“My son, the Frontman of Rammstein – declaration of love” by Gitta Lindemann
My first Rammstein concert. I sit between two, black dressed men I had a completely different imagination about. They are relaxed, they talk about study matters, their discussion is surprisingly smart and eloquent. The beginning of the concert is already delayed by half an hour. So much time needed for the boys to reorganize the setlist and eliminate everything, that would leave his mother displeased. I came here in secret, he didn’t want me to come at the time. But he discovered me. Later on, in big stages and halls, I was a regular guest. Small or big one – emotions are the same. I stand in the crowd, the music pounds in me, echoes against the walls, resonates inside me, trembles in the sky, the breath shortens. I am enthralled in the music and speechless. With admiration. The onstage “leader” is my son.
He leads the masses with his hand gesture, he injures his forehead, he burns, his powerful voice rumbles through the scene and time. What kind of responsibility! For all these people, who follow him wherever he leads them to.
And then.. I feel worried about him.. How much sacrifices does it cost him, to give the most of himself.
Night by night, country after country, from continent to continent. But as we meet each other offstage, he is relaxed, he takes care of me, and it feels like at home.
Home, that is Mecklenburg. His motherland, his roots, his source of energy. Already as a teenager – he would stroll through the landscape, wake up in early hours and set off to the field,to cows, with the milker. Sleep under the open sky, listen to apples falling to the ground, duck’s messing around in the pond. In the Autumn, strolling in the woods, searching for mushrooms. In the winter, long walks through the snowy landscape, with a cat cradled in his jacket, tired of jumping from hill to hill.
And people. “Let’s talk about the past” he would ask his father and guests in Dorfkrug. How did they use to live back then. He sits – just like today – together with village people and listens to their dry-humored ranting and stories.
He is gregarious, they seek his company. And it hasn’t got anything to do with his job. His father has written a book about him, there he speaks about his astonishment, that his friends confide everything in him. One of them wanted him to repair his moped. Father asks, puzzled: “You mean.. he can do it?” The boy answers: “Till can do everything”. Father thinks in disbelief:” Incredible”. He is surprised to see the moped driving away into the distance after several minutes. He can do everything. So much confidence. So much trust” – writes his father.
Confidence – this is it. And trust, he trusts himself, he approaches the boundaries and pushes them. What could happen if… he is not familiar with this question. He tries, he tests himself. His texts aren’t the question of effort, they are in HIM. He doesn’t talk about himself, about his longing, his pain… it all comes from his poems.
As his Grandmother was dying, he was by her bedside, comforting her till the very end. He can transform the pain in his poems, it hurts when reading. Where does he gets all these ideas from… I have asked him and myself. They simply live in him.
Every once in a while he invites us to his big car and we set off to the lake or go paddling, always the whole family. Seated in our boats, we drift through the water, hidden under the tree branches shadows. Then he searches for a baiting place in the meadow and helps all of us to the ground. He pulls out some rolls and bread, Gummy Bears for kids and water and Pro Secco, then he goes fishing alone, whilst we take some rest. In the evening he serves us some fish with garlic.
This is one of his lives, totally different from his “onstage” life, his “Job” as he says. Sometimes they flow together. For instance: when we sit together at the bank in Costa Rica, and three, young men approach him and ask for a signature. It makes him feel uncomfortable, but he politely gives them autographs.
My most beautiful memory:
He picks us up in San Rose and there we drive, through endless streets and bumpy, dusty roads. The car goes faster and faster, I say: “Wait a moment, I want to see the sunset”. But he speeds up, and drives, drives up to the hill and eventually pulls over, and then we see: the sun above the sea.. as it falls down the horizon, bathed in blood-red light.
We arrive at the place, he makes something to eat.. it’s getting darker and darker, the night, starry sky stretching above our heads, and we are alone, us and our conversations, that last till late in the night. We’re having a great week, we drive through the country, swim and climb above the jungle, clutching against and endless long asecurating rope. Deep down, green undergrowth, above us.. the sky, in the distance, the sea and big fear in my stomach.
Without him by my side, I would have never have the guts to relive these adventures. He evokes trust. It comes to my memory, when both of us (he was 15 or 16 back then) went for a walk and we had to pass by a bull. I was full of fear, he was probably scared as well, but he approached the animal, and cried to me, that I should always stay behind his back.
Then we have to make our way through the stream. He places a desk across, and helps me to the other side.
Since recently, five generations would gather around the table. He picks up his Grandmother in a wheel-chair with his car, feeds her. Her great-grandson climbs up on her knees. Family Day. His Backing.
Just like the nature. He walks under the white sky along the see and tells us staggering things. He knows the majority of the countries in the world, and they know him. When I was in Moscow, lots of young men wanted to shake hands with me, for I was “Rammstein Mutter”, and one man in my age expressed his admiration for the uniqueness of the band.
In Mexico it’s no different from Tokyo, Rio, Manchester of Budapest. He relives it. But nothing can compare the the sight of mecklenburgian sunrise in the middle of the moors, – he says -as you observe a couple of deers coming out from the bushes, and listen to all sorts of animals noises, breaking through the silence.
I love to spend time with him – just like many other people. And it hasn’t got anything to do with his fame. Every once in a while I muse in my thoughts: “What a man!”
If I weren’t his own Mother, I would love to become friends with him.
This is a re-post. Translation taken from rammstein.us
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