Clubnacht - Underground Techno Reviews & Stories

Bordaux— Three years prior

Her eyeliner: a razor’s edge, black as midnight, drawn with surgical precision. Little gems, like stardust, clung to her skin, making her eyes sparkle with dangerous light. When he walked in and saw her, his brain short-circuited. Never before had he met someone so polished for a date, let alone a first one.

She was simply stunning, which she knew. It radiated off her, and he felt it. To call her arrogant would have been a crime of understatement. She was full of herself. Knew exactly what she deserved and what she’d never tolerate. Yet, with an underlying witty touch of humor.

You could never be sure if her stories were true or just an exaggerated fever-dream version of it. Maybe she didn’t even know it herself. But she hid it well—quick, witty, funny, always elegant, always with that dangerous, sexy edge.

Her hair dropped in curls onto her shoulders, shimmering under the artificial light as they settled at the bar. He caught a glimpse of lipstick smudged on her tooth. Instead of mentioning it, he decided to keep quiet about that little imperfection, as it made her attainable. Let her talk—plans, ambitions, the world she’d conquer. But somewhere around her third anecdote, his focus shifted. He stopped listening to her words and started hearing the rhythm beneath them, the pulse of something deeper. He wasn’t stunned anymore. This was beyond intrigue.

Slowly, he began to truly grasp the aura that surrounded her, and he wanted to feel it. Feel her. Touch her. Be immersed by what he now for sure felt was special. As he laid his hand on her naked skin, lightly touching her knee, the field of energy she generated pulled him in. He couldn’t wait any longer, stood, took her by the hips, stared into those shifting, brown-green eyes, and moved with her—careful, deliberate—to the pulse of house music bleeding through the speakers.

His hand slid up her back, drawing her close. Her breath, warm on his neck. They both knew: every eye in this bar was locked on them, waiting for the next move, hungry for something to happen.

Bodies pressed together, hips moving in sync with the music. They didn’t care. Not a flicker of shame. If the crowd looked bitter, it was jealousy, pure and simple. They were young, sharp, glowing. Bonded now. It was no longer a contest. Not some random date where you paraded your best tricks, hoping the other would match you. He didn’t want to be impressed, nor impress himself. Her ambitions, her stories—they were just background noise. This was about feeling sexy, together. Owning it. Letting the world watch.

Their faces hovered, millimeters apart. He felt her breath on his lips, slow and steady, matching the beat. He wanted to kiss her—God, he wanted it—but he didn’t want to escape this moment. To keep her suspended in this electric now, both of them feeding on the fascination and envy in the room. Even those tiny spaces between their faces felt precious, too valuable to risk losing the charge.

Berlin—Sunday at the Club

Two years have passed, and while you told me you’re not a party girl, out of all places we cross paths here. A cramped and dirty toilet. Your shiny silver tabi shoes are halfway covered in the gunk on the floor. A mixture of piss, sweat, and vomit. It’s a disgusting environment in itself, but when I am here with you, I lose track of the surroundings. With anticipation, you show me the palm of your hand, your eyes wide and full of trust. Where that trust comes from, I don’t know. Not only that, but I often question myself—what is it you see in me? Out of all the possibilities presented to you, why is it me you’ve chosen?

I open the capsule and sprinkle the small brown crystals onto your hand. It’s your first time, and I am your partner. We drown the substance with beer and quickly escape that nasty box. A few steps in, we’re on the main floor. Hello, Berghain!

I take your hand, and together we move through a sea of sweaty bodies. Most are half-naked. Muscular gays, girls in strings, bearded daddies. But nothing captures my desire as much as standing here in the middle of it all, with you. The fog tangled with cigarette smoke. The sharp smell of poppers. I can’t see more than a few feet ahead before everything collapses into haze. This feels incredible. Too good. It feels right. I want to dissolve into this moment, into you. It’s Bordeaux all over again, that bar where we first met and danced like nothing else existed.

Only this time it’s scaled up. The bass is heavier, the feelings sharper, and most importantly, there is no space left between our faces. My tongue is deep in your mouth. Exploring, tasting, devouring. Your body moving with mine, those tight shorts perfectly framing your ass. Impossible to resist. My hands run across your neck, shoulders, breasts, thighs.

I shiver. You carry an aura with you. Mythical. Untouchable. Just like this place. You turn heads and ignite conversations. And still, you know exactly what you want, what you deserve, who you allow in. But sometimes it feels like you care too much about that—like it’s the only thing that defines you. Look around. Every dancer seems unique at first glance, but soon they blur into the same static rhythm. Bodies moving mechanically, hypnotized by the beat. Safe. Predictable. Couples or solos, all swallowed by the flow. This place is simply the safe bet.

Now tell me: why is it that even the best feelings dull over time? No matter how intense, how overwhelming the sound, or us moving in unity. Two hours here, and I already feel stuck. Could this really be it? Why should it? Nothing ever hits as hard as novelty.

Everyone hypes Berghain up as if it were an end goal. As if we’ve arrived. The equivalent of a suburban dream for techno heads—beautiful wife, perfect house, two kids (of course, a boy and a girl), maybe even a dog, and a summer home. Objectively, it’s perfection. The ideal. The best club in the world.

I can’t stand it anymore! I leave you alone and storm off. Out the back of the dancefloor, making my way through the crowd up onto the stairs. I’m basically running, skipping steps, until I see the colorful light spilling through the massive windows. I’ve reached the Panorama Bar. Just meters away from Berghain, this feels like a totally different world.

Not only the light, but also the music is more colorful. Slower, less hypnotic, hips rather than mind. A tall blonde girl passes me. Super skinny, in a see-through dress, flat chest, her hard nipples pierce through. On her way to the dancefloor, she passes me, and while gently pushing me aside to make room, keeps her hand shortly resting on my neck. Her long fingers strike my skin. I look up to her face. She's already turning forward, but I catch her side eye. It’s screaming “meet me on the dancefloor”. At least that’s what I’m hoping.By the time I come down from that moment, she’s gone. Swallowed. Still, I drift toward the floor.

It’s bright, cigarette smoke is clearly visible in those sun rays. It smells like a Vogue afterparty. Sweet perfume, thin cigarettes, spilled mezcal. Intimate, yet decadent. I plant myself at the massive bar, which occupies half the room. It’s crowded. Pretty faces, nonchalant. Everyone leaning on the bar, never facing the bartender, always scanning the room. There’s no choice for the right first drink here. It’s a ritual, an unspoken rule: espresso martini, please!

I could never grow bored of this place. By now, I’ve almost forgotten you’re still here, in the same building. Alone. High, for the first time in your life. And yet I can’t make myself go back. I want to stay. Here, where every inch of the room feels like society on display. Admittedly, the high society—the ones who seem detached, but always carry the best stories. We kind of detest them, and still, sometimes we wish we were as self-assured as they are. But all the cool kids are here, so I must be one of them too. Right? Bizzare! This place makes me question if I’m good enough to belong, and at the same time, it feeds me confidence.

I prime my shoulders and turn to my left. What once would have been a short look now turns into a long flirt. A guy in a white crop top, which obviously has been cut by himself, is looking at me. I don’t look away. See his eyes lying on me. His wide lips framed by a mustache curl into a grin. Beside him, a brunette with bangs, staring at me until she realizes I am looking back, nervously turning away. They talk, glance at me, laugh. I sip my martini. We play this game for a couple of rounds. The drugs ebb. My body craves the next fix. For now, these eyes will do, but once the drink is gone, I can’t stay seated.

The music pulses—percussive house, laced with vocals. Pure seduction. It’s impossible to resist. This isn’t as mechanical as the Berghain groove. This is freedom. The floor is alive. I don’t think I could ever get bored of this. All the action that’s happening. Couples seductively dancing with each other. Girls kissing girls. Guys grinding on guys. A silhouette of a lone body is arching above the speaker stack. It feels like life has peaked. Everything is possible. I can grab the hand to my left or to my right. I can look eyes with this gorgeous blonde who passed me before. I can go up to her, place my hands on her hips, and … or I can just let loose. Right in the middle, throwing my hands in the air and stop thinking!

But my moment of bliss only lasts a short time. I feel a hand softly lying on my ribs, which leads me to open my eyes. The mustache guy from the bar is standing next to me with a slight grin on his face. I smile back. Next to him is his girl. At least that’s what I assume. Norms become blurry here. All three of our bodies move in sync.

Every now and then, one of their hands caresses my body. And I return the gesture, gently touching the back of the girl or the shoulders of the man. What back on the Berghain floor seemed like life has peeked now feels mundane, forgotten… irrelevant. The constant hunt for something more exciting, arguably something better, but definitely something different—it never ends. But this time, I got rewarded for leaving you. Should it really be that way? Proven that there was something worth exploring.

I push those thoughts aside. At least let me enjoy those two gorgeous creatures that can’t get their hands off me. By a random incident, a person passing pushes us together. The girl between us guys. She locks her dark brown eyes on me, hungry, and I can’t resist. My hand runs up her body, cupping her chin, guiding her into a kiss she returns without hesitation. For a long minute, we lose ourselves in it. Wet lips, hungry breath—until I feel another hand, larger, heavier, resting on my neck. I look up. The guy stares straight at me, then leans in. I meet him halfway, kissing him as the girl’s hands slip under my tank top.

First, the warmth of her breath on my skin, then her tongue tracing my neck, his in my mouth. The mustache slightly tingles my face, the tongue behind my ear spikes goosebumps on me, and the smell of both of their perfumes catapults me into heaven. One part woody, yet clean and very comforting. The other sweet, playful, like an upscale candy shop. One that lets you taste more than you actually buy. And the taste of this moment… I enjoy it too much to let it end. We switch back and forth. Everyone making out with each other in this big mess of bodies, fueled by disco music and jealous stares.

I don’t know how much time has passed before I can let loose and take a glimpse around. We are in a big hug, my hands around them. Both the girl and the guy turned towards me, looking at the dancefloor. I’m facing the bar. And there I see you.

Your legs are at shoulder length apart. It’s a strong stand. With one hand, you grip onto the bar, still standing upright—barely. As you’re wearing only a bra, I can see your exposed stomach breathing heavily. I don’t know how long you’ve been standing there. Whether you’ve just appeared or have been standing there all along. But I suspect the latter. Your eyes are glassy, stunned. They carry the disbelief of someone who’s seen too much. Your strong, independent, seemingly affected by nothing persona was shattered right in front of me. And I am the cause. What was meant to be our reunion, our long-awaited reconnection—after years apart—has devolved into betrayal. A disappointment only I could script.

Berlin—Monday morning in the Cab

For the rest of the night, we do not exchange a word. We barely catch sight of each other in the club, distant, lost, and it is only when the sun has begun to rise that I text her. Despite everything, she still agrees to stay with me—and at this hour, there is no turning back. We meet at the exit. Immediately, I sense the weight of her resentment, mingled with a visible discomfort of being alone with me. No matter what I say, she refuses to meet my gaze, always turning away, her movements restless, evasive. She does not scream or make a scene; instead, she replies in measured tones, her high-pitched voice repeatedly insisting that “it’s fine.” Yet, beneath this, she is adamantly opposed to leaving.

Monday morning deepens around us, and me having to work in a couple of hours intensifies the situation. I am clear with her: I cannot make her come with me, but I myself have to leave. Hearing this, she finally bows to reality. The only thing she wants less than joining me is to stay behind. Alone with her tangled feelings, stranded in a club she’s never been to before, in a country she barely knows, surrounded by strangers and intoxicated by drugs she’s tried for the first time.

We step out into the street and climb into the cab, heading home. The ride is long and muted. She sits angled away from me, her eyes trained on the city slipping past the window. My hand rests on her thigh—a hopeless gesture, unrecognized, unreturned. Words, touch, presence: none of it matters. Lost, I open my phone and begin typing:

Words can’t describe how intensely I want to hold you — no, scrap that — how intensely I want you. To see you feel good, secure, happy. There are so many things about you I don’t understand, and I suspect you have your reasons for keeping it that way. Sometimes, you let me take a glimpse into your thoughts, told me stories of your family, your childhood, those days and weeks that shaped you. I cherished those little cracks that appeared in your shell. They made you human.

Till today we’ve been in a wonderful state, really. Each of us staying true to our own, with our distinct flair. And still, we form a unity. But we’ve also changed with time. It isn’t what it was when I first stumbled into Berghain. The sound system is new, the art shifted. The big statue by the stairs — a muscular naked man drinking from a chalice — vanished. Not a soul knows where it ended up. Similar to you: one day you're here, the next one you disappear.

You wanted to travel, move around — that’s what you told me on our first date. And that’s what you’re doing now. Every week, it feels like you’re in another city. Nobody knows where you actually live — not even you yourself can answer that question.

But Panorama Bar is not the same either. Back then, heavy lines of coke out in the open, stretched across the counters; now you’re not even supposed to light a cigarette by the bar. Somewhere in those years, we figured out it couldn’t just keep going unhinged forever. At least not if you want your body to keep running.

I finished my degree, started my first full-time job. Everything according to plan, everything the way I said it would be — and yet it feels off. Wrong, somehow. Back in the old days, the closings went open-end, until Monday afternoon. Now it’s all “cozy,” cut at 8 a.m. sharp. Hard stop. Except for rare exceptions, when nostalgia kicks in.

And while we’ve changed, we’ve also anchored our values more firmly. You drift around the globe but still wish for a partner to be with you. That person can’t be me. Even if I want a steady partner, they need to live in the same city. Because weeks of absence — I can’t imagine that. Not with you.

Berghain and Panorama Bar — different, but bound together. One stairwell acts as the connecting element. Both floors pull their own crowds, both bring first-class DJs, both could stand alone as solid clubs. But put them together, housed in this old power plant, and good turns into something rare. Something amazing!

You had me convinced, in so many ways, you could be that missing piece. For years I carried you around in my head — trapped in that moment in Bordeaux, that one intoxicating spark. And when time circled back, when you resurfaced, when I got that chance to have you with me again… I was electrified. Beyond thrilled.

But what happened today was like a fresh layer of cement poured over that shell. It sealed every crack, shut me out from you entirely. No, it’s not okay, and it’s certainly not fine.

Once I am done typing, I hand her the phone. Carefully, she reads each line, but speaks no word. We arrive in silence at my apartment and step out of the cab. We walk up the stairs, enter the bathroom, undress, and begin washing the sweat from our faces.

She stands next to me, half-naked, clad only in beautiful black lingerie—a matching set, elegant and deliberate. It is clear she had imagined this night ending differently. From our first date until now, she has never disappointed me in this regard; every time I see her, she is impeccably dressed, unfailingly tasteful and stylish. But now, her careful choice feels almost misplaced.

We slip into bed together, facing one another. I brush a hand over her hair. In response, she presses her lips tightly together, forming a strained smile, meets my eyes for a brief moment, and then turns away to sleep. I am left alone in the dark, but it was simply not meant to be. She is a Berghain girl, but I am a Pano Boy.

Purely a fictional Story!