Berghain – One of the most famous clubs in the world is notoriously difficult to get in. Built in a former power plant in East Berlin, its industrial alternative vibe and infamously strict door policy are the stuff of legends. I’ve even heard that Berghain asks (or pays?) to be removed from magazine/website lists of the best clubs in the world to maintain its secretive aura. The door man himself, Sven Marquardt, is well known and is even featured in a GQ article.
Sven Marquardt, the Berghain bouncer/photographer/fashion designer.
Dozens of articles have been written on the Berghain dress code. I’ve read that you should dress: all black, alternative, and grungy, but also trendless and have a personal style. I’ve met someone who told me she got in wearing bright colors. Alban, a friend who lives in Berlin that I met in Shanghai, swears there is no dress code. You just have to be lucky and look like you’ll add to the party inside.
I arrived on Thursday in hopes of getting in while the line was short. Turns out that only Säule, the first floor of the complex, was open. That still didn’t stop hoards of French, Spanish, and American tourists from hovering around the area, desperately asking us where Berghain was when I passed by. The grey concrete structure inconspicuously hides in plain sight. Drug dealers also stand close by, offering a usual medley of narcotics; albeit less inconspicuously. If I had only known what fate had in store for me, I would have been happy to just make it to the first floor.
After my initial scoping of the place, I returned to Berghain on Sunday afternoon, feeling overly confident this was the ideal time to evade the onslaught of weekend party-goers. The line to the esteemed club snaked around the whole compound, and I couldn’t even see the place when I got in line.
Everyone was dressed in black, with more piercings and fierce tattoos than a metal concert. The rumors that you need to be completely silent in line – with your phone away – were visibly reflected among the somber crowd. Everyone was so far away from the front door and yet believed they might be watching us already, judging our fates based on our behavior in line. I waited patiently – predicting how long the wait would be, what my chances were – all the while rationalizing why I stood a chance. My eyes were glued to the front, nervously watching as dozens were rejected at the door. In all I waited for over three hours.
Day or night, hundreds stand in line for a chance to enter the legendary Berghain club.
Yet I did maintain a level of confidence. My dress code fit the online recommendations, and my eyeliner as well as black finger nails added a degree of anarchy and rejection of the heteronormative standards that the owners of this staple so desired.
Then, it began to rain. The sky opened up and poured down its judgement upon the party seekers. The line did not budge. I crouched underneath my jacket, while others wisely brought umbrellas. By the time I got to the door, I was absolutely drenched. My once highly choreographed outfit was now wet rags. But I made it to the front.
My fate was in the hands of an unassuming man wearing average-looking glasses in a blank white t shirt and normal black pants. He nonchalantly pointed to the exit and said, “you’re not getting in here today”. That was it. My first entry attempt at the legendary Berlin club was rejected, and it was… devastating.
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