Please become human again

On Bruno Kramm, Das Ich, our scene, and the painfully short time we have with each other.

I did not want to write a classic obituary.

I did not want to list dates of birth, name a few well-known songs and put “rest in peace” underneath.

I could do that, of course.

But since I learned that Bruno Kramm has died, something else will not leave my head.

How damn quickly everything can be over.

And how much time we waste making each other’s lives harder.

We argue. We gossip. We block each other. We debate who is right, who is wrong, who belongs to which group, who is “really” goth, who is allowed to listen to which music, and who supposedly always knew better.

We get angry about comments on the internet.

We fall out over things nobody will remember in two years.

We do not talk because we wait for the other person to come first.

We put things off. Tomorrow. Next week. Sometime.

And then a person dies.

A person whose music may have walked with you for decades.

And suddenly you see again what a lot of that actually is: nonsense.

Because we could drop dead tomorrow. You might not be here tomorrow. I might not be here tomorrow. The person you are fighting with might not be here tomorrow.

And then there is no “we’ll sort it later”. Then that was it.

That sounds harsh. Maybe some things have to be said harshly.

Bruno Kramm is dead

On the evening of 25 September, Bruno Kramm was still on stage with Das Ich in Granada.

Not long after the concert, he collapsed.

Emergency services were called. Police and medics came to Sala Planta Baja. Bruno Kramm died that night. He was only 58.

58.

I write that number and think:

That is not an age.

And at the same time I think that he had just been making music. Still on a stage. Still part of that whole madness we call a concert.

People stood in front of him. Light. Music. Volume. Movement.

Maybe people laughed, danced, were glad to see Das Ich again.

And a few hours later a person is gone.

How are you supposed to understand that?

You probably cannot.

We always try to find an explanation. We want to understand. We want a reason. We want some kind of order in things like this.

Sometimes that order simply is not there.

Sometimes an evening ends differently than anyone expected.

And that is what scares me.

Das Ich has been with me since I was about 14

Das Ich is not just some band to me.

I think I was about 14 when this music started walking with me.

At that age you absorb things differently. Music is not just entertainment. It becomes part of your identity. Part of your world.

You discover a scene and suddenly you realise: there are people out there who are as strange as I am. People who like the same darkness. People who cannot do anything with ordinary radio. People who wear black, paint their faces differently, listen to different lyrics and maybe think a little differently about the world.

And then you hear a band like Das Ich.

It was not nice. Not smooth. Not comfortable. It was never meant to be comfortable.

Das Ich joined electronics, theatre, expressionism, classical elements and that very particular German language. Since the early 1990s the band has been one of the defining names of Neue Deutsche Todeskunst — a sound that still belongs to the history of our scene.

That is not really the point for me. Other people can take that apart as music history much better.

What matters more is what music like that does to a person.

If a band has been with you since you were 14, a piece of your own life hangs on it.

You hear a song and you are suddenly somewhere else. An old club. A room from years ago. Some dancefloor. Next to a person who may no longer be here.

You remember smells. Clothes. Nights. Completely stupid conversations at four in the morning. People you once thought would be part of your life forever.

Music is sometimes a damn time machine.

That is why a musician’s death can hit you even if you never knew them privately.

I did not know Bruno personally. I do not need to make that bigger than it was. But his music was part of my life. And that is enough.

And then I have to think of Stefan

With all of this I keep thinking of Stefan Ackermann.

Because Das Ich already gave us this shock once.

In 2011 Stefan became seriously ill. After an operation he spent weeks in intensive care. At the time it was publicly unclear whether he would fully recover. Later it became known that he had suffered a severe brain haemorrhage, or a stroke. In early 2012 Danse Macabre said that after intensive rehabilitation he could speak again, move on his own and take part in ordinary life. In 2013 he returned to the stage.

I still remember being genuinely afraid that Stefan would not make it.

Not the shallow kind: “oh, I hope he gets well.”

The real, ugly feeling in the stomach. The thought:

Shit. Maybe he is not coming back.

Maybe that was it. Maybe we would never see this person on a stage again. Maybe Das Ich was suddenly history.

At the time even the outlook for a full recovery was unclear. Bruno himself spoke publicly about his fear for his friend and bandmate.

And Stefan fought his way back. There is no other way to say it. He really fought his way back into life. And at some point he stood on a stage again.

That is something I have to think about again today.

Back then we had that luck. There was still an afterwards. Another show. Another concert. Another evening. Another moment.

Not this time.

I had a drink with Stefan at Zwischenfall

And then there are those small personal memories. Zwischenfall in Bochum, for example.

If you come from our corner and have been in the scene long enough, nobody has to explain what that place meant to a lot of people.

I once had a drink with Stefan there. I even still have an old photo — Stefan, a colleague and me, Höllentanz 2007 at Zwischenfall.

And you know what? It was not a spectacular moment. Not an exclusive VIP meeting. Not a story where I want to say: look who I knew.

That is not the point at all. The opposite is the point.

It was normal. It was our scene. Musicians stood around, people stood around, you had a drink, you talked. People met people.

That is something I have always loved about our scene. Those borders were often much smaller than outsiders think.

The person who had been on a stage two hours earlier was suddenly standing next to you. Then you talked. Maybe had a beer. Maybe talked rubbish. Completely normal.

They were not figures from another world. They were people from our scene.

Our people.

Today I look at those old photos differently. Back then you take a picture and do not think about it. Why would you? You think: until next time. We’ll see each other again. There will be another event. We’ll stand together somewhere again.

And then there is that one evening when someone says “until next time” — and nobody knows there will not be a next time.

This is what is wrecking me right now

We often treat our time as if it were free. As if we could waste as much of it as we like.

Time is probably the most valuable thing we have. And it is running. All the time.

Even while we get angry because someone on the internet wrote something we do not like.

Even while we do not speak to someone for three years because neither of us can get over our damn pride.

Even while we tell our parents: “I’ll come by next week.”

Even while we read messages from friends and think: “I’ll answer later.”

Later. That damn word.

We rely on it so much. As if “later” were written into a contract. It is not.

Sometimes later does not exist.

What has become of our scene?

And now I come to something that really matters to me. Some people may get angry. So be it.

I sometimes feel that as a scene we have forgotten what once made us. I wrote about that in What became of counterculture? — and today it feels even more true.

I am not completely romanticising the past. Not everything was better. There were arseholes then too. Gossip. Cliques. People who thought they were more important than others.

Still, I feel something has changed.

Maybe it is social media. Maybe the general mood of the time. Maybe that every conflict is now fought in public at once.

But we have become damn good at taking each other apart.

Who is real goth? Who is only TikTok goth? Who listens to the right music? Who knows the right bands? Who was already there in 1989? Who is allowed to wear which shirt? Who is allowed at which festival? Who said the wrong political thing? Who wrote a shitty comment ten years ago? Who is friends with whom? Who was not invited? Who liked which photo?

Honestly:

Have we completely lost our minds?

We are talking about a scene many people arrived in because they did not feel they belonged anywhere else.

A lot of us were already the strange kids. The goths. The freaks. The “satanists”, even though most of us spent more time getting our hair right than summoning any demons.

We were stared at. Laughed at. Harassed. Some were beaten. Some had trouble with their families. Some were outsiders at school.

And then you found those other black figures and thought:

Okay. Maybe I am not quite so wrong here.

And now we are the ones building the next damn walls between each other? Why?

We do not all have to be friends

And before anyone thinks I want some fake peace-and-love goth world: no. I do not. That would be completely unrealistic.

We do not all have to be friends. We do not all have to like each other. We do not have to share the same opinions. We do not have to listen to the same bands. I do not have to want a beer with everyone.

And there are things you have to push back on. There is behaviour that is shit. There are people you should keep your distance from. All true.

But we can still stay human.

That is the difference for me.

I can disagree with someone without denying they are a person. I can dislike someone and still not want them to suffer. I can say: “I do not want anything to do with you.” — without turning it into a campaign to destroy them.

We have to learn again to live with differences. And we have to learn again to look.

Support each other, for fuck’s sake

If someone in our scene is in trouble, we should ask more often:

Is there anything I can do?

Not just post. Not just drop a black heart. Actually ask.

Can I help you? Do you need someone? Shall I come with you? Shall I take you home? Do you want to talk? Or do you just want someone to sit next to you and shut up?

Sometimes a person does not need a big solution. Sometimes they just need another person. It is that simple. And maybe we should remember that again.

Especially before someone is dead

That is probably the point that sits with me most.

When someone dies, suddenly all the kind words arrive. Then we read: “You were a wonderful person.” “Thank you for everything.” “You will always stay in my heart.” “I will never forget our talks.” “I still had so much I wanted to tell you.”

And every time I think:

Why do we say these things so rarely while people are still alive?

Why is it easier to write an obituary than to say: “You matter to me.”

Why does a person have to die before we say how much they shaped us?

Why do we send flowers to a funeral but cannot manage for years to just drive over once?

Why?

I do not know either. And I do not exclude myself.

I have people I think: I should get in touch. I should call. I should finally go there again.

And then something comes up. Work. Stress. Tiredness. Life. Until life itself gets in the way.

Maybe that is the real lesson

Bruno Kramm’s death makes me sad. Very sad.

It also makes me think. Because this is not only about the death of a musician.

It is about another person leaving a scene that has been with me since I was young.

A scene changes. People get older. We get older. Our idols get older. Our friends get older. Our parents get older.

And at some point names start missing that we thought would simply always be there.

This is not some distant future. It is already happening.

Maybe this is also one of those moments when you notice your own youth is really over.

The people you looked up to are not immortal figures. They are people. With bodies that get ill. With hearts that eventually stop. Just like us.

With Stefan we were lucky

Maybe Bruno’s death hits me so hard because I remember Stefan’s illness.

I was afraid then. Properly afraid. And then it got better.

In early 2012 it was said that after his severe brain haemorrhage Stefan could move on his own again, speak, and take part in ordinary life. Rehabilitation was long, but he came back.

That was damn close. And maybe you forget again how close those things were.

Because when someone is back, their presence becomes normal again. You see them on stage and think: there is Stefan. Like always.

And that “like always” is actually an enormous gift. I only really see that again now.

You usually do not know the last time is the last time

That thought hurts. But it is true.

You rarely know when you are seeing a person for the last time.

Maybe you part and say: “Take care.” “See you soon.” “We’ll meet again.”

Maybe you hug. Maybe not. Maybe you are even annoyed with each other. Maybe you were in a hurry. Maybe you meant to write the next day.

And then it is over.

That is why those small moments matter. That evening at Zwischenfall. That beer. That stupid photo. Some conversation I probably cannot even reconstruct fully today.

Those are the things that stay. Not the perfect big moment. Often it is those completely ordinary evenings.

Our world is crazy enough already

I think a lot of people can feel that something is off.

Everything gets faster. Everything gets louder. Everyone is supposed to react to something all the time. Outrage here. Scandal there. The next disaster. The next fight. The next person we are supposed to collectively decide is shit.

Social media lives off us reacting. Preferably at once. Preferably angry.

And maybe that is bleeding into real life more than we want to admit.

We treat people like profiles. One wrong sentence and done. Block. Gone. Next.

But people do not work like that. People contradict themselves. People make mistakes. People change. People have bad days. People say stupid things.

Me too. You too. Everyone.

And at some point people die.

Maybe we should spend the short time in between being a little less awful to each other.

We could drop dead tomorrow

I know that sentence sounds drastic. I still want to write it exactly like that.

We could drop dead tomorrow.

And then? Did that argument matter? Did that comment matter? Was it really so important to prove once more that you know more about goth? Was your pride really more important than the person you have missed for two years? Was it really necessary to destroy someone?

I do not know. Everyone has to answer that for themselves. But I will ask myself those questions.

What I want from our scene

I do not want us all to suddenly hold hands. I want something much simpler.

Become human again.

Look after each other. Support each other. Help small bands. Go to events. Buy music and merch if you can. Support clubs. Support organisers.

But above all: support the people.

If someone is standing alone, say hello. If someone is lying drunk on the floor, do not just look away. If someone says they are in a bad place, maybe listen for more than three minutes. If a friend suddenly disappears, ask. If someone gets ill, do not only check in once at the start. Stay.

And if you love someone: say it.

For Bruno

I do not know if Bruno Kramm ever found out how many lives his music touched in some way. Maybe he did. Maybe not.

Mine was one of them.

Das Ich has shaped me since I was about 14. Part of the music that made me the person I am today also carries his handwriting. And I am grateful for that.

I wished there would have been many more years. Many more concerts. Many more strange images. Many more new sounds.

But we do not decide that.

“Nach dem letzten Klang”

I put my grief into music.

The song is called “Nach dem letzten Klang” and it is my personal homage to Bruno. Not official. Not perfect. And not with any claim to do justice to the work of someone who made music for decades.

It is simply what had to come out of me.

My homage to Bruno Kramm — “Nach dem letzten Klang”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jOHEC6oDqU8

Sometimes I can say things better with music than with ordinary words.

And personally: have an Altbier with my mum

Bruno, I do not know what comes after death. No idea. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Maybe there is some place we cannot imagine anyway.

But if you meet each other there:

Have an Altbier with my mum.

That is probably a strange sentence for an obituary. That is exactly why it belongs here.

Because death is not only big words. It is people. Memories. Small things. A beer. A song. A photo. An evening you did not think important enough to remember forever.

And years later you realise: those evenings were the important ones.

Do not wait

So do not wait.

Not with the call. Not with the message. Not with the apology. Not with “I love you”. Not with the visit. Not with the beer. Not with the concert. Not with the damn life.

We do not know how much of it is left. And we do not know how long the people next to us will still be here.

With Stefan we were afraid — and he fought his way back.

With Bruno the story ends differently.

And maybe that can at least remind us for a moment that none of this life is a given. Not the next morning. Not the next party. Not the next WGT. Not the next concert. Not the person next to you.

Look after each other. Not sometime. Now.

Support each other. Stand up for each other.

And please:

Please become human again.

Take care, Bruno.

Thank you for the music. And say hello to Mum from me. The Altbier is on me.

Frequently asked questions about Bruno Kramm and Das Ich

Who was Bruno Kramm?

Bruno Kramm was a musician, producer and co-founder of Das Ich. With Stefan Ackermann he helped shape Neue Deutsche Todeskunst from the early 1990s — electronics, theatre, expressionism and German language.

When did Bruno Kramm die?

In the night after the concert on 25 September 2026 in Granada. He was 58. Das Ich had played at Sala Planta Baja.

What is Das Ich?

Das Ich is a German band from the dark alternative scene. For many people, including me, that music was part of growing up — not smooth, not comfortable, but identity.

Why is Nici (Arsay) writing this?

Because Das Ich has been with me since I was 14. I did not know Bruno privately. His music was still part of my life. And because I am less occupied with dates right now than with how we treat each other in the scene while we are still here.