty-six hours. It was fueled by stolen electricity, a crate of warm Club-Mate (a caffeine-infused German soft drink that tasted like liquid regret), and a shared, almost manic energy that none of them could explain. They played until their fingers bled. They played until their voices gave out. They played until the sun rose, and then kept playing as it set again. There were no breaks, no pauses, no moments of silence. Just sound-a relentless, unyielding, alive sound that seemed to take on a life of its own. At one point, around the twenty-four-hour mark, Kai's Stratocaster caught fire. Not metaphorically-literally. The pickups had overheated from the sheer volume of noise he was coaxing out of the instrument, and the varnish on the body had begun to smolder. Kai, rather than stopping, simply grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall, doused the flames, and kept playing. The guitar was charred, the strings were half-melted, but it still sang. Volker, at some point during the marathon session, began reciting his poetry over the music. Not in German, not in English, but in a language that seemed to be a mix of both-and something else, something older, something primal. His voice was a growl, a whisper, a scream, all at once, and the words seemed to hang in the air like smoke. Jürgen, for his part, had long since entered a state that could only be described as transcendental. His eyes were glazed, his movements were jerky and unpredictable, and his drumming had taken on a rhythm that seemed to defy the laws of physics. At one point, Kai swears he saw Jürgen's sticks melt from the sheer force of his playing. When they finally stopped, dawn was breaking over Berlin. The factory was a wreck. The floor was littered with broken strings, splintered drumsticks, and empty bottles. Kai's hands were raw, Volker's voice was hoarse, and Jürgen was slumped over his kit, snoring loudly. But something had changed. They weren't just three musicians anymore. They were Volksranzler. And the world would never be the same.