“We all went. At Mister Go, there was hot rock and a light show. Popular motifs were snapshots from the war in Vietnam. GIs flickered across the walls attacking and dying, burning monks, Vietcong being executed. Along with music that was new to me: the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Cream, Jimi Hendrix. Dealers with flowing hair and a Mao badge on their Indian shirts, pro-wrestler types with earrings and the scent of musk, ethereal graces from Siemensstadt or Neheim-Hüsten who wanted to trade their hairdressing apprenticeships for free love or a bomb and woke up instead in a Kreuzberg basement apartment with a rusty cannula in their arm, futuristic political commissars in white Nyltest shirts with the Collected Works of Enver Hoxha and complete execution lists in their heads, and street kids looking for their first flash crowded beneath the light show with their memos of the Asian revolution, and the Doors tried to give the child a name: "Father, I want to kill you." When you came out, the police cars were standing on the corner, and their rotating blue lights seemed like a mocking commentary on the exploding collages in your head.”