Part four: Montag
(Bands in order of appearance)
Andi Sex Gang
Knifeladder
Siela
New Days Delay
Forseti
Coil

We’re out early on Monday. ‘Early’, in WGT terms, means soon after the normal world would be having lunch. We’re on a mission to see Andi Sex Gang perform a solo acoustic show at the Schauspielhaus - a matinee show, as it were, in an environment that I’m sure is much more to Andi’s taste than the echoing hanger of the Agra. The Schauspielhaus is an elegantly traditional theatre, all polished wooden panelling and tiered ranks of red velvet seats. This kind of setting is, in many ways, Andi Sex Gang’s natural home, since many of his songs seem to be written from the standpoint of a torch singer serenading doomed lovers in a late-night cabaret. This kind of vintage showbiz glamour suits his music very well, even if it’s still mid-afternoon.

Although this is a solo performance, Andi is not alone on stage. He’s joined by his long-time collaborator Kevin Matthews, on acoustic guitar.  Their entrance is greeted by a ripple of applause from the audience, but it’s immediately apparent that there’s a slight problem. Andi is suffering from a throat infection (the revenge of the Agra?) and has to resort to a throat spray at intervals throughout his set. Ever the trouper, he doesn’t allow this to get in the way of the performance. The show goes on - and Andi even turns necessity into a witty piece of by-play, quaffing extravagantly from the throat spray as if it contains vintage champagne.  The performance itself is a real from-the-heart experience, and the songs stand up beautifully to their stripped down arrangements. Indeed, this set serves as a reminder that Andi Sex Gang writes *songs*, not simply rock band workouts. The set is biased somewhat towards the more torchy songs in Andi’s repertoire, but several numbers come back for an acoustic encore after their big noisy debut at the Agra. ‘Circus Days’ is a haunting thing, at odds with the swaggering full-band version we heard last night. Likewise ‘Arms Of Cicero’, which, in its acoustic identity, has a creeping-under-the-skin quality that gets you on the edge of your plush velvet theatre seat and makes you really *listen*. There’s a cover of Edith Piaf’s ‘Les Amants D’un Jour’, a very ‘Andi’ song indeed, and, as if to cock a snook at all the people who shouted for it last night, a version of ‘Sebastiane’ that rattles like a sea shanty. It all works beautifully, and Andi himself is clearly in his element, throwing gestures out into the auditorium and revelling in the sheer theatrical ambience of the show. At the conclusion of the performance, the audience gives Andi and Kevin a huge ovation, which continues long after the curtain drops and it’s clear it’s all over. There’s a genuine sense that we’ve been present at a special event, to the point where the audience is strangely hushed as it files out into the rain-fresh street.

Today is a day of venue-hopping, because there are several bands playing at more or less compatible times at several venues around the city. So, a short walk later, we’re at Haus Leipzig, where Knifeladder are the opening act of a varied bill of left-field industrialists and neo-folkies. It’s never easy to be the first band on at any gig, and to open up the day’s play at a WGT venue must be double-daunting. Knifeladder rise to the challenge with a set of quiet assurance - not that they’re actually *quiet*, you understand. Exactly the reverse, in fact. The band brew up a thunderous rhythmic swirl, all hammered-out basslines and clattering drums, but they do it all with such incongruously casual flair that you can hardly believe that this bunch of restrained, austere gentlemen, looking like a collection of celebrity chefs in their shirts and ties and leather aprons, is making *that* noise. There’s a rather wonderful moment when the drummer - who also takes most of the vocals, such as they are - finds a quiet moment in the roaring tumble of sound, and remarks in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘I must loosen my tie.’  That’s as close as Knifeladder ever get to acknowledging the visceral rampage of their own music. They have a splendid, rumbling, slow-burning thunderdrome of a song called ‘Red Drum’ (at first I thought they’d penned a tribute to a famous race horse), and, by way of a finale, a teetering, towering, ever-accelerating blam-o-rama entitled ‘Dervish’, which doesn’t seem to be *about* anything so much as an exercise in creating impressionist art out of sheer sound. After the set, I note quite a few impressed faces among the assembled industrial types. My guess is that Knifeladder have the potential to go far in Germany.

But, as soon as Knifeladder have finished, it’s time for us to go far. Or, at least, to hasten across town to the Moritzbastei, where we’re planning to catch New Days Delay. It’s a pleasure to enter the sixteenth century railway arches once again. For my money this venue is the best place to hang out in Leipzig, and certainly the most atmospheric venue for any band to play. As it happens, we’re early - so we get to check out the band that’s on just before New Days Delay. They come, apparently, from Lithuania, they’re called Siela, their website tells me they’ve been around since 1990, and their usual line-up features five musicians. The WGT version, however, only features two people, for reasons that are never explained. They nevertheless manage to conjure up an engagingly off-kilter storm. There’s a dramatic start, with the vocalist whipping long red scarves around him as he stands at the mic, while behind him a bowler-hatted guitarist looms like a droog. They tumble in to a set that seamlessly blends driving drumbeats with layers of electric and acoustic guitar, while forceful vocals are wailed out over the top. Quite how far what we’re hearing relates to the usual five-piece Siela is a moot point: this version of the band, with the rhythms on some sort of backing track, possibly sounds a bit more ‘dance’ than the full line-up, which apparently includes real drums. But there’s enough in this performance to make me put Siela on my list of ‘bands I really should check out in more detail sooner or later’.

Some multicoloured punks appear on stage, plugging things in, setting things up, making stuff work. This is New Days Delay - and all of a sudden I realise that the venue has filled up with enthusiastic fans, many of whom are as multicoloured as the band. New Days Delay obviously have a following. Indeed, they have the makings of a UK following, although they may not be aware of it. The UK contingent at the WGT is heavily represented in the audience. New Days Delay gained a bit of UK scene profile a while back when some of their promo CDs found their way to certain club DJs, and this has resulted in a healthy bunch of Brits coming along to the gig. Many of New Days Delay’s German fans exchange jokes and quips with the band, as they busy themselves with the set-up. Insa, the vocalist, gives as good as she gets, and has the entire venue laughing more than once, with asides that I, with my sketchy knowledge of German, limited as it is to a few words mostly to do with the purchase of beer, am hard pressed to fathom.  Someone runs a backing tape, and a sudden burst of rhythm guitar fills the room. ‘Hören Sie das? Das ist mich!’ says Insa, and gets a special cheer.

At last, it’s showtime proper, and the band kick off with a clamour of guitar, a thump and rumble of bass, and a barrage of drums. The bass player, defiantly parading his indie kid credentials in a Gene T-shirt, grins to himself as the music revs up, while on the opposite side of the stage the guitarist chops out some cool post-punkish riffs. The songs are taut, spiky; they drive along with a new wavey rush and a push, and Insa, letting rip with an Xmal Deutschland-ish clarion wail, makes for a charismatic frontwoman. There are more humourous asides between songs: New Days Delay, curiously enough, are one of only a few bands I’ve seen at the entire WGT to really *engage* with the audience, really talk to the crowd, get a reaction, and come back with more. In a live situation, this kind of rapport often has as much to do with making the show a good one as the music itself. The fact that in this case the music is a fizzing, crackling, box of sparks, just underlines the fact that in New Days Delay we have something special. There’s really only one question left to ask. Which promoter is going to be the first to bring them to the UK?

Out into the evening air again. It’s time to scoot back to Haus Leipzig for the Coil show. I had originally entertained the notion of calling in to the Parkbuhne to catch Mephisto Walz, because they’re a band I tried - and failed - to bring to the UK twice during my years in the showbiz. On both occasions they didn’t exactly turn down my offers. They were positive up to a point, but then found reasons why it just wouldn’t work, one of which, I recall, was ‘We no longer play live’, which took the wind out of my sails in no uncertain fashion, I can tell you. I admit I was rather looking forward to heckling Mephisto Walz at the WGT: ‘Hey, guys, not bad for a band which no longer plays live!’ Perhaps it’s just as well that there’s not enough time for this excursion after all. So, straight to Haus Leipzig then.

We arrive as Forseti are playing. In Norse mythology, Forseti is the God of justice. He is the son of the god Balder (the god of receding hairlines, presumably) and he rules from the palace of Glitnir. Aren’t you impressed that I know all this arcane stuff? Actually, I confess I pulled those facts out of Google two minutes ago. But in the realms of neo-folk, it is de rigeur to know your mythology, and to take it all extremely seriously. So, wipe that smile off your face, and consider Forseti, the band. They’re a gaggle of acoustic musicians who twingle-twangle their way through a selection of pleasant but fundamentally unmemorable tunes. There are some nice interludes of flute and accordion, but the vocal - in true neo-folk style, a stentorian chant which sits oddly with the music - just sounds like a bad-tempered lecture after a while, and I more or less give up on the band. Having said that, the end of their set is handled in a clever way. Each musician stops playing in turn, bows a farewell to the audience, and leaves the stage. Ultimately, there is only one accordion player left - and he simply walks off the stage, still playing. From my vantage point at the side of the stage, I can see him play his way right into the dressing room. The door swings shut behind him - and then, and only then, does the audience deem it safe to applaud. It’s almost as if nobody’s quite sure exactly when the performance ends, which is quite a neat way of messing with the traditional set-up of a gig. It’s just a pity that the only real compliment I can pay Forseti is to say that the end of their set was the best bit.

Two strange columns of fabric - one black, one white - approach the stage.  This, it seems, is Coil, and inside those strange fabric columns are Thighpaulsandra and Peter Christopherson, Coil’s electronics controllers.  The columns are possibly intended to represent the moon card in the Tarot, or the yin and yang of the universe, or some sort of Masonic symbolism - you can pick up the imagery and run with it in any mystical-schmystical direction you fancy. Personally, to my eyes, they might just as well be animated salt and pepper pots. I’m amused to see that poor old Sleazy’s column is so unstable it has to be gaffa taped to the stage, which effectively renders him immobile at his table of gear. I’ve seen gaffa tape used for many things, but never for taping down a member of the band. All this, in a way, neatly illustrates the dichotomy of Coil. They exist on the cusp, that boundary between arcane art and arsing about. They’re half mysticism and half Monty Python. And, speaking of which, here comes a strange, wild-eyed figure, dressed like a half-unravelled mummy, gesticulating and muttering into his beard. This is John Balance, rather belatedly auditioning for a part in Monty Python’s Life Of Brian. He takes up his position, centre stage, and Coil launch into a performance of electronic theatre that is as baffling as it is compelling. The sound is all pulses and loops and sweeps and effects; rhythms are suggested, hinted at, arrived at as a result of the juxtaposition of sounds, rather than bashed out by anything as prosaic as a drum program. John Balance preaches like a crazed monk, reciting lyrics which veer from apparent stream of consciousness to strange stories, tales from his own personal crypt. ‘Do you know where your children are?’ he intones, and the screen behind the band cycles through photographs of children confronted suddenly with death.  Some of the imagery - no blood, no guts no gore, just shocked young faces - is genuinely moving, the implicit horror all the more affecting. You make the connections in your own mind, and that’s always more effective than throwing the obvious around, just to get the obvious reaction. Coil might wildly from out-there avant-weirdness to a lunatic kind of shamanism, but their sounds, words, and images combine to create an unexpected emotional pull.

And then, that’s it. The end of the show; the end of the Wave Gotik Treffen. We are refreshed, refuelled, inspired once again with the sheer scope and sweep of this multi-headed subculture. Possibilities have opened up; we’ve seen how far this thing can go, how much can be achieved. In a way, it’s rather depressing to be heading back to the UK, to our scene of small opportunities and small ambitions, the land of it’s-not-worth-it and no-can-do. We could certainly do with squeezing a bit of WGT juice over our own activities, and perhaps that’ll happen. The UK contingent in Leipzig seems to grow every year, and this time included a significant number of promoters, DJs and sundry scene-constructors, all of whom I’m sure, will take back contacts, ideas, and inspiration that may well filter through to the UK scene before too long.

God knows, our ever-decreasing-circles scene certainly needs that kind of boost. But that was the WGT, or edited highlights thereof. We came, we saw, we drank schwartzbier, we played band-roulette. Es war gut - Und wir werden zurückkehren.