Holiday Communism
By Joel Alas, B EAST editor
There’s a scene in the animated film Pinocchio in which naughty boys travel to a decadent theme park called Pleasure Island, where they smoke, drink, gamble and misbehave. Fusion festival was a contemporary Pleasure Island for East Berlin party people – techno-electro music booming from truck-sized sound systems, joints and pills passed around like candy, an atmosphere of revelry and freedom. I kept waiting for everyone to sprout tails and ears and turn into donkeys (which was the unfortunate consequence for Pinocchio’s drinking buddies).
“This is like a giant fun park for adults,” I told my camping companions upon arrival, and that impression stuck for the whole five days of our stay at Fusion.
The festival is held each June on a former Soviet airfield in Lärs, northern Germany. The old aircraft hangers – huge arched structures camouflaged under mountains of grass and vegetation – are the main venues for the event. The official program runs non-stop from Thursday until Monday morning, but hardcore party fans arrive as early as Wednesday and stay for a week.
There’s not a spot of advertising, sponsorship, (in)security or control once inside the festival gate. Guests are welcome to bring their own alcohol and behave as they please, within reason. “Your freedom ends where another’s freedom starts,” we were told on the program, borrowing a quote from Rosa Luxemburg – and that was just the start of the Communist theme.
The event is Soviet to the core. It is run by a group called the Central Committee, the street names all honor Communist heroes, red flags and stars are everywhere, and the graphic design is distinctly Rodchenko. And the people behave accordingly, sharing everything, particularly their drugs. After all, they do advertise Fusion as “Holiday Communism”.
I knew Fusion would be a very different kind of festival when, upon arriving at the gate, I realized I had lost my ticket. In a state of sun-drunken pre-festival euphoria, I had stuck the ticket in the band of my hat then climbed to the roof of my friend’s campervan as we crawled through the traffic queue, attempting to re-enact a scene from Priscilla Queen of the Desert. “I think my ticket blew off my hat,” I told the gate controller sheepishly from the roof of the van. “I must be too nice, I believe every story,” he said, slapping a wristband on my arm regardless.
Each night of the festival had a distinct vibe. Wednesday was for chilling and site orientation. Thursday was for mad dancing and loss of said orientation. Friday was hardcore, everyone with wide pupils and huge smiles, going crazy until the following mid-morning. Saturday was an overload – too many people, not enough good music, bad energy. Sunday rectified the situation – everyone was simultaneously chilled out, yet eager for one last night of action. Polish folk-fusion band Dikanda closed the event with a memorable Dead Can Dance-style dubby performance – one of the live music highlights at a festival dominated by DJs.
The enforced vegetarianism at the foodstalls became oppressive after five days. But word quickly spread between carnivores of a stall selling sausages just outside the festival gate, operated by a savvy bunch of Ukranians. Leave it to B EASTs from east to save the festival!
Tags: Fusion festival
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