Right now, he has barely started to talk to me than he asks, in his usual placid way how the fanclub is going. I describe the fanzine we want to do, how Alex (Bertaggia, this time) and I are trying to find new fans. He listens quietly, but I know what’s coming. The minute I stop talking, he will start on a whole lot of suggestions (but always with Anglo-Saxon calm), pulling out a booklet from one of the dozen pockets on his jacket to write out a pile of things to do and follow-up. I wonder if it is easy for a man so active to work with Alphaville. He evidently gets on well with Marian, but Marian is not as shy as Bernd, as devilish as Ricky... but that reminds me! "By the way, why aren't Bernd and Ricky here?", I ask. K.P. has the extraordinary ability to make me feel even sillier than I feel myself. When I ask him something, before even answering he looks at me as if to say "But it’s obvious...“. Unfortunately, it never is obvious to me. And this evening, too, I get the same old treatment. He shrugs his shoulders, gives me an "it's obvious" look, and answers my question with another one: "Did you miss them?" "Well, yes, a bit...". "Ask Marian why they aren't here. Now then, why don't we go back to the hotel?" K.P.'s intention is to tear Marian away from an interview (a cameraman and a journalist have found their way into the room), so that we can all go back to their hotel and have a party, since there's barely a tap to drink from here.

Fine, a quick trip to the Ladies' to freshen up a bit, and pay a necessary visit to the look, and Raffa and I somehow end up in one of Alphaville's yellow mini-busses. K.P. at the wheel, Raffa and me, the fellows from the band, Emma (the blonde girl I had seen scated at a table), perhaps some others who I cannot see beyond the tangle of legs and arms that I am trapped in. The trip is uncomfortable but exhilarating: the musicians are teasing K.P., imitating his accent, and making fun of the way he drives, and ideed‚ living in England makes it hard for him to stick to the right side of the road. He takes the jokes calmy, jokes back, participates in the general anarchic ambiene. Head knocking against the window, an elbow in my side, I listen and observe this strange group of people: a German in his mid-forties who lives in London and manages a Berlin band, an Austrian bass-player who lives in England, but does shows in Schwedt, an Anglo-Australian drummer who is going to move to Poland to live with his girlfriend...no one who was born and bred in Turin, like me, who visits foreign lands only on holiday, and whose job barely gives them a chance to meet people from a different region. I rather envy them their cosmopolitanism, I envy their complete respect for those who are "different", the tolerance that their everyday life gives them, and which is so rare in Turin.

The hotel is a beautiful one just outside Schwedt. This means that Raffa and I, after making sure we found a hotel near the Neue Zeit, will have to take a taxi back there. Usual luck. We stop in the lobby, and beers and nibbles immediately appear and go around. I jump on them gladly, I am so hungry. While I am stuffing my face, the second half of our party arrives: fans, the rest of the staff, Marian. He comes in with the dark-haired girl I had noticed in the room after the concert. He holds her close, kisses her gently on the forehead. It's Gabi⁸. She is in her twenties, and very pretty. Her beauty is a discreet one, Gabi is nne of the finest girls I have ever seen. Well dressed, medium-length hair cut in a layered style, green eyes with no make-up, she looks like someone who lives a quiet life. But if she is with Marian, I don't think she does live a quiet life. It is evident how much they love each other, they are tender, a beautiful couple. I am happy for them, and so pleased that I feel no jealousy. The woman with black hair turns Uschi Fischer Schierbaum, Marian's half-sister (father's side). She must be a couple of years older than him, tall, thin, with very dark hair (but that is the only resemblance with her brother) and hard features. She teaches dancing in Westphallia (she did a choreography for Parade) and has seized this occation to see her brother sing live for the first time. Uschi and Gabi both go to bed early: they are not the centre of attention, and by one o’clock, they are tired. The language problem, of course, remains.

Marian is sitting on the floor in the midst of his fans and talks to them in German. Bad luck, really. Patience, the night is young, and he might find a minute for me. I’ll talk to the others: with Emma, who takes care of the Internet pages dedicated to Alphaville, with Marion who explains that she is far behind on the MoonPaper⁹ because she has a pile of exams to do between in October and February ¹⁰. She is really bothered about what has happened to the fanclub, but she couldn't do anything else, and K.P.’s plan was initially to create a federation at local fanclubs (one in Italy, one in Sweden, etc.), which she would have just co-ordinated, keeping contact with only one or two fans per country. Marion doesn't like this plan of K.P.'s because she doesn’t like the idea of ordering the fans about, but the fact remains that the international fanclub, as it is now, doesn't work.

I then talk with Karin. She enjoyed the concert, and is very impressed by Marian’s ability to dominate th stage. What she doesn't like so much is the set: too many purely fast or purely slow songs following each other (well, she isn't really wrong). And she doesn't like the versions of Sounds Like A Melody and And I Wonder. Since I filmed the concert, could I send her a copy? It doesn't matter if it doesn't look professional like a television programme, she just wants to keep as complete an archive as possible of the concerts... so she'll be the first person I send the video to. I leave Karin and sit down beside Marian with the umpteenth glass that someone has put in my hand. The beer is full of foam. Not a very healthy occupation, eating nothing all day and then pouring warm beer on my empty stomach. Fortunately, I'm a good drinker. Marian apologises again for speaking German all the time, I tell him that's all right, we'll talk later, and I start a conversation with Jacqueline, the only German fan who can actually hack a bit of English, and who seems to have quite a Mediterranean spirit, as it were: she asks Marian to give her the tanktop he is wearing, as is, full of sweat and all. "What will you ask for next time?, I asked. "His trousers..?" "No, I think I'll stop at the top". Marian gets up, goes to change. He retums shortly to give the top to Jacqueline. He is now wearing a T-shirt of Antonioni's film Blow-up. He goes to get two beers, comes back towards the others and myself, seated on the carpet.

He gives me a glass and sits beside me. `Now then, Alessandra.' I have always liked the way he pronounces my name, without the slightest foreign intonation, but a bit slowly, as if he was tasting it. In fact, I discover that he really likes my name. I drink a sip of beer, look at him. Now I feel a bit worried: what if, talking to him, we were to discover that we have nothing in common? What if one of those terrible silences settles between us, as between two people who do not know what to say? What if the conversation dies out after a few minutes? I do not think I could bear the thought of having dedicated eleven years of my life to someone, only to discover that we are not on the same wave length at all. Well, a good subject to start the conversation should be the concert: "You sang very well tonight...". "Do you think so? But you know, I couldn't hear myself sing during the first two song". "No, no, you sang really well. But why didn't you sing any of the songs from the third album?" "I just don't find that they suit a live performance, you know". "True, Heaven or Hell, heavy version, might not be a big success. `That's true... but there are some other beautiful songs, also on the B-sides. It is a pity that you don't play them live". "Yes. One fan has just asked me why I didn't sing The Impossible Dream. But there are so many other songs I'd rather sing...". "Like Thunder, for instance?" "Exactly. That one in particular. I tell you what, next time you come to a show, I'll get you up on stage and we can sing Like Thunder together, in front of the crowd".

We then go onto the subject of Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers, another song which wouldn't work in a live show, but which he would like to sing, and I would like to hear. He tells me its orign. The musical inspiration came to Ricky during a trip to South America, and Ricky had asked Marian to write a lyric describing his experience there. Marian knew exactly what Ricky had experienced, since he too had travelled in this area, but he didn't feel like expressing those emotions in a text. The lyrics were inspired by a film on television instead, a man and a woman clutching each other on a cliff before them their pursuers, behind them the sea. And that's how the words were born. And how did he get the idea to use Lewis Carroll's poem in my favourite song, All in the Golden Afternoon? "Well, the music is by Rainer¹¹... at home, in the living-room, I have a sort of recording studio, and he often comes over to work. He had written this music and I didn't know what text to put on it... one day, I was sitting near the book-case and looking at the 700 books that I can barely reach because of the equipment... and my eyes suddenly fell on Alice. That's how I found the text". "I'm sure Lewis Carroll would appreciate the way his poem has been put into music"."I think so, too. But do you know that some fans have asked me how I dared cut out two verses!" "If they wanted to reproach Dante for cutting up Virgil’s verses, there would be plenty to complain about in the Comedy...". "Anyway, those were the only two verses that I could cut out".

"On another topic: why aren't Bernd and Ricky here?" "Well... Ricky lives in the south of France, and he's working on a film soundtrack right now. And Bernd is as he is, he hates concerts... and since they aren't really musicians anyway...". O.K, I get it. Though I still think their presence would be a good thing. But I don't feel like talking about that, and the conversation drifts onto other subjects, whose order I don't remember: beer after beer, Jaegermeister after Jaegermeister (only subject of discord between Marian and me: I like it, he doesn't). He gradually sinks down into a lying position on the carpet, I gradually lean over him, all I remember of this long night's conversation. We discuss Italian politics: Marian cannot understand how an individualistic people like the Italians, who he admires so much, could let themselves be had by a clown like Berlusconi. The answer isn't easy: I try to make him see the bad side of individualism, the indifference to everything that doesn't concern one's personal little world, I tell him about the disinterest of Italians for politics, their lack of information and historical ignorance, the fact that Forza Italia took over the place left vacant by the disintegration of the Christian-Democrats... but it is difficult to understand how, so near the year 2000, people can still believe in a political campaign so similar to that of the Christian- Democrats in '48, God, Nation and Family against the wicked, baby-eating Communists... only one step from this to talking about families in general.

"Do you believe in family, Alessandra?" I've never known anyone who repeats the name of the person they are talking so often. Alessandra this, Alessandra that, his voice and a long, sensual S. "No, I mean, I don't believe that "blood is thicker than water". I think it is quite possible to hate your own mother or your own brother... the relationship comes from contacts, from habit. They do not necessarily turn out to be good relationships". "Yes, I agree. Anyway, you can be as close to a friend as to a brother...". "I have a friend I consider nearly as a sister. I love her so much I could never abandon her even if she killed someone, or something. But families are often hypocritical... there was an Italian film that portrays this perfectly, I pugni in tasca, by Bellocchio"."I've seen it! Ah, it's splendid, really splendid!" Marian has the ability to be enthusiastic for things, for life, just like a small child. Place him in front of a sunset, take him to an opera by Puccini, leave him under a colourful light show, and he will be amazed and excited as if he had never seen a sunset, an opera, or lights. Bless him. So we start to talk about Italian cinema. He loves Fellini and Antonioni. We discuss Otto e Mezzo, and then I tell him that Antonioni will soon bring out a new film directed with Wim Wenders. Hearing that Antonioni is still well enough to continue working, he seems to get all excited, cannot wait to see this film.

After discussing cinema and music, we turn to literature. He loves Dante and Shakespeare, the first mainly for the structure of his poems, the latter because he has said it all, absolutely every subject imaginable is covered in his works. I insist on Leopardi, he must really read him, and somehow we start to talk of Radiguet and his Diable au Corps. "K.P. told me that' you've written a book, too," he says. "Yes, it's a collection of short stories. It should come out next year. Some of the stories are inspired by you"."Really?" "Yes, really. Of course, the stories are made up and I'm not saying that the characters are like you... but you gave me the idea". "Ah, that's one of the most beautiful things that could happen to me. To be the inspiration of a story. That's extraordinary. I must read this book!" "I'll send you a copy. But it's in Italian..."."Well, I can't speak Italian anymore, but I should be able to read it ^l2. I have Italian ancestors, you know". "Really? I knew your grand-father was Polish". "No, the one whose name Marian I took was Bulgarian. But the other one was an Italian sculptor, who was brought to the Prussian imperial court at the end of the last century. Anyway, since you're a writer... Well, let's not exaggerate. „...can you give me your sincere opinion. You must have read "Chephren`s Barge“ right? So, what do you think of it? I'm quite confident about my ability to write song lyrics, but when I'm writing in prose...“' Unbelievable. Marian Gold, my idol, is hanging on my every word. He is expecting judgement from me, right now, I feel superior to him: Incredible.

So... "Chephren`s Barge“, a story by Marian published in the MoonPaper... "I think it's good.“ And I try to explain that, although the symbolism sometimes comes close to making the story too obscure, his desciptive talent is enviable, as well as the feeling for rhythm that is quite extraordinary, especially in the part that starts with "I run and run...“ Marian is listening to me, wide eyed, interrupting only to say `Really? Do you really think that“, deIight to find that I appreciate him as a writer. Unbelievable. We speak of a hundred more things. Dancing: he likes Forsyte and Pina Bausch, as I do, and I explain the difference between the Russian and the American style, to make him understand why I like Balanchine so much. Italy: since he would like to visit cities like Venice and Florence without any tourists, I propose that he go to Venice and stay with my friend Veronica, promising him that that he'd be able to see the Piazza San Marco without any other tourists, and I even get the impression he might be ready to accept the invitation. Italians: how much he likes them, undisciplined and noisy and anarchic in a way that Germans never are, and that's why he likes Berlin, because Berlin is like Rome, not like Germany... I don't know, but we end up discussing that major theme of the end of the century, communication. "Something I will never understand," he tells me, "is this: the more you talk, the more you find a conversation interesting, the Iess you remember it afterwards". "I think it's because we are not capable of keeping too many things inside". "Yes, I agree. We are too limited. We are little pools that are only slightly moved when large stones are thrown into us".

And my night with Marian, our words together will also be lost. I will remember all atmosphere, the people around and the carpet under me, a glass in my hand and Marian lying on his side, no music, no smells, just a soft background noise. I'll remember the intonation of his voice, the way he moves, but I will forget the exact words, the sequence of the subjects we discussed... I am indeed too limited. But it is now well past four in the morning, Marian is dropping with sleep. Most Fans have left, some have gone to sleep. It is now time to go back to our hotel. K.P. is complaining because Marian has monopolised me all night. Be patient, K.P., we'll talk some other time. Time to say goodbye to the people that are Ieft - a collective "Bye" is enough for them - and to Marian. He hugs me, or rather swallows me up in his arms, as if I were a hand in a muff, and he says he is happy, very happy to have talked with me. He is always embarrassed by fans that never stop considering him as an idol... It's true' I tell him. "Until tonight, I always felt that there was a sort of glass pane between us". "Yes, but tonight, we've broken it. This has been wonderful, Alessandra, thank you". "Thank you, too". He takes my face between his hands, and places two kisses at the corners of my mouth. Good-bye, Marian. K.P. has called a taxi for us. I get Raffa and we leave the hotel, climb into the taxi. Good. I've seen a beautiful concert, I have met sympathetic people, different from the ones I am used to meeting, I have spoken with a man out of the ordinary, the sort that enrich you. And now? I'm not sad that it's over. I want to go back to Italy, to Alex. But I now have this little experience, and I'm happy. It doesn't often happen to me, but I'm happy just now. Happy and content - a strange combination in my case. Happy and content. This peacefulness won't last very long, I know. But I hope I won't forget it.
 
 
 

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From Uwe dan Ilwa - Faithful & True Alphaville Fanclub
Thanks to Uwe and Ilwa for the contribution
As published in Faithful and True Alphaville Fanclub Homepage.