(from the Gogol Bordello show, December 19, 2005, Bucovina Club, Frankfurt am Main)

They showed up in town with no warning. Even the woman at the ticket counter wasn’t sure who was playing. Inside, they stirred the crowd into a frenzy with the bow of a fiddle, and then they were gone, the ashes of a bonfire, a broken bottle of moonshine, and a few crumpled, rustling set lists the only evidence that they had been there at all.

Gogol Bordello and their gypsy punk revolution and their Nordic-ly tall bass drummer and their old gray-haired fiddler showed up in Frankfurt on Thursday. It wasn’t exactly unannounced, but it wasn’t exactly advertised either. The Gogol site mentioned a Frankfurt date, but never bothered to say where. The Bucovina Club site said there would be a show, but they never bothered to say who would be playing. And still the damn thing was sold out before we even arrived. But that doesn’t stop an American and a Bulgarian from getting inside.

At first Maria and I just settled into a bench and a beer, hoping that a few of the reserved ticket holders wouldn’t show up, but other scavengers were starting to gather so I said, hey, let’s go talk to some people, see if we can’t finds some tickets, or the back door.

Turns out that we didn’t need to find the back door. Turns out that at the Bucovina Club, the front door works just as well as the back door for sneaking into concerts. And we didn’t even mean to sneak in. It was just that I had drank two beers and had to pee, and the bathroom was inside. So we went in and when we came out of the bathroom, this guy came up to us and was like, excuse me, you just came in without paying. Oh, we just wanted to use the bathroom, I told him, I’m so sorry, really, we didn’t mean to sneak in, oh we’re sorry, should we leave?

After talking to him for a few minutes and singing our sad ticket-less plight, he had a conversation with his boss, and we came to an agreement. We would pay him a little bribe, 10 euros each, and he would let us stay. And really. I’d like to take a moment of silence to appreciate the fact that two days ago I bribed someone in order to see a bunch of crazy gypsies playing accordions and fiddles and fire buckets. It made the show even better, because it was no longer just a show, it was another improbable adventure.

We bought beer, pushed our way to the front of the crowd, and danced and danced and danced. And then Eugene Hütz had my face in his hands and was fucking singing, singing to me. Imagine it. The shirtless eastern European man in tight black pants with one of those jingly silver-spangled shawls wrapped around his waist and the most ridiculous handlebar mustache on any side of any ocean, just reaches down from the stage and starts caressing your face. And some people think a sold out show is a reason to go home disappointed.

Set List (You know you were curious.)

1. Immy Punk
2. Sally
3. Never Young
4. Not a Crime
5. Purple (Long Intro)
6. East Infection
7. Mussolini Vs Stalin
8. Dogs Were Barking
9. Bulo Bulo
10. Passport
11. Think Locally
12. Underdog World
13. Darling
Punk Rock Paranda
Illumination
Baro Foro

The Chemiefabrik (Chemical Factory) is where Dresden punk shows run off to when the noise complaints from AZ Conni’s neighbors start to become a problem. Every Thursday they have Jugendtanz (Youth Dance) there as well. But don’t bother with that. The music is terrible, and on the days when it’s a little less terrible, it’s still not worth the entrance fee. Even if you can sometimes buy your way in with dumpstered honey.

I don’t know if the Chemiefabrik was ever really a chemical factory. There are other industrial buildings in the area, and one story is as likely as the next. There are no bathrooms, just a few places to crouch between trees and graffiti covered walls around back. Sometimes there’s a big bonfire outside, and the inside is covered with posters of bands who’ve played there.

There is a long bar where a Sterni costs EUR 1.30. Highway fucking robbery if you consider that a Sterni costs exactly 34 cents at the grocery store. It’s easy to rob poor planners, and by the time you get there and remember that you should have bought your own Sternis at the grocery store, all of the grocery stores are closed. All the same, it’s still cheaper than you’d pay at a regular bar.

On Wednesday I got off my lazy, broke ass, and shelled out 5 euros to see Contempt. A friend had organized the show, and well, it’s not like I have to wake up early mornings.

Dallas Denver opened—a local band. They don’t look like anything special or play like anything special, but they’re not unpleasant either, mostly because of the row of high school-age groupies who were standing up front with homemade, red glitter Dallas Denver shirts and an “I heart Conrad” sign sprayed in blue on an old piece of cardboard. The crowd bobed a little, a nod of appreciation for the attempt but not much more, and the teenie fans insisted on an encore. It was adorable actually.

The usual punk crowd was there. The girls with rows of peircings, Mohawks, and layers of ripped stockings. The boys in leather jackets, covered in spikes and pins and dirt. The rocknroll cats in tight tapered black pants, ripped black Converse or striped Vans slip ons. Black t-shirts screen printed in white. Patched pants. You’re probably familiar with the cast, set, and costumes already anyway.

Contempt came on around the second or third beer. And they have it—that charisma and energy that’s hard to describe and impossible to fake, but that has the crowd dancing by the first song. The drummer sat back in the shadows. One faded green Mohawk down the center of his head, wearing a black Contempt T-shirt screen printed in white. The guitarist—that’s right, another black T-shirt screen printed in white. The bassist was one of the punk rock chicks. Three layers of Mohawk, a chain connecting one of the peircings in her ears with one of the peircings in her nose. She’s filling in for someone named Trog, the singer told us from behind long brown dreadlocks.

There was a miniature pit and the rest of the crowd remained in the shadows, one hand holding a beer and the other in a pocket, back heels tapping to the beat.

It’s not earthshattering, but it’s a reason to thrash out two weeks of pent up aggression, and I went home sweaty and exhausted. The sound the speakers leave in my ears to fall asleep to sounds like a flock of restless seagulls.