Bearpit

by Annette Wilson

Summer's decided to take one last gasping breath, throwing 30 degree days at Berlin for a week straight.

Karaoke at Mauerpark on a Sunday afternoon is a beautiful summary of a life in Berlin: colourful, occasionally crass, delightfully diverse and… dirty.

Joe Hatichban, an Irishman, started it in 2009 and has been hosting outdoor karaoke afternoons in Mauerpark ever since, with his mobile bike-mounted sound system in tow. A local legend.

The concept is simple-

1. Take a seat in the amphitheatre- fondly referred to as the Bearpit- built from cement blocks or choose a patch of dirt to stand on to complete the circle surrounding the ‘stage’

2. Turn off any existing prejudice within and show unwavering support for whoever plucks up the courage to pick up the microphone atnd perform

3. And if you feel so inclined- and manage to pluck up the courage yourself, simply raise your hand, pick a song, and prepare yourself to feel loved and applauded irrespective of your skill, status, income, outfit or preparation.

With bangles all up her arms, the first performer I catch belts out Adele, hitting approximately zero prescribed notes. Swallowing an automated flinch, I re-direct my energy into clapping hands instead. This is not about musical inclination, I remind myself. Next volunteer: a shaved-head, black-booted, floral skater dress-wearing girl with a voice turning out to be that of an an exotic bird. With trills and runs and a rather impressive ability to project, she performs La Vie en Rose in perfect French. It’s her final note and the crowd ignites. A pleasure to witness, a treasure to participate in. A glitter-splashed lady wearing silver shiny biker shorts prances around from cement-block row to cement-block row, selling plastic cups filled with Aperol Spritz, adding beautiful little pops of bright orange accents here and there.

Next on the stage, an older man sings 99 Luftballons. He’s scruffy and misses half the words, but a pair of rough (but kind)-looking middle-aged women in the front row wearing matching AC/DC t-shirts help him out. They’re belting out the bits he misses, “…hielten sich für schlaue Leute, witterten schon fette Beute”… and then proceed to shout ”Mann, wer hätte das gedacht?!!!” before launching into loud cheers when scruffy man gets back on track. Again, the crowd goes wild.

A few skips past the Bearpit and you’ll find a collection of 20-something people of all different ages, shapes, sizes, and colours playing 20-something drums and other percussive instruments. They’re huddled up in their corner of the park also on a weekly basis, joined by dancers with not a care in the world, their arms like snakes, their hips swaying in sporadic chaos. With a gentle smile on his face, a tall, slender man with African roots wiggles his gangly, golden body in the 6pm dregs of golden hour- where the sun throws its’ richest tones, to both remind the world that it’ll be back again tomorrow and to also throw in our faces that it’s beautiful beyond measure.