Ossiana is dressed in rag tag motorbike punk gear, his hair long, uncombed, bedraggled. Think Easy Rider, on acid. He’s unshaved, too, but with make-up. He is wearing a hat redolent of the Droogs’ enemies in A Clockwork Orange, and drinking Augustinerbier from a silver dented goblet, “To keep it cool”.

Ossiana is, apparently, a teacher from Oakley, San Francisco. Quite why he is here is anyone’s guess. It’s anyone’s guess why anyone is here in Berlin except to party, lose it, get creative, and hang out. It’s certainly not to make money.

At this particular party there’s plenty of Americans. In fact, there’s scarcely a German accent. Brits, Aussies, French, Japanese, Swiss – an international brothel of muddled funsters.

Jenny has just come back from London. she seems to be in shock.  “God, London robs you,” she drawls. Yes, yes it does. Although at 5 euros per pop, this party is robbing you too, no doubt.

Soooeu, from Japan, has moved from London. She hopes to get an artist visa, although she is not an artist. She has two months to prove otherwise to Germany’s legendary bureaucrats. She should start a band and play at this party.

I say party, it’s more shindig, a happening, a party for friends, about 30 friends who make music, who create, who appreciate, who listen; who hang out. It’s part-art school party, part-party, part fashion event; there are some seriously trendy people here, albeit trendy in spirit rather than garb.

Ossiana is certainly trendy in spirit. His band, Weekend at Bernie’s, is on second in this rundown Neukölln industrial unit turned artist’s space.

Neukölln is the up and coming area, where arty types and artists are flocking in droves, exploiting cheap rents and taking over under-used or abandoned factories for studio space.

Raum 18, at Ziegelstrasse 11 is no different. It’s a tad far from KreuzKolln, the made-up mishmash name for the currently du jour district bordering bohemian Kreuzberg, where rents are on the rise. People fear Kreuzberg may go the way of Pramslauer Berg. Up!

Raum achtzehn is in a seen-better-days light industrial unit, perched on the Treptow canal by Sonnenallee S-Bahn, the type with rusting metal window frames left rather absurdly framing smashed windows. Next door a Turkish boy is having his coming of age party. Upstairs, on the fourth floor, up through the concrete stairwell is a coming of age party, too, for three “bands”.

Bands is a loose term. First up are two guys who turn the lights down low. Their music can best be described as industrially charged eardrum-baiting. There is no tune save for a recurrent low-bass dirge, interspersed with a minor amount of electronic keyboard and the odd word mouthed into a mic which is then morphed into a sound best described as Darth Vadar punching Orka the Very Depressed Killer Whale.

They last 20 minutes. Nineteen minutes too long.

Then comes Ossian. Listen for yourselves. Make your own mind up. It’s not everyone’ cup of tea, but I rather respect Ossian for trying. His band members, two females, playing what looks like medieval stringed pieces of wood, add colour, too. The music may sound primevil, but the lyrics – belted out, granted – have some poetic resonance.

Next, and last, is v.tits. An odd name given that v.tits is one person. A woman playing guitar, bemoaning, it seems, a lost love.

Natalia thinks v.tits will be v.big one day. “She has style, talent,” she says, racing off to catch the last S-Bahn home at 12.30am. V.maybe. V.maybe not.

Tim Art, Berlin bars, Berlin drink, Berlin music, Entertainment, Kreuzberg, Neukölln, Prenzlauer Berg, berlin Art, Berlin music, Berlin party, Entertainment

I’m not a music writer, but I swear I just witnessed the birth of a new genre. Well, it sounded like giving birth, of sorts.  Let’s call it Nu funk neo-trannie psychedelic alien sex techno poetry . (Remember, you read it here first).

Anyone performing  must wear tight luminous green Lycra leggings, preferably with a codpiece, which must be thrust regularly into a member of the audience’s face, a star outfit not so much touched-off but launched with shiny red brogues and a punky zebra skin T-shirt. Hair must be cropped, daaahling, topped in bleached yellow.

Well, I say anyone. But in reality there is perhaps only one person in this genre. And that’s the self-styled Posh the Prince. I hope he is called Posh the Prince, it was one of the few normal phrases in the set that didn’t involved sexual positions with aliens screamed into a mike from just 10ft away. so normal, I can’t remember it! I should have asked him to spell it, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I could hae been chastised. The codpiece loomed large, like a weapon!

To call this early evening ensemble bizarre gives bizarre a weird name. “Wrong?” Perhaps. Mad? Possibly. Completely and utterly random? Yes, maybe. Totally chuffing random.

Nadia called it “good but weird”. Lucy hailed it as “a bad trip”. Will was left speechless. It was as if his very will to live had been taken from behind. Never have I seen two songs claim a soul so quickly.

Posh the Prince basically toasts – well, screams and bleats – alien sex poetry, over a weird, techno psychedelic mishmash of scarred electro breakbeats and trippy hop hips, imploring us in high-pitched, stuccato, erratic bursts of NYC babble to all have sex in our sleep.

It’s easy to josh. At least he is out there doing something. Better bad than normal, I say.

Personally, I’m glad I experienced Posh the Prince, especially when a boat load of blau-rinse tourists having a four-course meal on a nighttime boat cruise motored past, gawping inanely just as Posh reached his alien orgasm by rubbing himself up against a tree. More pork, madame? “Wass?”

The venue helps matters. I’ve just seen him Posh “perform”, at die Terrase, right on the Spree river outside Club Maria, by Schillingbrucke in Friedrichschain. An intimate venue, if intimate can mean the Nu funk trannie psychedelic alien techno-sex poetic wailings rebounding off derelict factory walls all the way down to Mitte.

More Posh the Prince here

Tim Art, Entertainment, Friedrichschain, berlin Art, berlin, nu funk trannie psychedelic alien techno-sex poetry, performance

The thing about kniepers is that you are almost crashing someone’s front lounge. Everyone in them knows each other, all are locals. It’s a sort of neighbourhood Das Cheers, though smaller, and without the Ted Dansen smug oneliners. Mind you, there are some crap haircuts.

In this kneiper, pronounced knei-per, they are all friends, seemingly. Same age, same style, slightly liberal – OK, I’ll say it, probably lesbians. Yes, definitely lesbians. In fact, they admit as much by snogging by the bar. Not that it matters one jot, you understand. Bravo!

The Pinter is a sort of gallery, too, with some photography students displaying pictures of bald models and big dogs sitting in derelict ramshackle homes. It’s all rather good, actually, largely ‘cos you wouldn’t see it in Marks and Spencers – mind you, the fashion snappers may end up working for Marks one day. “We’d like to shoot a lingerie catalogue, for middle-aged women, possibly featuring big hunting dogs, and bald models on threadbare chaise longues, in ramshackle homes – what do you think? Can you help?”

Tim Art, Berlin GDR, Berlin drink, Entertainment, Prenzlauer Berg, berlin Art, Berliner pils, kneiper, Marks& Sparks, Pinter, Prenzlauer Berg