There are little boys in military pants, women in plaid shirts and shaved heads (neo-Nazis) snorting cocaine in the vicinity of the Civitas Metropolitano stadium, the Atlético de Madrid field.
– I don’t know, the trial hasn’t come out yet.
– But there are more than ten victims, you tell me.
– Yes, that’s true – he leans on one of the stairs at the entrance to the stadium –. But hey, now that we have the tickets…
The sun is a ray steamroller in Madrid and a few hours before the Rammstein concert begins, there is more talk about the alleged sexual abuse committed by its vocalist, Till Lindemann, than about the baroque ritual that is going to take place in the guts of Atletico Madrid.
This Saturday, June 23, Rammstein, an iconic industrial metal band from Berlin, stopped in Madrid to carry out the first and only show in Spain of their European tour, a spectacular display of dates through the stadiums of the main capitals of the old continent. which, however, is being more than clouded by the very serious accusations of sexual abuse and chemical submission against its singer.
In a shocking joint report by the German media NDR and Süddeutsche Zeitung published at the end of May, more than a dozen women denounced Lindemann, leader and singer of the group, of having had non-consensual sexual practices and relations with them.
According to the publications of the aforementioned media, Lindemann would have designed together with Alena Makeeva, former Rammstein casting director, a macabre method with which they recruited women for the band leader’s post-concert parties in which, according to the testimonies of the complainants , they were drugged to subdue and sexually abuse them.
Although only rebounds of the media shootout have reached Spain, in Germany the matter has become national (Rammstein is probably the most successful and well-known music band in the country) and has caused, among other things, that the publisher of Lindemann’s poetry books terminated the contract with the singer, that Universal Music Group paralyzed the promotion of the group’s latest album and that signatures were collected to stop their performances in public venues in the country.
The shock caused has been such that in many cities, feminist groups have demonstrated in front of the artists’ shows (as in Bern, Switzerland) in protest; however, it seems that everything is a bit the same in Madrid. Many comments are heard around the venue, however, there is no action in front of the Metropolitan.
Although the promoter Doctor Music, which sold 51,000 tickets for the show the same day it was released, has gone ahead with the concert despite rumors of cancellation sweeping through Europe, a certain psychosis is evident. For example, in the nominative imposition of the tickets at the last minute, required, according to DM in a statement, by the Rammstein themselves, because there was fear that the fans would resell the tickets and organize some kind of boycott during the event.
Inside, things look like any other metal mega-concert: average age of about forty-five, drunks lying on the grass before the concert even started, and thousands, thousands and thousands of people packed together like little cigarillos in red packets.
At 10:18 p.m., not very punctual for being Germans and performing, even more so, on a gigantic stage reminiscent of an abandoned factory, the concert begins. With the band still not leaving the Metropolitan, the German anthem plays and the vocalist, from a platform raised to a structure of about twenty meters, descends like a martyr to make way for his companions.
From the concert, you can talk about their music, which at times seems like heavy metal and at times seems like a military march with reminiscences that make you a little nervous; and of his show, a hodgepodge, at first cool and at the end repetitive, of fireworks, explosions, flames and all kinds of slightly strange performances (for example, they burn a baby carriage live; find the meaning, which I I know little German and I don’t understand the lyrics).
About halfway through the show, there is a short break and on the giant screens of the stage, they begin to project live images of the public in search of women who show their breasts in front of the fifty thousand people who burst the Metropolitan, who chant and they cluck when someone does. Between this and looking only sideways at the abuse, I begin to feel like I’m in another century.
When the concert resumes, the rockets continue to come out of every hole in the stage and the grotesque performances resume (the group’s keyboardist is put in a fireproof kettle and fired at) and the comments about the singer’s sexual abuse are repeated. hear in the audience, though not very loud.
– It’s not to take away the guilt, but I don’t think he did it just for the sex – says one of the attendees –. I think it is a question of power. What does that give you?
– It’s all a lie – says another, who is wearing a green chick and, from the way he moves, more alcohol in his blood than a distillery on Christmas Eve –. Women know a lot. They make up these things to make money.
After the concert ended at half past twelve, the 51,000 attendees, who knows how many with their eyebrows burned by so much fire and explosion, leave the Metropolitan. When they bought the tickets, they were not yet aware of the alleged existence of a plot that recruited women to drug and abuse them. Now they do.
