The night started of with an awkward man in a trendy bowtie playing acoustic guitar and singing about astronauts. He reminded me of an accented Jeff Buckley as he crooned on high notes and apologized for his broken English. No one seemed to care much for they were already enamored. As was I. He played a few songs, his voice growing stronger and rawer with every note that he strained to hit. And then stepped aside to make room for a full band; a band in which he was the guitar player. Adam Evald is an aesthetically unassuming man; his angular haircut and twinkling eyes are no match for his palpable energy. There is something about him that doesn’t allow you to look away. He sways back and forth on stage, limbs surrendering to the music as dandelions do to the spring breeze.
A wine glass pops under someone’s feet as the cello drones during a song that whispers of lots lovers and a lack of regret for the ending. A couple of drunken old techo scene men have found their way in. Not quite blending in with the environment, but certainly not unwelcome. They dance rigidly in direct contrast with the melodies filling the room. Melodies and cigarette smoke becoming one and heading towards the various forms of exits: ceiling cracks, doorways, along the length of guitar cables, ear canals. The older men shout “Das ist schön” every so often. The repetition of the phrase causes the words to lose meaning and become faint, nearly inaudible.
The show might have ended. But there is a vinyl sitting in the corner of my temporary room here in Berlin. With a simplistic graphic of a bird against a stark white background. I don’t have a turntable here. But it is almost a good thing – the secrets of the album will have to be unlocked once I return “home”. And the memories will flood back as my ears here the recorded notes and my heart misses the abandoned, but loved, spaces of Berlin.