Like Söder. Just dreary.
If you want to get a taste of the often postulated decline of the old Federal Republic values, you can't ignore Bayern's capital, Munich.
Everything that has meaning here today was the same many decades ago. The problem: nothing new is added.
A polemic by Kai Blasberg
Everything that has meaning here today was the same many decades ago. The problem: nothing new is added.
A polemic by Kai Blasberg
Like Söder. Just dreary.
In the summer of 1986 I was in the Bundeswehr.
It was the summer after Chernobyl.
My sister lived at the time in Schwabing, the beautiful, old Schwabing on Elisabethmarkt. Strictly speaking, even Maxvorstadt. But only natives know that.
Back then it was the time of the glass radio studios, here on Nordendstrasse it was probably Radio Gong.
Thomas Gottschalk and Günther Jauch were the stars on BR, also on the radio. They shaped a new era of relaxation through their style.
You read Patrick Süßkind, the perfume, which, by the way, I found incredibly boring at the time.
Everyone wanted to make a film of his book, even though it was considered unfilmable. The author was cautious.
Later, a film was even made about how one person behaves and another wants it. I was 21.
Helmut Dietl, who wanted to, first shot Kir Royal, the template for which was Michael Graeter's life at AZ, later at Bild, even later at Bunte; also something typically Munich.
The gossip reporter was invented by both of them and got his monument in Baby Schimmerlos.
You ate, no matter what you were, at Käfer, you bought food there and at Dallmayr.
We had a drink at Karl, who was already calling himself Charles, on Maximilianstrasse, from where we then walked or staggered to P 1 to celebrate. Kay's Bistro and Roy are forgotten.
Back then, FC Bayern sent its kickers to these destinations, just as it still does today. Lothar Matthäus was there, and still is today. Brehme Andi has even faded these days. But he also lived here until the end.
It was ruled by Franz Joseph Strauss, who always acted as if he was bigger than everyone, only to never actually be.
It was nice in Munich too. And huge, radiant in its confines. Back then, Munich was my goal. Whoever makes it here has made it. That was the attitude to life in the music city of the seventies. Giorgio Moroder and Harold Faltermeyer, the Queen singer Freddie Mercury loved Barbara Valentin. In Munich.
In the eighties, Munich was the film city.
Eichinger-Bernd. But also Klaus Lemke.
The many originals such as the Wepper brothers, the Monaco-Franze, the Dietl eh, the Sedlmeier, the Mooshammer. And even the Uschi Glas. The only one still alive.
Munich became a major media metropolis, and private stations emerged, not just on the radio. The paper media AZ, TZ, SZ were in full bloom. I managed it later and got to it. And stayed for almost 30 years.
And remained a guest in this place for almost 30 years.
Because Munich only invites people who are like everyone else. Who has grown old and is wealthy.
They used to be called Adabeis and Wanna-be's.
Those who provided the staffage and weren't really important, like a human filler.
Today Munich seems to consist only of this filling mass. The places are the same.
Soulless, sedate, incapable of reform, looking back and conjuring up the old splendor. Clogged with tourists and the constant construction sites of those who first terrorize citizens through traffic congestion and then cash in: the renovated homes in the city can only be financed by moneybags.
Here and there: heirs. The ostrich is now called Söder.
In all these years he has not had a single usable thought. The Hoeneß is still called that and sees the Hoeneß recipe as the only applicable one.
Films are being made. From Bernd's company.
But the long-gone man would not be merciful about the results. The private media scene is taking care of itself and has little to show other than infirmity. And the filler: lawyers and auditors, doctors and their houses, who live off oil sheiks. And employees. Well-off and without a future.
People come and go from Charles who always did, but can no longer drink like they did because they wouldn't survive.
Many people are silently asking themselves how this will continue. Nobody is loud here. Except the city. It drones unbearably in constant overload mode.
Munich was elite.
Elite is not a wallet. Elite is visions and ideas, dreams, wishes. And do.
Munich does nothing. Stand still.
Just geographically, in front of the mountains, it feels like a dead end. And the road to Tegernsee is full and congested on Saturdays because it is the same as it was in the 50s. And then comes Austria.
Of course, I now hear the many friends who stayed behind.
Nobody wants to admit that they live in a dead end street.
And of course I listen to the laptop and lederhosen.
Now also 30 years old. The man's name was Stoiber.
Space is talked about, AI too. And think of the English Garden. And skiing in winter. It hardly snows anymore. But it was great.
None of this ignites.
Because filling your pockets doesn't have any appeal. Thomas Gottschalk and Günther Jauch, long retired, are now making children's programs. In Cologne. Max Eberl is here.
He slept in Bayern bed linen as a child. That's enough down here.
02/29/24
*Kai Blasberg worked in the private media in Germany for 40 years
In the summer of 1986 I was in the Bundeswehr.
It was the summer after Chernobyl.
My sister lived at the time in Schwabing, the beautiful, old Schwabing on Elisabethmarkt. Strictly speaking, even Maxvorstadt. But only natives know that.
Back then it was the time of the glass radio studios, here on Nordendstrasse it was probably Radio Gong.
Thomas Gottschalk and Günther Jauch were the stars on BR, also on the radio. They shaped a new era of relaxation through their style.
You read Patrick Süßkind, the perfume, which, by the way, I found incredibly boring at the time.
Everyone wanted to make a film of his book, even though it was considered unfilmable. The author was cautious.
Later, a film was even made about how one person behaves and another wants it. I was 21.
Helmut Dietl, who wanted to, first shot Kir Royal, the template for which was Michael Graeter's life at AZ, later at Bild, even later at Bunte; also something typically Munich.
The gossip reporter was invented by both of them and got his monument in Baby Schimmerlos.
You ate, no matter what you were, at Käfer, you bought food there and at Dallmayr.
We had a drink at Karl, who was already calling himself Charles, on Maximilianstrasse, from where we then walked or staggered to P 1 to celebrate. Kay's Bistro and Roy are forgotten.
Back then, FC Bayern sent its kickers to these destinations, just as it still does today. Lothar Matthäus was there, and still is today. Brehme Andi has even faded these days. But he also lived here until the end.
It was ruled by Franz Joseph Strauss, who always acted as if he was bigger than everyone, only to never actually be.
It was nice in Munich too. And huge, radiant in its confines. Back then, Munich was my goal. Whoever makes it here has made it. That was the attitude to life in the music city of the seventies. Giorgio Moroder and Harold Faltermeyer, the Queen singer Freddie Mercury loved Barbara Valentin. In Munich.
In the eighties, Munich was the film city.
Eichinger-Bernd. But also Klaus Lemke.
The many originals such as the Wepper brothers, the Monaco-Franze, the Dietl eh, the Sedlmeier, the Mooshammer. And even the Uschi Glas. The only one still alive.
Munich became a major media metropolis, and private stations emerged, not just on the radio. The paper media AZ, TZ, SZ were in full bloom. I managed it later and got to it. And stayed for almost 30 years.
And remained a guest in this place for almost 30 years.
Because Munich only invites people who are like everyone else. Who has grown old and is wealthy.
They used to be called Adabeis and Wanna-be's.
Those who provided the staffage and weren't really important, like a human filler.
Today Munich seems to consist only of this filling mass. The places are the same.
Soulless, sedate, incapable of reform, looking back and conjuring up the old splendor. Clogged with tourists and the constant construction sites of those who first terrorize citizens through traffic congestion and then cash in: the renovated homes in the city can only be financed by moneybags.
Here and there: heirs. The ostrich is now called Söder.
In all these years he has not had a single usable thought. The Hoeneß is still called that and sees the Hoeneß recipe as the only applicable one.
Films are being made. From Bernd's company.
But the long-gone man would not be merciful about the results. The private media scene is taking care of itself and has little to show other than infirmity. And the filler: lawyers and auditors, doctors and their houses, who live off oil sheiks. And employees. Well-off and without a future.
People come and go from Charles who always did, but can no longer drink like they did because they wouldn't survive.
Many people are silently asking themselves how this will continue. Nobody is loud here. Except the city. It drones unbearably in constant overload mode.
Munich was elite.
Elite is not a wallet. Elite is visions and ideas, dreams, wishes. And do.
Munich does nothing. Stand still.
Just geographically, in front of the mountains, it feels like a dead end. And the road to Tegernsee is full and congested on Saturdays because it is the same as it was in the 50s. And then comes Austria.
Of course, I now hear the many friends who stayed behind.
Nobody wants to admit that they live in a dead end street.
And of course I listen to the laptop and lederhosen.
Now also 30 years old. The man's name was Stoiber.
Space is talked about, AI too. And think of the English Garden. And skiing in winter. It hardly snows anymore. But it was great.
None of this ignites.
Because filling your pockets doesn't have any appeal. Thomas Gottschalk and Günther Jauch, long retired, are now making children's programs. In Cologne. Max Eberl is here.
He slept in Bayern bed linen as a child. That's enough down here.
02/29/24
*Kai Blasberg worked in the private media in Germany for 40 years
Write a comment