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Here's the translated text of Gitta Lindemanns' article about Till (original title: Mein Sohn, der Frontmann von Rammstein - eine Liebeserklaerung")
I forgot to point out: Since I am Polish and English is my second language I apologise in advance for mistakes. *blush*
But I hope you will find it fairly readable
I'm splitting it into two parts
"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 begin of the concert is already delayed by half an hour. So much time need the boys to reorganise 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 shortenes. I am enthralled in the music and speechles. 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 craddled 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 nad listens to their dry-humoured 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.
I forgot to point out: Since I am Polish and English is my second language I apologise in advance for mistakes. *blush*
But I hope you will find it fairly readable
I'm splitting it into two parts
"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 begin of the concert is already delayed by half an hour. So much time need the boys to reorganise 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 shortenes. I am enthralled in the music and speechles. 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 craddled 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 nad listens to their dry-humoured 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.
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