One comes with the obituaries currently not behind. Bruno Ganz, whom an angel and Hitler pursue to the grave. Karl Lagerfeld, who could be listened to for hours, about his time with Alfred Biolek, when he said in his nonchalant breathlessness, among other things: "Hamburg is the gateway to the world, yes, well, but just the gate!"
And now Peter Rüchel. With such people dies the memory of a time when music was still really important because not limitless available. A time when one stole his mother again and again smaller amounts from the wallet, in order to buy the plates, without which a survival seemed unthinkable. So I came to The Wall by Pink Floyd or Red Skies over Paradise by Fischer Z.
Music turned on turntables and in compact cassettes, got cracks and scratches, or became banded with tape. Above all, it was first and foremost what to listen to, apart from the fact that you could study even purist reduced record covers as later with his children Hidden Objects by Ali Mitgutsch.
Rock music as a source of comfort
One could watch music on television, and music on television, that was hit parade or music from Studio B for Omma and Oppa. For all those who had not laid waste Europe 30 years ago, there was the disco with Ilja Richter or the music store with Manfred Sexauer and Uschi Nerke, the record kitchen or their successor Bananas , where the heterosexual boy was mainly Olivia Pascal looked. In all these programs, there was an irritating amount of comedy in between, or nonsense, as they called it then. I always refused because it interrupted the music numbers, for example in the plate kitchen . Nevertheless, I like to remember the famos flat fun with Frank Zander, who as a waiter bored at the counter leans. Gets a guest: "Hello, top!" Then Zander: "Hello Guest!"
Real rock music was and still is a source of comfort or an outlet for youthful frustrations but far too serious to be combined with silly skits. And rock music only really gets real through the live moment. In this regard, the Rockpalast Nights were the lowest high offices. Only after the lotto numbers and the word for Sunday, it started, and then through to early morning. The renovation breaks, which could sometimes take three quarters of an hour, were filled to a greater or lesser extent. There were interviews with stoned or drunken stars or concert excerpts from even bigger stars who never came to Essen, especially Bruce Springsteen, whom Peter Rüchel repeatedly wished for over the years as a guest in the Grugahalle.
The first Rock Nights with Rory Gallagher, Mother's Finest, Peter Gabriel, Patti Smith, Johnny Winter or Mitch Ryder passed me by. The first of which I at least heard the first two acts, namely The Blues Band and Joan Armatrading, ran on the night of 19 to 20 April 1980, when I was just thirteen. A week later I was confirmed and bought from the loot money a Schneider-Komapaktanlage. No, I was not a hi-fi gourmet, but in the next few years I was to develop into a manic Mixtape producer who repeatedly tried to get girls around with their works, which never really worked. Some were grateful, but it did not make them sharp. Not for me anyway.
My first full Rock night was with Graham Parker and The Rumor, The Police, and Jack Bruce, eight days after John Lennon's fortieth birthday, two months later he realized it was his last.
picture-alliance / jazz archive
The Grateful Dead appeared in 1981 at the Rockpalast
In March 1981 then the only Rock Night with only two groups: The Who and The Grateful Dead. Pete Townshend and fellows with laser show and the Dead with extra breaks. Already in the run-up Albrecht Metzger ("Dear friends, live here at the Rockpalast") pointed out that the "Grateful Dead" preferred a "crystal-clear" sound. And for that they obviously had to fumble around on some devices again and again. For decades afterward, in retrospect, it seemed to me that Jerry Garcia had tuned his guitar for at least an hour in the three or four hours. Then a few years ago I watched the concert completely on Youtube, at night of course, the family in bed, myself at a high speed after a nice performance, and some beer, and I realized: in sum, it's really about tuned his guitar for an hour.
My favorite Rock Night remains October 1981: The Undertones, Mink de Ville, Black Uhuru and Roger Chapman. The high, cutting voice of Fergal Sharkey, the nasal grandeur of Willy de Ville and his pencil-thin mustache, the syncopated groove of Black Uhuru and then, when it was almost light again, the dirty vibrato of Roger Chapman. It was this very night when Michael S. tried to prove in our kitchen that it was impossible to crush a raw egg with his hands. Strange statement. Which was not true. What the upholstery on the corner bench for a long time witnessed.
Even Omma and Oppa look "Rockpalast"
In April 1982 I was able to state that the Rockpalace even reached my Omma. She had at least radio God Rick James and the Irish bard Van Morrison viewed, much to the displeasure of my oppas ("you bite a weird woman!"). Omma assessed the two performances in very different ways: "Hmm, the one who has been watching all the time." - "Van Morrison, Omma, he's full in the music." - "No, that was nothing for me, but the swat before, that was good, he jumped all the time and all, and at the end there was still rain of golden rain." My highlight of the night, however, were the Kinks, who had released the pleasingly voluminous, until today very fresh sounding album "Give the People what they want" the year before and which were much more than just "Lola".
During the rock night of October 1982 with Little Steven and The Disciples of Soul, Gianna Nannini and Kid Creole and the Coconuts, this legendary strip poker party took place in the home of a classmate who, slightly distorted (what the scene of the event) the names of those involved) in my story "Pokerface" gerann, which can be read in "Radio Heimat". The only girl involved did not lose much of a match, while the boys were soon shivering in their underwear. I can not play poker until today.
DPA
A year earlier, in October 1980, The Police performed in Essen's Grugahalle.
These were the nights that left the deepest impression on me. I do not know why that relieved me in the next few years. From the following rock nights, I'm mainly single performances in memory. The one by Joe Jackson, for example, "Slow Song". Bryan Adams (who, if he could not play around, play straightforward rock'n'roll) on the loudspeaker towers. Huey Lewis and The News. The big Rodgau monotones. Jackson Browne, because I always had a weakness for this sleek Westcoast story.
The final event was set by BAP, one and a half months before my 20th birthday: Wolfgang Niedecken in a denim shirt with rolled-up short sleeves, the major in an undershirt and gray sweatpants. At the end, Niedecken considers "Verdamp langher" this touching acceptance speech, serious and honest, with just the right shot of pathos, citing Steve van Zandt, that there are people who would have done much more for international understanding than all the politicians who put their "heads in the telly".
And then he gets her on stage. Peter Rüchel comes first: shoulder-length, then already gray hair, denim jacket, scarf, T-shirt. Albrecht Metzger, with black tie to white shirt and beige trousers fully arrived in the eighties. Evi Seibert and Ken Janz, who joined in 1984 instead of Alan Bangs for moderation, announcement and interviews. Butcher makes reggae moves, Rüchel moves sympathetically awkward next to Niedecken, who sometimes still sings with Rüchel in his arms: "Hats fess jejläuv, datt who the sky op dich waat / Isch jönn et you, Bap, hann is jesaat".
DPA
Singer Wolfgang Niedecken the Kölschrock band Bap at his "Rockpalast" appearance in 1986.
In the days of Spotify, Apple Music and YouTube, a Rock Night would be nothing special anymore. This text was also created by repeatedly looking at excerpts. You can not get it back completely, and in many ways it's good too. But you may remember how much it moved you, how much real meaning it had - and how inconsequential your mother's timpani was when she finally caught you clawing. You were a bit ashamed, but you knew you would do it again. Beg, borrow or steal. For this music that digs you deep inside. We've learned more from a 3-minute record than ever at school, the New Jersey man once sang.
DISPLAY
Frank Goosen:
No wonder
Kiepenheuer & Witsch; 352 pages; bound; 20.00 euros
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I never met Peter Rüchel. And he did a lot more than rock nights. In which so many others were involved, especially Christian Wagner (which sends Niedecken in the end still a greeting in the OB van, because Wolfgang knows what belongs). But it seems to me that a relative has died whom I have not heard from for a long time.
Maybe Peter Rüchel believed that Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Elvis and John Lennon were waiting for him in heaven. Maybe he squats on a cloud himself and keeps waiting for Springsteen.