In the spring of 1994, I was in Germany with Canadian
punk legends SNFU. It was particularly cold, and I had
neglected to bring a coat. We were staying at a hotel in
Berlin, and there was a store down the street that sold
industrial clothing, canvas overalls, yellow and orange
reflective vests, and the like. I thought I would go buy
a coat there, but once inside the shop I was seduced by
the most amazingly stylish trousers I had ever laid my
naked eyes upon. I immediately dubbed them Die Uber
Hosen.(the super trousers) They were German carpenter's
pants, somewhat military looking, but also a bit dressier
than that. The fabric seemed to be a thick cotton twill,
very sturdy. They had diagonal slit front pockets with
little triangles at the corners, a little lower than
where the pockets would be on jeans, so they didn't start
at the pelvis, they started on the leg. In addition,
there was a long, narrow pocket on the side of the right
leg, and a single hip pocket with a botton. They had
large patches over the knees and down to the cuff,
spanning from seam to seam. But the most striking feature
was the zippers. Two of them, six inches apart and
parallel, with two flaps underneath that buttoned
together, allowing one to unzip the flap while the pants
were still being held up, creating almost a chaps-like
effect. Very practical.
A little kinky. I was told that the reason for this
feature was to facilitate German carpenters' penchant for
peeing off the tops of buildings. I could think of two
other purposes in a New York minute, neither of them
acceptable to mention in this PG-13 setting. Of course
Die Uber Hosen were available in a few different colors,
but anybody who thinks that clothes should be any color
other than black is beyond help anyway. I bought a pair,
size 54, in black, for 110 marks, (about $78 at the
time), and foolishly decided to forgo the warmth of a new
coat for the next week.
Unfortunately, German carpenters' sense of style is
well, German, and therefore, these wonder trousers were
also flares. (UNACCEPTABLE! UNACCEPTABLE!) I had to spend
another 50 marks ($32) to have them tapered and hemmed
overnight. The tailor I went to was about 70 years old,
(do the math) spoke no English, didn't like me OR my
buddy Mr. Chi Pig, and really didn't like our inability
to speak German. Nonetheless, when I tried to take the
trousers back and leave, he wouldn't let go of them. I
think in Germany this is their version of an agreement to
provide services. So, as I stood on the footstool and the
tailor marked the pants, we joked around and laughed our
asses off at his expense. For his part, he bitched at us
in German and I think he catalogued the numerous lives he
had snuffed out in WWII, hoping that at least one of them
was a relative of ours.
The next morning, I went and picked up the trousers.
They were magnificent, badass, regal even. Wearing them I
was, simply put, the most styling man in rock.
And warm? Let me tell you, brothers and sisters, The
Gorton's Fisherman would be much happier and more
productive if he had a pair of these babies on the high
seas. There would be a fishstick glut heretofore
unimaginable.
I brought my Uber Hosen back to these fair shores,
they were an instant hit. Unfortunately, it was May, far
too hot to wear them. I couldn't wait for autumn to come,
so that I would have an excuse to show them off. And show
them off I did, constantly. But I noticed something:
every time I washed them, they got a little tighter than
the time before. I lied to myself, I tried to blame
myself for gaining weight, but it was in vain.
Finally, after 7 or 8 washings, they were just too
tight. I was disappointed in the German craftsmanship,
the shoddy quality. It was then that I saw a label I had
never noticed before, hiding behind the tag bearing the
cryptic care instruction symbols I has so smugly chosen
to ignore; a simple tag, mocking me in it's boldness:
100% Baumwool.
Damn, damn, DAMN! I was an idiot! They were made of
wool! No wonder they were too hot to wear in May! No
wonder they shrunk to GI Joe size! There would be no
further wearing of Die Uber Hosen for me, I should just
admit defeat, and cut my losses. I was a beaten man, a
hollow shell of my former proud self. I walked out into
my apartment and quietly gave them to my roommate Julie,
who worked outdoors next to Puget Sound in the Pike Place
Market. Die Uber Hosen would have to bring warmth and
happiness to someone half my size.
Fear not, for this story does have a happy ending,
dear reader. In the spring of 1997, while on tour in
Gemany with Soul Coughing, we had a show in Berlin. From
the beginning of the tour, I knew I had a date with
destiny. I would have to go and acquire a replacement
pair on the morning of the show, it was that simple. Nary
a day went by that I didn't ask tour manager Gus Brandt
if there were any plans which would prohibit me from
realizing my quest. Gus assured me that no rail strike,
act of God, of force majeure could stand between me and
stylish utilitarian haberdashery.
At last the day arrived. I had scoped out my source
via the Berlin Yellow Pages late the night before. The
foxy front desk fraulein at our hotel had given me the
German word for "work clothing", then aided me in finding
the nearest shop from the list of 25 or so. After
choosing the shop, I asked her the best Metro and bus
route to the shop. I was leaving nothing to chance. She
was starting to suspect that I was really more interested
in hitting on her than in buting pants. Apparently,
German men have a sense of romance outdone only by their
senses of style and humor.
To be safe, I awoke at the inhumanly early hour of 8
a.m., showered, ate fruhstuck (breakfast) downstairs in
the hotel, and was at the bank on the corner before they
opened at 8:30. I changed $220, (about 355 marks at the
time), and made off on my voyage at 8:35.
I took the Metro 3 stops to a different line and
transferred. I took that subway another 5 or 6 stops,
then went above ground and took a bus for a few miles. I
got off the bus at the edge of a small residential area,
walked 4 blocks, and found the store. What it was doing
in what was essentially a residential area, I have no
idea; I wasn't asking questions at that point. It was
approximately 9:45 a.m.
I went inside, the shopkeeper, looking like he was
straight out of Central Casting for thin, blonde haired
Nazi Stormtroopers, was eating his own fruhstuck,
consisting of what looked like raw beef and jelly donuts.
Surely he was my man, as far as I was concerned.
I looked around the shop and instantly found copious
piles of Die Uber Hosen. They were green, grey, white,
brown, blue, and even red. But no black. Had some other
roadie, equally stylish, but living a parallel life,
snatched up all the black carpenter's pants?! I was
crushed. I didn't have enough time to find another store,
I had to be back at the hotel at noon, we were leaving at
12:30 for the venue.
The Stormtrooper, licking the powdered sugar and cow's
blood off his fingers, walked over to me, and asked me if
I needed help, I think. I used the only German phrase I
have truly mastered, "Ich spreche nich Deutsche", meaning
"I speak no German". I have such extensive practice with
this phrase that I have been told that I say it with such
a good accent that it seems disingenuous. He seemed more
amused than the statement warranted, I felt.
Basically, he was laughing in my face. Laughing
hard.
When the Stormtrooper recovered, he and I communicated
to each other via sweeping hand gestures, not completely
unlike two cro magnons. It was brought to his attention
that I wanted the pants in black, and it was brought to
my attention that he didn't have them in black. He
motioned me over toward his phone, then dialed and spoke
to someone for a minute. He gave me the phone, and a man
who identified himself as Carsten told me that he had the
trousers in black, but he was an hour away. I told him
that I couldn't travel an hour and back, I didn't have
time. So, he asked me how many pairs I wanted, and for
some reason, I said two. I had just wanted one, but when
my mouth opened, the number two popped out.
Carsten told me to wait, he would close his shop and
drive over to the other shop with the two pairs of
carpenter's pants, but they would be more expensive than
usual. I asked him how much they would be, and he
paused.
"Ninety marks, I must have more money because I am
closing my shop."
I nearly laughed. This was 20 marks less than the
original pair had cost, and the dollar had improved
against the mark, to boot. I asked for three pairs, size
54. Carsten was a happy man, I was a happy man, even the
Stormtrooper seemed pretty happy.
I spent the hour before Carsten arrived reading
advertising posters on the walls of the shop for German
industrial and construction apparel, printed, of course,
in German. Which I don't read. Also, the Stormtrooper and
I communicated small talk to each other via hand signals.
It was a long hour, longer than some hours at the
Department of Motor Vehicles, even.
Carsten arrived at last, and there was some minor
hubub around the fact that the Stormtrooper didn't think
that the reciept should come from his shop, in case I
wanted to return the trousers. I informed them that I was
leaving Berlin that night, and they had nothing to worry
about, there was no way for me to return the pants even
if I wanted to. This calmed the Stormtrooper down not one
whit. Finally, Carsten agreed to give the
Stormtrooper
the excess profit from the sale of the three pairs, I
could pay the Stormtrooper, and leave them to sort it
out. I paid, I got the reciept, and as I was leaving, I
could hear the tension rising in both their voices, yet
they both stopped together long enough to tank me for
coming and wish me well, at which time they resumed
arguing.
I retraced my steps, took the bus back to the Metro
stop, took the two Metro trains back to the hotel, and
made it back from my adventure with 15 minutes to spare.
We went to the venue, and finished the tour.
In September of 1997 I got the three pairs of Die Uber
Hosen altered in Seattle, thus making them wearable. It
was at that time I regained my title as the most styling
man in rock.
So, if you see me on the street, wearing a
particularly intriguing pair of trousers, the ones with
two zippers, be aware that I have known defeat, but I
fought back, scrappy and tenacious, and that the right to
wear Die Uber Hosen has been earned. By me
alone.
