It seems inappropriate to talk about the Berlin music scene without first talking about Kindl Stuben. Or, at the very least, when we talk about Berlin’s folk music scene—or street music scene—or acoustic, singer-songwriter, Jeff Buckley-inspired, and whatever-else-fits-into-that-amorphous-attribution-of-musical-genre scene. Whatever it is, it starts with Kindl Stuben. Or that’s how this story starts: switching from the U8 to the U7, riding to Rathaus Neukölln, walking a few of blocks, and stepping into a magical little party of a bar.
But the whole thing began a bit earlier—before I got to the bar. It began on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, my first day back in Berlin after some years.
I was taking a walk through Friedrichshain. Friedrichshain gets its name from Volkspark Friedrichshain, a large urban park first planned out in the 19th Century for Frederick The Great (“Friedrichshain” literally translates to “Frederick’s Grove”). In the decades since reunification, the neighborhood has assumed a reputable character that takes pride in its multiplicitous bars, cafés, and nightclubs that are of top destination to locals and tourists alike.
Within Friedrichshain, there’s a charming little park in the southeastern kiez bordered by tree-lined, cobblestone streets called Boxhagener Platz—Boxi to Berliners. On Sundays, the park welcomes a flea market that features everything from old German novellas to (likely broken) DDR appliances. Also host to the scene is a number of street musicians. Much the same to the ubiquity of curbside drinking in Berlin, busking is a staple of the city’s wondrous urban experience. It happens everywhere and it thrives by its unfiltered diversity; musicians hail from Germany, England, Italy, Australia—you name it. It is one of those inimitable elements that ever-propels the raw, carnival energy of Berlin’s pedestrian nightlife.
On this day, I would encounter Alice Hills and Miss Ruby Jean Rose, buskers extraordinaire and veterans of the scene. We chatted a bit, and when asked about the Berlin Szene they told me to check out Kindl Stuben. Apparently, it’s the “hang” for all the local musicians. They do an open mic every Sunday night, and guess what, it was Sunday.
So I went.
My fondest memories of arriving at Kindl Stuben are actually of the more dark, wintery nights of Berlin. There’s a certain feeling of rounding that final corner onto Sonnenallee—jacket pulled tight—the wind cuts across your face, and as you glance up, you see that nascent light split between the final few awnings. It’s a rounded, lighted sign for Flensburger, and as you approach, all thoughts disappear into a warm curiosity: “Should I really play that new song tonight?”, “Who’s the feature act this week?”, “Is that girl going to be there again?” And in a moment, you open the door and push through a thick, dark curtain. Daniel’s at the bar; he nods. There’s some Irish folk fiddler on stage playing two songs. Ruby and Dave played first. Next is Piper & True. Then it’s Alice Rose, Loki, Rookling, Vera, and Stephen Paul Taylor. And in the smoking room are all the other local goons catching up, swapping stories, having a cigarette, trying out that new song. It’s warm and it’s home for the next few hours. Noch ein Flensburger, bitte.
But it’s hard to write about folk music. Very easily, it seems, folk descriptions tend into hyperbole and fall prey to stereotyping. Perhaps it’s just hard to write about music in general—this is my first blog post after all. Nonetheless, in the century of the subwoofer, folk music needs to be given its due; everything is just so loud now, so specifically engineered to be loud, and then ironically squeezed through the micro mono speaker on the side of your smartphone.
Alternatively, I think folk music finds its power in its simplicity. It offers the most naked form of songwriting, composition, and melody, and it offers a platform for storytelling. It is perhaps similar to the way that jazz finds its power through the organic exploration of harmony. Beauty in simplicity. Power in simplicity. Alas, we find no auto-tune here.
Somehow too, it fits the category of Berlin. It is simple, raw, uninhibited, and wears its heart on its sleeve. In some ways it is more representative of the city than the local techno dogmatism is. It speaks to the humble individuality and diversity of the city—isn’t everyone here from somewhere else anyway?
And it all fits into the larger circus, the never-ending festival that is Berlin. Oh, how it’s almost a fantasy: the easy living, the cheap beer, the friendly people, the diversity of . . . everything. Berlin sucks you in and calls it alright. The swansong is sung out late into the night by the buskers on Warschauer Strasse. La-di-da. And you drop a euro into their case.