Version VI 6.6 2004 — 2017
Persönliche Website von Malte Müller. Grafik/Code,
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Psychological Bar Reviews (3)

Two young women share the communal bar along the renovated window front. They alternate between forking salmon omelettes and fiddling with their phones, plastic charms affixed with adhesive tape making faint tingling noises.

The mix and mingle of north american accents of diverse heritage creates a vague cantina vibe that is rarely experienced in this country. Adidas sneakers are de rigueur, as this venue is firmly in the hands of creative teams that spend their weekdays moving styluses over glass surfaces in the open-plan offices of Herzobase.

One wonders how this place avoids feeling like an enclave. It may be the diversity of transat lives, relationships at distance, torn and mended by frequent long-haul flights and haunted by memories of the nonplaces they play out in. Telling from conversations, most patrons seem to share the fragile and geographically distributed psychology of humans turned professional at a young age.

At a nearby table, three teenage boys from Gostenhof drink herbal tea and pre-roll cigarettes, their sneakers selected from the more democratic ranges Adidas offers to their high-street retailers.

One of the women seated along the window has finished her salmon. She gesticulates downwards, pointing out a current selection from her employer’s pricier offerings: This particular pair has been semi-winterized, purportedly. This seems to make them sufficiently fit to tread the wet, forlorn cobblestones of south german towns as well as the grey-carpeted corporate corridors they originated in.



Ich habe Eloise vor einigen Jahren in San Francisco kennen gelernt. Gemeinsam versuchten wir erfolglos, aber auf überaus unterhaltsame Weise einen Gig von Demdike Stare zu besuchen. Seitdem verfolge und schätze ich Eloises Arbeit als Designerin und Illustratorin. Manchmal sehen wir uns in Berlin.

Vor einigen Tagen hat sie ein Foto veröffentlicht, das sie dabei zeigt, wie sie ein Netz mit schwarzem Filzstift auf ihre Hände zeichnet. Der Post ist ihre Reaktion auf den Brand im Ghost Ship während einer 100% Silk-Party, bei dem 36 Menschen ihr Leben verloren haben. Ihr begleitender Text formulierten ihren Schmerz über diesen Verlust. Er ist eine konzentrierte Formulierung der Strategie, die Menschen unserer Generation und unseres Horizontes in die Gegenwart gebracht hat. Er spricht mir aus der Seele, auch wenn mir nur ein kleiner Teil ihres Kampfes mit der Welt vertraut ist. Würde ich darüber sprechen, spräche ich mit den Privilegien des unbeteiligten weißen Mannes. Darum veröffentliche ich ihren Text an dieser Stelle.

18 or 19 years young at a Phantom Limbs show at Gilman in the early 2000s, too poor for fishnets but not for sharpies. I still remember Hopeless’s warpaint and spittle vividly and loved it. Happier and formative, no, revolutionizing times. Eventually moved to SF for 6 magickal years and more shows in warehouses and basements and backyards in the EastWestSouthNorth Bay than I can remember.

And unfortunately still the only place I’ll probably live in this lifetime where being a woman of color into noise+punk isn’t such an anomaly.


The only way through it is to feel it, be fucking sad, and fucking angry, and transfer that energy to something worthy of the lives lost.

Never stop going to shows in sketch spaces, supporting art and music and the courageous freaks behind it and counterculturing anyone who’s curious and dancing weirder and burning harder than ever against the soulsucking status quo. Never stop moving yourself and all the rad people still around you and that you have yet to meet forward in your own way.


Radiating presence: I enjoy being aware of a thing of intellectual or aesthetic significance existing in close proximity. Not perusing it, perceiving it or acknowledging it in any way. Walking past without a glance, but walking past knowingly. Being sure of its presence, its continued active existence, shared between the perceptive few. Soothing and reassuring and radiating within its socio-spatial context and invisible in plain sight.

The way he has presently constructed it, his life is basically a scaffolding of steel will upholstered in sable fur […] both sober and decadent.

Ich bin ein ausgesprochen rationaler Mensch, aber ich habe viel übrig für interessante Arten von Wahnsinn. Was mir unterhaltsam erschien, habe ich mir angeeignet.


Retroactive memory score

Faint memories of wood-panelled bars in Itaewon, absurdly coherent and outfitted in otaku-like manner, down to glinting silver tie pins and accurately replicated figure-eight moves of the Boston shaker, cheered on by three tipsy women in cream-colored dresses. The illusion of truthfulness and simplicity, of one here and one now, is profound. At the same time, a high-resolution rendering of a contemporary future is revolving on the other side of the sliding door.

Suspension monorailways moving in the distance, jittery graffiti illuminated by flickering xenon tubes. Square shoulders gently forcing their way. A multitude of scurrying feet in high heels and pristine white sneakers, knitted by servo arms in the not too distant factory halls of east Asia. The engine of a black Aventador revvs up into a booming drone. Billowing cargo trousers, heavy boots threading the ground with sawtooth soles, a squad of soldiers in mirage camouflage emerges and disappears in the crowd.

Many white stairs down, at Hangangjin station, aseptic cathedral spaces, cavernous and immaculately clean like the flight deck of a deserted space frigate. Both sound and silence are amplified. An escalator quietly lifts me towards the starry night sky. On the upper deck, the air is perfectly still.

Later, as my cab crashes into a small transporter, spatial memories whizz past. Exhaling, I leave the wreckage and join the bustling sidewalks and the lights of Night City, amidst everything and alone in the matte gray night.

(Über eine EP und einen Track von ASC, und über meinen Hang, Musik und Raumwahrnehmung miteinander zu verbinden.)

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