“Wear Black”
Dylan Culp

“I think we have a good shot tonight.” Jacob stood ahead of us, looking at the other people in line, most of whom were young but older than us. Next to him, a couple held hands while quietly chatting in German. Both were dressed entirely in black. It was a bit past one o’clock (about as early anyone would reasonably show up to Berghain— Berlin’s nightlife operates a few time zones over from the rest) and we stood in the back of the line.

“I mean, as good a shot as any,” he corrected while turning toward us. “There’s not much more we can do at this point.”

I checked my clothes one last time. Dark brown military-style jacket (just about black under the light), black jeans, faded black sneakers. There wasn’t much I could do about my Americanness and inability to speak German, but at least I looked a Berliner. Hopefully someone else can do the talking. Ted gripped his upper arms as a chilly breeze wove through the crowd. His eyes darted from person to person while he fidgeted with the sleeve of his tight black shirt.

“Not everyone here’s wearing tight pants. I should’ve just worn my own…I feel like an idiot.” Ted owned a pair of black jeans but their cut was, in his words, “not Berlin.” He then recruited the services of a pair of mine, which wrapped snugly around his shivering legs.

“Sven probably knows you’re wearing my pants,” I teased him. “If it’s one person that doesn’t get in to Berghain, it’s a phony.”

***

Berlin’s nightclubs, while world-renowned, are decidedly unposh. They tend to inhabit old factories and warehouses, and you’re more likely to be rejected at the door for being over, not underdressed. Once inside, there’s no bottle service, no VIP section, little glitz or glamor. The darkness offers little opportunity to see or be seen—you’re there for the music. I’d never been one for clubs, but the Berlin approach, in stark contract to the ritz I’d seen in New York, intrigued me.

The quintessential Berlin club is also one of the world’s most famous: Berghain. Housed in a former Communist electric plant in remote east Berlin, the “techno Mecca” is known for itcolossal speakers, and weekend parties that run well into Monday morning. Many aspiring clubbers, however, only hear a distant thud while waiting outside. This is due to Berghain’s befuddling door policy and its enforcer, the intimidating Sven. A minor celebrity in his own right, Sven—known for the elaborate tattoos across his face—mans the front door, refining the club’s clientele to his liking. Each night, hundreds wait for hours only to be sent away for no apparent reason.

We don’t want you here tonight.

Berghain’s selectivity isn’t a matter of overcrowding: by all accounts, the sprawling complex could easily accommodate its jilted partygoers. While many clubs are happy to let in anyone willing to overpay for drinks, Berghain intentionally puts a tattooed dam in the middle of its revenue stream. It may be to preserve a local character—as the club’s reputation grows, more and more tourists flock to its doors. It could be selectivity for selectivity’s sake: something to build up the club’s mythology. If it was simple to get in, Berghain wouldn’t be Berghain.

One German photographer has a portrait series featuring its rejects.

Why do you think you were turned away? he asks.

I’m too sexy one said. I’m too giggly, too Russian. Everyone has a reason. Everyone wants to try again.

This difficult task has inspired countless blog posts, articles, and even tutoring sessions (seasonal offer: 27 euros). Tips on how to get in range from the mundane to the outlandish, and many seem to contradict one another. Wear black. Go late. Speak German. Know the music. Be attractive. Don’t laugh. Wear black. Don’t be too serious. Come in twos. Be sober. Don’t be too young. Go early. Wear black.

“It’s all crap,” a young Hamburg native told me over a beer in a Kreuzberg dive. “They want people to think there’s some huge secret. The bigger the mystery, the more money they make.”

As I left to catch the last train home, he gave some parting advice.

“Wait in line, be yourself, and hope you’re lucky. There’s really nothing to the guy at the door.”

***

“You look straight out of an L.L. Bean catalog. Sven won’t have any of that.” I jabbed the red STOP button, prompting a sharp ping. As the driver slowed the bus, I took a last swig of lukewarm beer. Don’t be too drunk.

Jacob had a similar philosophy to the guy in the bar: apart from actively pissing off Sven, getting into Berghain is simply a matter of luck. He accordingly chose a heterodox wardrobe: khaki pants, hefty brown boots, and a plaid scarf. More Breckenridge than Berlin.

“It’s cold,” he shrugged, walking toward the door. “I’m not wearing just a black t-shirt because a blog says so.” Ted looked down and followed us.

We stepped off. The bus drifted down the otherwise empty street, which was flanked by squat rows of grey buildings. I tossed my bottle in an orange recycling bin, and we followed the taillights down the quiet street. This was the furthest I’d even been from Berlin’s tangled web of subways and trams.

“I’ve got a good feeling tonight,” Jacob said, shoulders upright and boots firm on the pavement. The week before, Jacob and Ted had unsuccessfully tried to get in at the tail end of a booze-fueled night (about five in the morning). Apparently they acted too drunk when dealing with the dour Sven, who swiftly sent them away. Tonight they chose to abstain.

“You think he’ll recognize us? He’s probably gotten pretty good at it.” Ted fidgeted with his belt. The Berghain question had gripped him as long as we had been in Berlin: he asked every local he met for advice on how to navigate the door and impress Sven. Most of what I knew on “how to get in” came from his thorough research. Earlier that day he sent me an article, apparently recommended by a local,

“Sven? Nah—he throws away tons of people every night. We’re nothing special.”

Ted read us a list that night’s expected performers.

“Sometimes they’ll ask why you want to go in. Saying you’re there to see a particular DJ should help out.” He listed a few more generic-sounding names.

“Have you listened to any of these guys?” Of course he hadn’t.

“Sven probably doesn’t like liars,” I teased. But I committed one to memory, just in case.

Google told us we had reached the building, which towered over the end of the street but had no obvious entrance. Its blacked out windows leaked a faint bass line. Unsure of where to go, we followed a small group walking down a murky pathway to the right of the building. It was only a few feet wide, with Berghain’s grey exterior to the left and a chain link fence to the right. At the end, a yellowish light.

We entered single-file, my sneakers immediately snared in a thick mud. It’s always raining here—maybe the LL Bean boots were a good idea. We trudged through the muck, dodged someone relieving himself on the metal fence, tripped over empty beer bottles, then finally emerged in an illuminated clearing.

It had the temporary lights you see for nighttime highway repairs. They flanked a dirt path running directly to the drab front façade that, like the rear, had several stories of blacked out windows. Amusement park-style metal bars snaked back and forth on the left side of the path, enclosing a modest crowd. We stepped to the back; the queue area was roughly two-thirds full. Next to it was a straight path for people leaving the entrance. A row of black taxis waited to help rejects find greener pastures.

“Last time it was way longer. We had to start somewhere over there.” Ted told me, pointing past the fence to where we had come from. “Took us forever to get to Sven.”

I nodded, checking my watch—just about one. Early by Berlin standards, the evening rush wouldn’t begin for a few more hours.

***

Eventually we got close enough to see the entrance. It was nothing special—a metal door under a hazy yellow bulb, not much else. More interesting, however, was the guy guarding it: a young man with a frizzy blond beard and black beanie hat, seated on a black stool. No tattoos: Sven clearly had the night off.

I frowned. If I’m going to be rejected, it should be by the man himself. The bouncer waved a grey-hatted woman through. He seemed a little too nice—I hoped Berghain wasn’t getting too soft.

“This guy looks new. He’s letting just about everyone in,” Jacob gave a small grin.

“Sven’s a dick,” Ted added. “But this guy could be the same.”

“He’s young. Maybe more open-minded.”

A solo man walked the opposite way past us, lips curled as he approached the taxi row.

“I wonder if he ever got rejected here. Maybe he’ll sympathize with us.” Having experienced Sven already, Ted appeared eager for a fresh start.

I hadn’t been paying much attention, but Jacob was right: a lot more people disappeared under the door than walked back past us. Two more grey hats walked in past the stool. So much for selectivity: we inched closer.

Jacob chatted with the couple ahead of us, while Ted double-checked the list of performers on his phone. I really don’t want to speak German to this guy. I looked as a larger group was turned away. I don’t really want to talk to him at all. They whisked around the side of the building, choosing not to face the line. The building seemed a bit smaller, and I could hear the music a bit more clearly. Berghain felt closer to earth.

……

We had reached the final furlong. Even Jacob shut up and looked at his feet, afraid of incriminating himself within earshot of Sven’s proxy. We posed as regulars, but both of them passed nervous glances at me. Don’t fuck it up, Dylan. Maybe a dozen people waited ahead of us, either pairs or groups of three. Two women dressed in black stepped up. A few words, then they walked in. The same for the next group of three. And for the next. This rhythm gave us hope; hopefully we’d be caught in the tide. The couple was up next. They walked up and said something to the bouncer. He laughed and waved them on.

Jacob, the best German speaker of the group, stepped ahead of me and Ted. The bouncer mumbled something; Jacob held up three fingers. Wir sind drei.

He looked back at Jacob, then at me.

“Not tonight boys.”

He scratched his beard then looked to my right, on to the next group. I thought I saw a smirk.

***

We doubled back, shuffling past the people waiting in line.  The only thing worse than being rejected is lingering around—you’re expected to take the loss with dignity.

“At least he talked to us…Sven waved us off without even saying anything.” Ted looked down at his clothing once again. “Your pants are really tight, Dylan.”

I gazed back at the people waiting in line, which had grown considerably in the hour we’d spent in it, spilling past the metal fences toward the mud path. A few knowing glances met mine among the black hats and coats; we weren’t the first, nor the last.

“It would’ve been a good story, getting rejected by Sven.” I said as we reached the end of the path.

Jacob sighed; Ted adjusted his belt once more. We stepped up to the row of cabs, piled into the first one, and headed off.