PSEUDO: a punk novel

By Roland Scheller

In the middle of the night a taxi driver noticed a rumbling noise under his car during an empty ride. Whilst traveling down Fördestrasse, the taxi had caught a body on the road and dragged it along for almost twenty metres. The man on the street was already dead by that time. It was likely that another vehicle had run him over at the place where hitchhikers used to stand. For years, undesirable hitchhikers had been intimidated here with gestures and steering manoevers. Was it the brainless fascist skinheads again, who already before went on a manhunt in their car on the bicycle path towards the Olympic Centre?

 

A 15-year-old pseudo-punk joins the Kiel punk scene and experiences a blatant and wired time, which culminated in the Hanover Chaos Days 1983. It is puzzling why he suddenly joined the new skinhead scene around the wicked ex-punks Gonnrad and the Konz brothers. What got him into it? When the teenager later realises that the first skins are taking on right-wing radical tendencies, he tries to break away from the scene, but that doesn't turn out to be that easy. Finally he pulls the ripcord after another incident, even if he would have liked to remain a skinhead – England-style and working-class just like in the beginning. He manages to get out after a brutal fight with Stidi, one of the chief skins. The price is high. His face is smashed and his reputation ruined. Many punks are resentful and can't forgive him for the excursion into the strange world of skinheads. Even for the skins it is not over and done with yet. There is massive trouble on both sides.

 

It was the madness of the 80s, a time full of self-destructive punks, scolding old Nazis, marauding skinheads and streetclubs, aspiring young Nazis and overtaxed policemen at the Chaos Days.

After a crime against a rocker, a disoriented skinhead ended up at a New Year's Eve party of ordinary people:

I remember there was a lot of light in the flat. The bright light and the white wallpaper hurt in my eyes. In my booze state I scribbled something on the white wallpaper in the hallway: Oi! Oi! Oi!, the battle cry of the skinheads. But I was afraid that this could be brought back to us, and I painted a T before: Toi! Toi! Toi!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Mar 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9783748733812

Book preview

PSEUDO - a punk novel

Roland Scheller

The Kiel punk scene

in the beginning of the 80s

from the view of a pseudo punk

Copyright © 2020 Roland Scheller

All rights reserved.

Translated by Roland Scheller, John & al.

„Perfektion ist Sache der Götter"

(Perfection is a matter for the gods)

Beton Combo

I. PUNK / The Landfill

I spent a part of my childhood on the landfill Schusterkrug which we lovingly dubbed Ramscher. There, scrabbling with our muck-rake hooks, we searched for usable trash like badges, cocades, and uniform buttons. We found Nazi marine charts, tombstones, cartridge cases, Israelian-made exercise rifle grenades, bazooka shoulder bags. Amongst the large muck piles of domestic waste, bloody hospital waste and military waste is where we found our treasures before they were turned down by bulldozers. There were countless rats, crows, and seagulls, which volatilized when we became noticeable. Often we spotted pegged out seagulls and half-decayed rats. Once we even found a dead crow hanging off a metal plank by a wire.

Every time we entered Ramscher we had to cross the railroad tracks, which were used to transport brand-new tanks by slow-moving trains from Friedrichsort at certain times of the day. The Roman snails, which we collected and laid on the railroad tracks had only a few survival chances. Later our junkyard finds which we had already concealed in the dirt were exchanged or sold to other kids from the village. Looking back, it was probably muck-raking in Ramscher that later kick-started my passion for punk.

Meeting point: children's playground

I vividly remember being 15, the bad days back in 1982. It was cold at that time of the year. Cold enough to freeze our arses off. I remember my first visit to the Wik Punks on a small playground on Düvelsbeker Weg, just behind the Penny market. My introduction to the punk scene. There were four of us who dared to go there: Franka, Hecker, Steff and me. We wanted to demonstrate that we identified with the punks, punks all over Kiel who met here every Saturday. We occupied the small wooden hut between the play structures and drank their beer loudly. Hard punk music sounded from a small cassette recorder, that was usually brought by a Wik Punk called Barne.

Inside the hut was covered with punk graffiti like

Never trust a Hippie!

Wik Punx '81 or

God, give us a Fifth Reich, the Fourth is like the Third.

Directly opposite the playground, painted on the filth-covered Belvedere toilet building read,

No Reich, no people, no leader,

something that I would read almost every day on my way to school.

I had once spotted a small group of punks during Kiel Week at the Kiel Line and a lone punk with a crate of beer at Falckenstein Beach. I immediately knew,

This is exactly my thing!

When we showed up with the punks on the Penny playground for the first time, little Franka stood next to me the entire time. She was a newcomer in the punk scene at the playground. She was at my school at a class level below me, and we had planned at the smokers' schoolyard to visit the punks on the playground. Although Franka with her long, blond hair was unbelievably pretty, she was at first ignored by the punks just like the others in our little group. We mostly consisted of whispering pseudo-punks, not yet accustomed to their ways. It was a bit embarrassing to us that one of the punks in the wooden hut was called Porn-Bob. They always shouted out his name,

Porn-Bob, do this! Porn-Bob, do that!

Porn-Bob, the fully tattooed punk, was on his last legs. I am not sure whether he survived the year '82. We giggled and looked at each other with shame. Electrified by the scene, Franka soon put on a punk outfit and mutilated her long, blond hair opting for an edgier look of short hair on one side, and long on the other. Not long after the change, she got together with a Wik Punk called Mattern.

We immediately found pleasure in the hard, uncompromising music filled with partly rebellious, partly broken lyrics and the provocative behaviour and appearance of the punks. That is why we wanted to take part. The music and the slogans with which we spurred upon each other created a skeptical attitude towards society and a healthy suspicion of any form of authority. Every time I went to the Penny playground, I tried to adapt myself to be more and more like the punks because I was sure I had found my lifestyle and to form my protests.

The topic of alcohol was quite big. Often binge-drinking was prevented only because there was not enough money for alcoholics. We would often get into a coma-like condition, but even without money, we drank to the extreme, still unaware as to what the regular alcohol abuse was doing to our teenage brains. Some punks already had faces disfigured by alcohol. We went beyond our borders – alcoholically, verbally and practically. We belched in an exaggerating way, spat out, distorted our chops and made grimaces. Real teenage punks wanted to look fucked up, appear sick, cough and sniff back their snot. I learned that quickly.

Going out with the punks gave me confidence and a whole new way of life. I was able to relate with the punks everything that I stood for at school with aggressive or right-oriented classmates and my neighbourhood acers (discriminating German term for stupid rocker). Whenever I was on the road with the punks, my nose smelt a sweet, perfume-like scent. This was extremely funny. I have no explanation for how this misperception came about. It seemed like an intoxication. Perhaps it was the smell of the beer and the soap I smeared into my hair that my brain associated with certain moments? These moments had addictive potential for me.

The conversation of punk music was of immense importance to all in the playground. Who had the first awesome LP, EP or single was cutting-edge. There were not many record shops where we could buy good punk records except for Tutti Frutti.

The owner Tutti and her husband, who stood together, both well-styled, behind the sales counter always led the latest punk records in their program, which we could listen to directly in the shop. On the counter stood a box with singles of local bands like Code 7 and No More who were hated in the punk scene at that time.

For many punks, record purchases were expensive. Everyone was happy that the prospect of copying borrowed records onto tapes, or compiling their own recordings was possible. Some even copied tapes or samplers with double cassette recorders, with two tape decks or double tape decks. At the time the bootleg trade began to flourish due to brilliant technical possibilities. I did not invest in such things as clothes, cinema, tattoos and expensive drinks. I just wanted to buy good punk records from time to time.

Some punks booked their records with mail-order companies such as Vinyl Boogie in Berlin, which once a month distributed the Piss-Yellow Punk-List, from which we regularly ordered. In addition, Vinyl Boogie offered the so-called Pogophon-zine which was an answering machine, also known as Pogophon, that provided information about current events in the punk scene. Every time a package from Berlin arrived it was like a small Christmas celebration. Everyone tried to choose from the order list because the bloke who had the most interesting record collection was a hero in the clique.

A lot of people from the punk scene appeared extremely crazy, whilst some looked quite normal. Regardless of our appearance, all punks had record collections which consisted only of the hardest punk sounds. Others were explicitly on Ami hardcore. Still others looked like the hardest punks ever, but they had no idea of punk music. Some were real fetishists, admiring a single band which they were permanently crazy about and they listened to almost nothing else.

The Dead Kennedys from San Francisco belonged to the group of really addictive bands that we listened to. These LPs were heard so often, played again and again until they began to crackle and crack. This effect was further enhanced by lending them to others several times, touching them with greasy fingers and listening to them until they were almost worn-out or broken.

I directly started with punk as soon as I began to orient myself in the music and subculture scene, but I was only a leisure punk. Until then, my biggest musical treasure was a self-compiled tape with radio recordings of New German Wave bands like Abwärts, Nichts, Ideal, Extrabreit, Fehlfarben and The Wirtschaftswunder, but it became more and more unimportant with proceeding social decline as punk.

In the beginning I picked up more and more punk songs from the radio on tape, including Homicide of 999 or War on the Terraces of Cockney Rejects. Radio shows even began to announce songs such as Accidents never happen by Blondie and a song of the heavy metal band Holocaust as punk. Sometimes, I had no clue who the band was. I once recorded a song sung by a woman. Down to the present day I don't know which band it was. The refrain read,

Nothing really happens at all.

Henceforth it became one of my favourite songs. When I heard Anarchy in the UK by the Sex Pistols in my room on a small radio alarm clock for the very first time in my life, it downright blew my mind. I was standing in the tiny dungeon with an oversized Why?-poster and a Konkret magazine-poster which had a torture scene pictured on it and was slightly disturbed. I wanted to hear the song again and again, but I was unable to record it.

My very first sampler tape I got was from Brandy. It included Upright Citizens, GBH, Stiff Little Fingers, Anti-Pasti, Kaltwetterfront, OHL, Krupps, Blitzkrieg and Aristocats. Brandy really got me hooked on it musically.

I got my very first record, The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle by the Sex Pistols, through a deal in my circle of friends. At that time, I was not afraid of shoplifting, sometimes swiping cigarettes. I received this Sex Pistols-LP for a pack of stolen cigarettes. However the cover of the LP was damaged because the previous owner had cut out the drawn figure of the singer Johnny Rotten and used it for a collage.

My second record, Punks not Dead by The Exploited, could only be attained through shoplifting. I went with a mate in the record shop Membran at the Old Market. There was also the LP of the English band The Wall, Personal Troubles and Public Issues, for 99 Pfennig – nothing special, but a must for every punk. I sneaked into the furthermost corner where the punk records were, and pushed Punks not Dead under my jacket. I put my hands in the front trouser pockets so that the record could not slip down. In the meantime, my accomplice was listening to a 7-inch at the counter and was involved with talking to the salesman, an old punk with blond-coloured hair, wearing both a studded bracelet and a studded belt, who got into an expert discussion about punk bands. Discretely, I passed the seller, who casually perched on a bar stool next to the checkout, from where he had an overview of the entire shop. What I did not notice was the fact that the upper edge of the LP cover popped through just above the last closed button of my jacket. Fortunately, this fact remained undetected by the cash desk punk. First outside, my accomplice Steff informed me about this circumstance. We slowly moved away from the location of the theft, and the LP was quickly recognized as a cult record, even though The Exploited was embarrassing for many punks.

I got a stolen Sounds magazine, in which several punk records were discussed: Anti-Pasti Caution in the Wind, Exploited Troops of Tomorrow, Chron Gen Chronic Generation, Discharge Hear Nothing, See Nothing, Say Nothing, Anti-Nowhere League We are .... The League and Bad Brains' Rock for Light. When Vielmann handed over the Discharge LP, I copied the lyrics word by word from the gatefold cover. I translated all words I did not know. That helped me prevent my English at school from getting worse.

I sat in my room on the couch and listened to the new Discharge LP. The loudspeakers stood on the left and right next to the double-seater couch on the level with my head and pointed frontally towards each other. My new low-budget hi-fi system was fully turned up and I was sitting right in the middle.

When the song Free Speech for The Dumb was on, my grandfather came into the room. He looked at me and asked,

Are you being rude?

and laughed. When the following song The End began with the short beep at the beginning, he shook his raised index finger in horror and closed the door. I listened to the record intensively until the end.

One day at Membran Record Shop, I changed the price labels on several records. Once I tore off the 21,95 Deutschmark price tag of the GBH LP City Baby Attacked by Rats and replaced it with another label of 9,95 Deutschmarks, which I had previously detached unnoticed and carefully from another record. I was so cunning. I asked my mother, when rushing with her through the city if she could buy me the record. She would get the money back later. It would have been unimaginable what would have happened if Membran had accused my mother of fraud.

Later on arrived a fresh pack of the second Chaos U.K. EP Loud Political & Uncompromising on the shelf next to the cash desk of Membran. The EP contained the songs No Security, What about a Future and Hypocrite. I made them play it to me loudly in the shop. I knew immediately that I must get into possession of this EP.

At that time there was no way of avoiding punk records from Finnland. Anyone who was able to join in a conversation in this field was considered a special someone. Barne was the first to tell me about Finnish punk. He was one of the most insubordinate punks I've ever met. With his metal-rimmed glasses and a blond punk haircut, he was a small specialist in giving accurate and provocative nicknames, trying to bring us out of our shells. Others had problems to outreach his sayings. He recommended to me bands like Terveet Kädet and Riistetyt. Soon, Finnish punk ran for the first time over the kasi recorder (cassette player) on the playground behind the Penny market or in the laundry at the Triangle Square, where we also sometimes hung out. As long as the batteries still had some juice, and the tape did not begin to grind we could entertain ourselves and the residents sufficiently with our music. It was a mystery to us, why Punk from Finland was so effective. The Finns had understood what it was about. I had to get into possession of Finnish punk music after the first play-back. I ordered my two first Finnish punk singles at Vinyl Boogie.

When I looked into the Piss-Yellow Punk-List, I noticed various Finnish punk records: 7-inches, EPs and LPs. In this cult-list, that was regularly sent to me by mail from Berlin, the abbreviation of the country of origin was printed behind the band name. I came across a single from Kaaos (Finn) – Totalinen Kaaos and the Pultii Sampler (Finn). Every punk immediately realized that it was Finnish punk. I ordered without hesitation. The Kaaos single was the purest frenzy. The Pultii-Sampler, an EP, showed on the cover a urinating punk. Now I could join in the conversation a bit more. In the meantime Vielmann, who also had metal-rimmed glasses, found a punk sampler, that was called Propaganda, that featured the current most important Finnish punk bands. We listened to the sampler until vomiting. These indescribable feelings of happiness were made possible by the few record shops that offered punk music and by our beloved mail order record shop in Berlin. It was an incredible kick every time the Piss-Yellow List arrived by mail. The list was copied with trash effect and folded from DIN-A4 to DIN-A5. Sometimes it was even light green or light blue.

We tried to sing our hearts out with some of the refrains of the Finnish punk songs, although most of the meaning of the lyrics was completely unclear, as was the case with Riisteyts Painu Helvettiin Natsiäpärä. Someone told us that this refrain in translation means Go to hell you old Nazi-bastard. Later a second Propaganda sampler came on the market, that of course we also enjoyed. On the cover, the inside cover and on the label imprint, punks could be seen in all sorts of poses: drinking, celebrating, urinating and fucking. Finnish punk music was for us the soul of punk par excellence. This punk wave hit us hard. From now on this new type of music could not be absent at any party, whether it was private, on the playground behind the Penny market or in the laundry. We behaved even rougher, more obscenely and more frivolously, and as for the music we listened to, there was only one motto: faster, louder, harder! Finnish punk records were preferably lent out in the scene and not returned. Finn-punk had a high exchange value and was also used as a stake in bets, but only if you were a hundred percent sure. Soon the next wave swarmed over to us, some of them had already guessed, this time from Ami Land. Through catchy punk zines and over the Piss-Yellow Punk-List we learned about the phenomenon ami-hardcore. Compilations like This Is Boston, Not L.A. and Decline of the Western Civilization showed us the way for the future.

At Vinyl Boogie we had to order immediately without hesitation, if the Piss-Yellow List arrived by postal service from Berlin, otherwise the best records were already out of stock. I wanted to order EPs from Rudimentary Peni and the Necros at all cost. They were among the bands whose singles and EPs contained an exceeding number of songs. This was usually a permanent shouting and strumming, that was interrupted after only a few seconds by short pauses, as if it were a single chopped composition. Some EPs even had to be played on 33 rpm (revolutions per minute, instead of 45), that caused additional fun, but in some cases confusion as soon as the singing started. This time I waited too long with the order and never saw the records, because the new list of the following month no longer contained the EPs. Sold out. We tried sometimes to buy belated waxes from previous months, that were no longer in the new list, but it never worked. What was gone was gone. This caused us a regular shopping frenzy, so that we soon started ordering immediately after the arrival of the list, even if it was sometimes only one album or two 7-inches per person.

We constantly had to get in touch with each other to order together with several punks so we could share the postage. Prior to the arrival of the package, one of us – the addressee – collected the money so that cash could be paid immediately. If we missed the parcel carriage, the post office stored our records for a week at Karlstal Post Office in Kiel-Gaarden. It happened several times that we could not accept the package directly at the front door. Therefore on the following day we drove with a small group of punks to the east bank to pay for the parcel and accept it. The cardboard box was immediately torn up directly in the post office and the records handed over to the owners. It was like a Christmas holiday. We drove back to Kiel-North and proudly inspected our brand new records on the bus.

Soon I decided to collect 7-inches from the labels Riot City Records and No Future, because despite the Finnish Punk and Ami hardcore waves, I was more interested in English punk in the long term. Germanpunk had hardly a chance with me. There had to be something extraordinary. It took more than just the music to win me over. The cover work, the posters, the statements and calls for violence. It was absolutely my world to read the English punk lyrics, while at the same time the record played loudly.

With each order new highlights arrived. One in particular – the LP The Partisans – gave me a whole new attitude to life. So did the first Chaos U.K. LP. Because I am colour-blind the cover that contained the lyrics in red letters and the blue background on the backside affected my vision. I was not able to focus properly and my pupils narrowed and widened to the rhythm of my pulse.

Whenever I listened to the maxi-single Politicians and Ministers from The Threats, I could understand the feelings of teenagers on the brink of RAF terrorism. Such emotions were triggered in me by this red high-gloss Maxi with the dancing skeleton in front of the Palace of Westminster on the cover.

Although I now had a rumpled punk-haircut, tattered jeans, army boots, a painted, studded leather jacket, a self-made studded belt, and an equally elaborate self-made studded wristband, I felt at best accepted by most on the playground. I could not wear this in my school at that time, the Hebbel Grammar School Kiel. At this grammar school, very close to the naval base, there still existed a fairly military spirit. The so-called Grammar School for Boys and Girls was considered one of the best in the city, and was originally a pure boys' school, but since the end of the 1960s girls were allowed to attend classes as well. The school was easy to reach from the city centre by the bus line 1, but many pupils came from outside.

I bought the cone-shaped and pyramid studs in large quantities at Turkish tailors somewhere in the city. I got the army boots for very little money second-hand at a ramp shop in the Werftbahnstrasse in Gaarden. I copied the squiggly Conflict lettering from the cover of the It's Time To See Who's Who to my tattered jeans.

No one dared to take his painted leather jacket with him to school, for there were a couple of teachers who did not tolerate that. Some punks had a second leather jacket, that remained unpainted, but they did not dare to wear them at school at first. Only on school festivals, when much alcohol was involved and the few supervisors lost track of things, did we become courageous enough to wear our outfits.

Every time I turned the back of my studded jacket towards someone, I was maximum proud, because I knew that the person could certainly read in big letters Chaos U.K. that I had copied from the original emblem of the first two 7-inches. All the punks showed this kind of exhibitionism when they had their favourite band name painted on the back of their leather jacket. These scribblings on jackets evoked conversations again and again,

Have you already listened to the LP of Chaos U.K.? ,

or,

What does Mayhem mean?

Some punks even wrote on their boots with a paint stick or whiteout.

The conversations in the wooden hut on the Penny playground were not really understood outside the hut because of the sound of the kasi recorder, but it was clear from the sentence fragments that nearly everything was about punk music or boozing. The punks showed a lot of slapstick particularly when urinating and disposing of empties. Individuals were provoked. Incrowd-typical songs were sung. If a pack of cheap beer was available, everything in the world was fine. However, not everyone was able to snatch one. It made sense to bring your own beer if you were prepared to protect it from being pocketed by others. Whoever did not dare to ask for a beer was considered a pseudo-punk, or even a follower. Punks had their methods in which to harass others and to label them as outsiders among outsiders.

When in the case of misconduct someone said ironically,

What kind of attitude have you got?

A small psycho-drama started among the punks, that served the mutual refreshment and encouragement.

The tendency of the punks towards destructivity was striking. Not only did we mistreat objects, we also suffered from a typical form of self-destructiveness, that was reflected in addictive behaviour, especially in our language. Many developed a malicious cynicism and an associated vocabulary of despair. We imitated and parodied brilliantly at a young age the vocabulary of the alcs and kaputtniks, although we ourselves were already half alcoholics,

My liver stings!

The beer belly bursts!

Something to swig down!

Have a sip?

"Only the last sip!"

Must fight the morning-after thirst!

My head is bursting!

Also slurp down, tank up, get sloshed, wash down, chugalug, knock back a drink and getting pissed were spoken often. It sounds pretty dark, but the fun factor was still extremely high. In addition, small acquisitive crimes were typical of the Kiel punk scene. It was not uncommon to borrow records with the full intend of keeping them for good or giving them away. As a result, unestablished young punks had to suffer – even Töle and Monko-Rolf were ripped-off.

One day, Brandy showed up at the home of Töle and borrowed 20 to 30 new-quality LPs, including Vorkriegsphase, Varukers, Chaotic Dischord, FU's, Terveet Kädet, the Riisteyt with blue vinyl and the first Propaganda sampler. He promised faithfully to return the records immediately, as soon as he had recorded them. Instead, he gave the records ruthlessly to people from the Wik Punk scene, who kept the bulk of the records for themselves. Töle managed to get a single LP back from Barne, but the rest were irretrievably lost.

That's why many punks were not real friends. Many met only to drink and clash. Maybe that was a kind of fucked up friendship in punk times.

In April '82, Slime played in the great hall of the Pumpe. I could not get to the concert, which further proved my status as a 'pseudo'. I later received a short concert review from Brandy. Slime started with A.C.A.B, and there was an incredible Pogo mob with brutal-pogo. After a few songs, there was a lot of trouble. The Konz brothers, Krake and their companions were constantly searching for victims among the concert-goers, upon whom they pounced on punching and kicking. Three or four of them against one. The Slime singer, who was not amused, came from the stage and tried loudly to suppress the stress. He finally managed to do so and the concert continued.

Back on the Penny playground, it was not long before the coppers appeared for the first time on a Saturday afternoon and prompted the punks to clear out. Since the punks were in the majority, cautious discussions were possible at the beginning, but in the end, the punks had to give in and leave for a different place to party – always with the fear of being surveilled. To avoid this, the punks took the tram and drove to the city centre, where the group broke up, disoriented. Sometimes we met again in the laundry, where we continued to booze. Sometimes we simply drove by tram to the final destination or landed senseless in the Schrevenpark or at Hertie department store where Kiel's best graffiti was to be read – a clear capitalism scolding,

Feeling and Hertie.

I found it super-funny that the punk Smike from Mettenhof just like me had sprayed the band name BLITZ on the upper arm of his leather jacket as if we had used the same template. Likely, he had, just like me, traced the same lettering from the LP, transferred it on a piece of cardboard and cut it out. We never talked about this curiosity. Really crude. I hung around with punks from all over Kiel, who were like soul mates to me, some of them though I did not exchange a single word with. Smike always appeared with this Bonny, a punk with blond, tuned up hair, also from Mettenhof, quite a ruffian, with a painted and studded leather jacket, whose acne scars were able to frighten even the last upright citizen.

It was all about nothing. We wanted our fun, and as the coppers showed up more and more frequently in the playground, this meeting point was suddenly passé. So we had our rights to celebrate disputed.

Soon we had no choice but to continue our parties in ever-changing groups in other places, such as beer machines. We stood on the pavement for hours and drank our beer.

There were often party-like meetings and fraternizations. However, even in these places, many residents felt disturbed for their privacy, especially when someone was smashing bottles or yelling too loud. As the cops came more and more frequently to keep an eye on us, our personal details were slowly being recorded. This was, of course, a bit of a drag. Especially with the junior-coppers. We had the impression that they had to fight out their personal disputes with the punks.

The Kiel cops were easy to provoke, and every provocative expression or gesture or even slight misunderstanding seemed to aggrevate them more. Anyone who said tipsily Herr Wachtmeister or responded to instructions with Jawoll or even with a military greeting and Yes sir! had to expect slight consequences that mostly remained within the framework of the legally permissible. In most cases, the boys in blue left it with threats and intimidation, but there were also exceptions. Sometimes you could be accidently pushed down the stairs if you were shipped to the notorious Falkwache Police Station. This happened to my cousin, a rocker at the time. The current threat in this police station was well-known,

Be careful not to stumble down the stairs.

This was not the image of ​​the police that we were taught during our childhood. We, as punks, made no acquaintance with Mr Correct in the ranks of the Kiel cops. They tried to exorcise our scurrilities consistently and uncompromisingly. Often when we were seen strolling as a group, like dazed background actors in a theatre production of a last days of the Earth tragedy, the police station executives were particularly unimpressed. They would rather have applied a mentally-ill clause in order to get us out of the way, especially as dangerous junkies and anti-socials who were to be stopped.

At that time, I felt like a punk rebel in the group. When I was alone in the street, I often lacked confidence and courage. Besides, I felt the anguish that my parents could see me in my painted leather jacket. This jacket belonged to my father and was originally a short coat, that I stripped from my parents' bedroom cabinet and unscrupulously cut off at waist level with a long pair of scissors.

Whenever I left the house to meet with my punk buddies, I preferred either to turn the jacket around, or to flee from the cellar window in the evening with the intention of avoiding the front door. I also started to shape my hair on the road with beer, because I still had to live with my parents at my age. When I arranged my punk haircut, I tried almost everything. I tested my mother's hairspray and hair lacqueur as well. A few people grabbed into my spiky hair to check what material I used and how hard it was. I did not like that.

When I was standing in my parents' garden with a punk haircut and Chaos U.K. T-shirt, my aunt came to visit and saw me from the terrace. She looked at me briefly and screamed, horrified,

Well, now he's a punk!

At that time my mother, too, was beginning to get wind of the looming disaster. While I gained new friends in the punk scene, I also gained new kinds of enemies. This was my most difficult learning experience. The youths from the rocker scene were not well-disposed towards me, and they were sometimes dangerous when they appeared in groups. It was often said,

There, a punk!

Or I was taken to task,

What do you want to represent, a punk or what?

And there were regular beatings. However, I was often lucky enough and others were caught instead because I fled in many precarious situations.

My first New Year as a punk was already extremely dramatic. There was a party in the Youth Club Buschblick in Pries-Friedrichsort. It was organized by the motorcycle club Toxavit, where my cousin was a member. I went with my friends Vielmann and Wisent on New Year's Eve to the Buschblick. When I asked at the entrance for my cousin, the first rockers were already bothered by my punk outfit. I did not get a real answer and just went inside. There were only aggressive, drunken rockers everywhere. Suddenly someone shouted,

There's a punk!

and a group of rockers set in motion and pursued me relentless. One of them had a baseball bat. With a bottle of rum mixture in my hand, I sprinted head-on and off right through the terraced house settlement. After some hundred metres I threw the bottle into the bushes, when the rocker pack shouted,

Stay, you pig!

Kill him!

Get him!

The rocker pack chased me cursing me with insults so foul-mouthed that even celluloid rockers such as Marlon B. and Dennis H. would not have taken it. I passed a place where I could hit the bushes. Realizing that the last rocker had passed my hiding place gasping, I crouched there for a moment in a state of shock. When the air was clean again, I skipped off unnoticed. A short time later I met my two friends, who told me furiously that one of the rockers took their heads and knocked them against each other. I was regarded as culprit because of my performance in the Club with punk outfit. It was not to be the last New Year's Eve where I would have problems with rockers. My hatred for this species could not have been greater.

The whole everyday life as a punk was totally dangerous. We often had to suffer because of our outer appearance. I felt like a spearhead in our working class district Friedrichsort. More than once I was a victim of the hostilities between punks and the many hard rock kids. We lived in 1982, and the first big punk wave was already five years old. Nevertheless, punks were in some regions, hunted like rabbits. It became more and more frequent to receive insults, threats, attacks, beatings, disadvantages and discriminations. You were verbally abused from passing cars, some stepped on the gas when you crossed the road, and they honked their horns obtrusively without any reason while driving past in a short distance. Also, as a cyclist I was horribly cut off by cars. In many situations, especially former world war participants gawked after me provocatively with an evil face or looked me up and down. There were dog-owners who gave attacking commands to their four-legged friends as they passed by, so that the animals nearly broke free bearing their teeth wildly, barking and almost strangling themselves. These were unforgettable shocking times. Life as a punk was sometimes life-threatening. Since skinheads played no role in Kiel at the time, the natural enemies for punks were rockers.

It all sounds quite harmless, but as a 16-year-old I had to live with the constant fear of being beaten up without reason. I twice experienced a situation that rockers would let loose on me with the obvious intention of beating me up, and I usually rescued myself by striking back and sprinting away.

At my school there was a massive crackdown by the most violent teachers against our little punk scene – with slaps in the face and other punishments. In case somebody wore something disturbing on his jacket, for example the caps of Beugelbuddelbeer, as Monko-Rolf dared, he was taken and slapped, apparently to drive out the devil, as if the criminal code did not apply in our school. It was pure psychological terror what some teachers initiated against certain pupils at our school, especially those devoted to subculture.

Soon the bastards had their eyes on me as well. It was cruel when they roared