Dear readers,
I, Rocko Schamoni, writer of the column “Stupidity as a Way”, would like to resign at this point. For various reasons, I don’t feel capable of serving you intellectually what you deserve as educated consumers.
I only had to think briefly about who could fill my position – then a name quickly came to mind: Charlotte Brandi, the sharpest sword of the new pop feminism, a woman in whose musical-political fairyland I have already spent days and nights. Since I first heard her on the radio, I have been captivated by her extraordinary musicality, her crystalline voice, her soaring compositions and the unpredictable and sometimes strangely surreal lyrics – hardly anyone does it better than her. That’s why I’m looking forward to reading it here from now on.
So: Open for Charlotte Brandi!
Brock & me
Just over a year ago, when humanity still thought there was reason for hope, I was invited to a panel in Hamburg. This was entitled “How To Survive As An Artist”, and various perspectives of the misery within the music industry were presented on a small stage. This honest approach touched me deeply.
After I had vented my anger about various things in the Feldstraße bunker, our discussion group left the stage and moved over to the audience. The caption on the wall behind the chairs was changed and two men appeared, Hendrik Otremba and Rocko Schamoni.
I only knew both of them through hearsay and, as it turned out later, they also knew each other. A friendly presenter began to interview the two and the gallant-looking Hendrik said lots of nice things to her. He said, for example, that he was “an inventor” and in general he seemed strange in a way that was consistent with his anger at the industry and his satisfaction with himself. In this calm cheerfulness he was both unlikable and likeable to me, if that makes sense, which it doesn’t, you must have been there.
Rocko, this appearance of a man, the salon anarchist, the author of the column “Stupidity as a Way”, the musician, the jack of all trades, had something imposing about him and when he suddenly started a sentence with “As Charlotte said before…” started, I jumped in my chair so much that some people grinned at me in amusement.
After the panel was over, Hendrik, Brock and I hung around down in front of the bunker and smoked until someone finally suggested taking another lap around the houses.
Arguable sparring partner
What followed was a lively night in the bars of Hamburg. Already quite drunk, I remember, for example, a young Kurdish woman who played Omar Souleyman in the “Pudel” and encouraged the somewhat aging Hamburg audience to dance with wild gestures.
Rocko, Hendrik and I stood outside because we had to talk and you can’t do that with Omar Souleyman’s music. Rocko and I were now having a lively discussion about feminism and its various representatives on God’s earth. The beer had probably gone to my head that evening, otherwise I wouldn’t have dared to lecture Rocko Schamoni. I remember trying desperately to make it clear to him Why many women are fed up with yet more male perspective upon yet another male perspective and why there can’t be enough stories by and about women.
Brock was a fair, if quite contentious, sparring partner. He listened to everything, gave me objections and so the topic of sexism ran as an annoying thread through the cold, wet evening. As is often the case after such discussions, I was completely exhausted afterwards and very unsure whether it had actually worked, whether anyone had gained anything from it…
The miracle of Dortmund-Löttringhausen
One beautiful day the following summer, as I was cycling across the fields in Dortmund-Löttringhausen, my cell phone rang and Brock asked me if I would like to write a column. For the ROLLING STONE. I was, frankly, speechless. Yes, I would have, I said, puzzled.
Well, I suggested you to the editorial team as my successor, that’s all he said. That should work.
We hung up.
It’s a pure miracle that I didn’t have a traffic accident that day, I was so contaminated afterwards.
It wasn’t just the prospect of a new job that would challenge me and that I really wanted, it was also the fact that I had challenged a man and then he had challenged him not offended, disinterested or arrogant, but instead had the generosity and size to offer me his job.
On that day, my personal image of people, no, of men, definitely took a leap upwards, if I may be so pathetic for a moment.
And if I were to be invited again today somewhere to talk about “How To Survive As An Artist”, one of the central answers in my arsenal would clearly be: “With A Little Help From My Friends”.
Thanks, Brock.
Well then let’s do it.
(“Parole Brandi” now appears every two weeks on rollingstone.de)