The Worst Concertgoer in the Audience!

When the show begins – and the mind goes backwards

The bass hits. The lights explode. The crowd roars.
Till Lindemann steps forward as the uncompromising figure he has built his expression around – dark, theatrical, confrontational.

And there I am thinking:
That rig is heavily loaded… but nicely solved.

When the flames erupt, I hear the audience gasp. I note fire safety zones, emergency lighting and a pyro operator who clearly knows exactly what he’s doing.

It gives me calm.
The wrong kind of calm.
But calm nonetheless.

It’s a bit like watching a horror movie with a fire safety engineer.
The atmosphere is there – just on a different level.

Light, sound – and everything in between

At some point I realize I’m not entirely sure which song is playing. But I know why the light breaks right there, why the stage is deliberately left in darkness at that exact moment, and why the LED screens are flown at that specific angle.

It’s expensive.
It’s thought through.
And it’s done by people who know their craft.

That’s when I smile to myself. Because that moment – when the machine works perfectly – is also magic. Just a different kind.

The story behind the sound – Tägtgren, Sweden, and the origins

It’s hard for me not to look backward while standing there. Not only technically, but musically. Because Till Lindemann’s solo project still carries traces of its beginnings – even if much of the audience may not know them.

When the project first took shape, Peter Tägtgren – Hypocrisy frontman, producer, songwriter, and one of Sweden’s most uncompromising musical minds – was there from the very start. Not as a guest, but as a co-creator. Architect. Engine.

The band surrounding Till back then consisted largely of Swedish musicians. A Nordic backbone to a German expression. Brutal, yes – but methodical. Madness with structure. Chaos with a framework.

You can still hear it in the music from that period. The weight. The discipline. The precision.

Today, Tägtgren and Lindemann have gone their separate ways. As creative partnerships so often do. Rarely drama – more often evolution. When one expression has run its course, it needs room to breathe in a new direction.

For someone who has stood both in the audience and behind the stage, those invisible threads are impossible to miss. The story behind the sound. The people who were there – and those who no longer are.

1997, 2005 – and the rain that never stopped

I saw Rammstein for the first time in 1997.
Even then it was obvious: this was no ordinary band. It was a machine. A system. A completely uncompromising construction where every detail mattered.

I’ve seen them many times since.
And each time, the experience changed – in step with my own life behind the stage.

In 2005, Rammstein stood on my stage.

I was Production Manager for a major festival. It rained. Not “a bit of bad weather” rain – but relentless, soaking rain that turns everything into mud, stress and improvisation.

And me?
I was limping around on crutches.

Not ideal.
But operational.

Because in this world, you keep going anyway.

The touring Rammstein crew knew exactly what was required. The local crew stepped up, carried double, solved problems without creating new ones. No complaints. No heroics. Just delivery.

The audience never noticed anything.
Exactly as it should be.

Madness as a way of life

This is a world where working hours don’t exist.
Where circadian rhythm is a suggestion.
Where the word “impossible” usually means a bit later.

A world where people live out of cases and road trunks.
Celebrate birthdays behind trucks.
Eat dinner standing up.
And sleep when others work.

And yet there is a loyalty here that’s hard to find anywhere else. A silent language. A nod. A glance that means: I’ve got your back.

It’s insane.
It’s exhausting.
And it’s beautiful.

Why I miss the show – but never the point

So when I stand in the audience in Sofia today watching Till Lindemann’s show, I might miss the setlist. But I see something else.

I see years of experience.
I see decisions made under pressure.
I see a machine that works – and makes it possible for the audience to feel anything at all.

It’s not cynicism that makes me look at trusses.
It’s respect.

A toast to the crew

So let me end where everything really begins.

A toast to the crew.
The touring ones.
The local ones.
And everyone in between.

To the riggers high above where no one looks.
To the lighting programmer who stared at a cue at 04:17 because it had to land.
To the sound engineer who knows exactly how much feedback the audience can tolerate before it becomes character.
To the stagehand who carries, curses, laughs – and shows up first the next morning.

Without you:
No fire.
No magic.
No show.

Here’s to the madness.
The proud, worn-down, brilliant madness.