I thought that I’d have five relaxing days in Berlin. Besides shoring up press for the Berlin edition of Capsule, I figured I’d have plenty of time to leisurely explore what I’ve been told is a city similar to what NYC was in the 70’s and 80’s. I was set to get my flâneur on. But I’m stupid and didn't read my itinerary correctly. Instead I had 72 hours that embodied the chant I heard as soon as I poked my head into the new venue, “LET’S GET WEIRD!”
My first few hours in Germany started off normally enough. After helping set up for a bit I got McDonald’s for my birthday and went to the room to eat and be sad and fall asleep. My jetlagged ass was awoken and, in a daze, taken to a restaurant where 20 of us unintentionally ordered 20 servings of wiener schnitzel. Massive slabs of fried veal topped off with half a dozen Radeberger beers and some whiskeys will light a fire under anyone’s ass. After the long boozy dinner a few of us somehow found the Adidas Original store and dodged Berlin’s most fashionable, MDMA loving, grinding teenagers to the incredible sounds of AraabMUZIK. If you ever see this savant play make sure you can see his hands. We zipped back to the normally sleepy hotel bar where we ran into a few designers and buyers who joined us for another half dozen rounds charged to a missing team member’s room.
So remember, ALWAYS GO TO THE SEX PARK
I won’t go into much detail about the great S/S 13 collections and the endless stream of folks who came to write orders and report on the 74 exhibiting brands because you don't want to hear all that shit from someone who works there. See that for yourself at Capsule NY. I’ll start around 6pm of the show's first day when business finally eased up a little and people found time to grab a cold—read: warm thanks to Berlin’s bullshit fridge game—beer and cocktail. An experienced designer pointed out though that one feels the effects of warm beer faster because it's closer to body temperature. Okay. Right as the back patio was slammed with people hanging out and getting ready for an outdoor BBQ and a concert from Hanni El Khatib, the skies opened up. Hanni was clearly not going to be able to play, and other potential options for the night were quickly dwindling, but none of that matters when booze is both free and plentiful. The rain prevailed, meaning the call went out to move the party indoors. I have never seen designers, reps, buyers and press work together like they did to relocate the party. It was a viciously efficient effort akin to a swarm of ants annihilating the carcass of a dead lizard—in this case the dead lizard being the horrifying notion of not partying. Somewhere in there, one of our two French DJ’s slipped, cracked his skull open and eventually drunkenly escaped from the hospital. Later, after being proposed, and briefly entertaining, the idea of checking out a sex park that caters to exhibitionists and voyeurs, I instead ended up trying to go see Kavinsky with a few locals. The club was, like, nine stories and we either couldn’t find the band. Or they canceled. Regardless, ALWAYS GO TO THE SEX PARK.
Things got fuzzy, but I have two notions—one of being on stage and another being shirtless
The next day business went on as usual, just a more vacant eyed version of usual. As the show dwindled, I found time to breathe again, until my cell phone number was accidentally tweeted out by a menswear designer with a fairly sizable Twitter following. If you called/texted me, fuck you. We wrapped the show with a toast and headed to a Nike party on a hotel rooftop where we were amazed and confused by the sight of fresh vegetables. Since vegetables are for nerds, we bounced to a Joey Bada$$ and A$AP Rocky concert, delighted by familiar $'s and ready to get turnt up. Joey Bada$$ absolutely killed it and a few of us drunkenly proclaimed that NYC hip-hop was back on top—pretty sure we read that on a blog somewhere. We joined forces with several Capsule brands, A$AP Rocky came out, things began to escalate and the whole place lost its collective cotdamn mind. I somehow found myself up front when Danny Brown came out as Rocky’s special guest. He jumped into the crowd to chat for a quick second and invited me backstage (I AM SORT OF FRIENDS WITH RAPPERS. SUCK MY DICK, HIGH SCHOOL). Things got fuzzy, but I have two notions—one of being on stage and another being shirtless. These two notions turned out to be a singular truth later confirmed by Danny. Like I said, turnt *white boy voice*. My next flash of memory had us asking our cab driver if I was correctly saying “fuck you in the ass” in German, and somehow packing and heading to the airport at 4am.
See you in New York.
James Harris is a publicist living in NYC. He is greatly amused by the fact that there was a professional baseball player in the 1930's named Ugly Dickshot. Follow him on Twitter here.
