Good Whalen Outdoor Festival: Against the Noise. imagination.

Instead of the usual festival reporting, the daily decided to publish a hot (and not entirely serious) letter to the editor about the Kirchberg hype that Lydie Polfer (DP) condemned.

Dear diary paperAnd the

Four years ago, I decided to leave the bustling, harsh south of the country and settle in the wonderful and wonderful deserted Kirchberg.
During the day, as I work myself, I hardly notice all the boisterous bankers drinking an expensive bottle of red wine with a lukewarm lunch in expensive restaurants during the lunch break – and in the evening it is so nice and quiet here that I sometimes feel like the last person on earth. A bit like Will Smith in “I’m a Legend”. (Just an aside: If you’re the last survivor, at least you don’t have to put up with stupid jokes about your spouse and don’t think about whether it’s better to do anger management therapy after all.)

In any case, I go on. My quarter was any dear diary paper, victim of an attack in the last few days – a noise attack, if you want to know for sure. Fortunately, Ms Polfer, a sensitive Democrat in the Democratic Party, responded to this during a press conference last Wednesday and spoke firmly against the raucous gang from the left-leaning De Gudde Wëllen bar occupying the amphitheater at “Parc Central” next to Coque for the next few days believe Or don’t believe four days will play.

I didn’t think it was bad that Luxembourg City itself had made a promise to the event – otherwise the festival wouldn’t have taken place – and that this mayor’s statement is so contradictory. People, including politicians, make mistakes, you just have to have the courage to admit them and then you can go back.

Since I couldn’t sleep because of the noise anyway, I made up my mind my dear diary paperTo get to the core of things. Investigative journalism, if you like. I intended to insinuate myself as the enemy among the hippie crowd (or whatever the culture connoisseurs are these days).
Imagine if the music was so loud on a Saturday afternoon that hot that I was sneaking through Coque until I had a hard time finding the amphitheater. When I finally heard the bass line—I was still 100 yards from the site—I thought again how great and brave Mrs. Pulver is a politician, and how nice and reassuring it is to have someone run such interesting events that you want to contain.

At first, there were very few people on the site itself – most of those addicts were probably still hanging out from the day before. Contrary to Kirchberg’s rule, no one wore a suit or tie, there were plenty of those grotesque, brightly colored shirts screaming for unemployed cultural workers. Modern electric sounds reverberated on stage while singer Aili sang something against money and capitalism. in Japanese. It wasn’t really that bad, I had to admit. I wouldn’t perform in front of so few people – not worth it.

The same was true of David Numwami’s performance, who was completely engrossed in his music – the racy French electro-pop was a bit reminiscent of numbers like Metronomy – and mingled with the audience (still a little) with his mic and on the floor rolled. Good concert, one must say, but with so much effort for so few people you realize that these people have fallen asleep studying economics.

I decided to push my disguise to the max, and despite my dislike of alcohol or whatever these johns call fun, I ordered myself a long drink. It cost 12 euros, which I found very generous despite the no entry fee. I asked myself how the small income earners in the cultural sector could afford it at all. But maybe they all deal and gain a little something extra. The pasta I later dealt with was over the counter for €14, but the portion was very small.

When I was a little drunk, I wanted to complain to the blond hippie and asked him if he knew where the organizer of this festival was, this handsome devotee said that the organizer was standing in front of me. I asked him, somewhat astonished, if it was customary here for people to mix something in their glass–for that’s how I felt, such intoxication could not have come from the gin alone. He rudely said there could be some alcohol in my cocktail. I quickly changed the subject and said privately that it was a mystery that the festival should ever take place, despite Mrs. Pulver’s objections.

He explained to me that a compromise had been made, that some things had been rescheduled and that the live music would end at 11pm. After that there will only be a short DJ set and then people will be sent home at 1 am. He added that noise is respected here as well and the festival is being planned so that the neighborhood is not disturbed.

I didn’t tell him I found 11pm too late – I’m usually in bed by 9pm. I’m having good night’s tea. Nor did I tell him that I actually sent an angry letter of complaint to the community last year because the festival was too noisy for me and I also found it irresponsible to plan concerts or other unimportant cultural nonsense during the pandemic.

He was right, it wasn’t too loud here. But appearances are deceiving and I am sure the poor who live a kilometer away – in fact, there are hardly any houses or apartments so close – have had to use earplugs and can only communicate by screaming. Especially since the subsequent concert of the Turkish band Lalalar, with its mixture of Turkish folk and dark electronic sounds, delighted more and more festival-goers. I even found myself bobbing my head a little – this was definitely the effect of the gin.

In order to empirically verify this thesis, I ordered another drink to be on the safe side. Look, because of these diabolical things, the last band named in front of me (or something like that) made me so immersed in these pulsing and hypnotic songs that I ended up dancing in the front – for the first time in my life. Fortunately none of my co-workers have seen me (thank God I don’t have any friends).

But now I have the proof: Alcohol leads to careless and outrageous behaviour. Started, even horrified by my dancing steps, I left the building, went home and made myself a quiet tea. This is what you want, my dear diary paperThat Mrs. Polfer’s attempts at intimidation are paying off and that there is finally (more) peace in Kirchberg. This dead silence would be a fine harbinger of the forthcoming elections–and a good metaphor for Mrs. Bulver’s party.

Warm greetings,
angry reader

Jeff Schenker

Leave a Comment