Shortly before half past twelve, Leon, a well-tipged, bearded nun, stands at the bar and bumps into each other slightly. He looks you in the eye and introduces himself. He also says his last name, but he’s so drunk that it’s not written for his sake. And then he shouts: “Beer, beer, beer!” He’s had a lot of that already, and he wants a lot more of it. Before he whizzes off again towards the dancing bees and Pumuckl, Leon politely says goodbye and adjusts his habit.
Disguised students and alcohol. That says a lot about the Biedersteiner carnival, but it is so much more than that. For the residents of the Biedersteiner, a student residence in Schwabing, the carnival is the highlight of the year. Then hundreds of people in disguise walk through their corridors, young Munich bands play live in their common rooms and everyone pitches in to somehow do justice to the chaos. They shape their dorm life with what they earn from carnival. Biedersteiner is also a Munich myth, a story about letting go and breaking out. The students in the dormitory maintain this myth, but it is becoming increasingly difficult for them – and they ask themselves how long carnival can remain as it has always been.
Four bands performed at the Biederstein carnival this year. They all come from Munich and the region.
(Photo: Catherina Hess)
It’s Saturday evening and the air is clear and cold. There is a queue of several hundred people in front of the dormitory. They come as Smurf, as Donald Duck and – one suspects where the inspiration came from – as Barbie and Ken. A guest stopped by at 2 p.m. He was then able to watch the students decorate the area and set up the shotbox. The shotbox is a container converted into a bar. Only short dishes are served.
Shortly before midnight you meet Fiona in the queue in front of the shotbox. Because she has just completed her teaching degree and doesn’t want her students to know where she goes to party, she doesn’t give her last name. Today she is dressed as chocolatier Wonka from the movie of the same name. Top hat, suit, everything in purple. She also has chocolate with her. She had been to the Biederstein carnival several times, even before the pandemic, and always thought it was good. But she also says: “I think it’s a shame that it’s so much smaller than it used to be and that there aren’t so many floors.”
It’s true: the Biederstein carnival has shrunk. Instead of having two separate parties, the Atrium and the Keller carnival, as before, there is now only one party, which takes place on the first two weekends in February. The infamous winding basement is off-limits, with the exception of the bicycle cellar. The fire blanket is broken down there, partly because of the parties. In many rooms you can see beer mug-shaped holes in the coating. The student union (Stuwerk) has therefore banned the Biederstein residents from celebrating in the basement, says Horst Volling, caretaker of the dormitory and its walking history book for 35 years. The consequence: Instead of the previous almost 1,000 guests per party, there are now only a few hundred. Less than an hour after the start there is already an admission stop. Many dozens of costumed people have to be put off.
The rush was so great that many people had to be sent away.
(Photo: Catherina Hess)
Markus Stadler is one of those responsible for the parties this year. The carnival, he says, is something that only works through the commitment of the students. But the motivation for this is dwindling, on the one hand because large parts of the party would simply be lost due to fire protection and they would not receive any information from Stuwerk as to when they could celebrate in the rooms again. And on the other hand, because the fluctuation in the dormitory is so high, the waiting lists for dormitory places are too long. Stadler says: “We have the problem that people move in so late that they can hardly get involved anymore. Knowledge is lost. Student life is dying here.” His predecessor Martin Bader says: “Carnival is more than just partying.”
There is a group of a dozen people at the carnival, all of whom have coordinated their costumes. They go as a “Sekt-ä”, a sect, but with a lot of sparkling wine. And all of them are former Biedersteiner residents. Valeria Dobler is one of them and she says: “The Biedersteiner, that was Munich for us.” But since a student died in a fire in the student city in 2021, the relationship between Stuwerk and students has become difficult. Another former student, Susikrater, says that the nice thing about Biedersteiner is that as a former student you always like to return, even decades after completing your studies. “But it feels like it’s changing so much that this will no longer be possible in 20 or 30 years.”
Popular costume this year: Ken from the Barbie movie.
(Photo: Catherina Hess)
Someone who keeps the Biedersteiner myth alive is Horst Volling, the caretaker. He keeps old newspaper reports, posters and flyers in a drawer in his workshop. On many of them the prices are still in German marks. Volling is also a DJ at the carnival: “But I only do the after-hours,” says the man in his mid-sixties. This carnival will be his last. What happens next? The students will see that.
Shortly after three, Volling climbs behind the DJ desk and starts playing. Virtually every square centimeter of the floor is now sticky. The air in the room is stagnant and smells of sweat and alcohol. Many of the guests have already left, and what remains are the residents, who are completely free to sway to the last of the champagne.