Oktoberfest: What is the atmosphere like at the after-Wiesn party? – Munich

The last skepticism evaporates the moment the DJ climbs onto his desk, takes out a saxophone and begins to accompany the booming pop music. Confetti rain has just poured over the crowd, small snippets are still stuck to some wet foreheads, and small firework sparks are already flying through the air. It’s hot and loud and yes, it smells like beer tents and sweat, but you have to give one thing to the party’s credit: the atmosphere is fantastic.

“After-Wiesn parties” are generally considered a refuge for those who missed the jump. As a last chance for those remaining who couldn’t find what they were looking for in the tent and are now bobbing their five-meter-shaped stomachs around on the dance floor. As places that only exist because the actual party is over, and therefore don’t have to offer much other than being open and easily accessible.

But the first steps into the “Wiesnclub” in the Old Congress Hall shake your own prejudices. With the Theresienwiese still behind us, suddenly there is an elephant statue on the red carpet, next to it a lady in a red costume is swaying, her train floating gently over the heads of those arriving. After the Bavarian sky, it’s almost like a culture shock.

The first drunks stagger past the cloakroom with glassy eyes, but some of the conversations in line are surprisingly concrete. “Tell me, Sahra Wagenknecht, this politician,” a Swiss man begins, stopping briefly with his colleague. “Is it on the left,” he asks, taking a short breather; his stay in the Paulaner tent has left its mark, “or is it on the right?” Somehow both, someone answers. “So in the middle?” the Swiss is confused; later the horseshoe theory will be summarized to him in a slurring manner.

There’s not much going on on the dance floor at 10:30 p.m., Sisi films are playing on a loop on the wall. In the VIP area behind the bar there is a man with a Rolex on his wrist, in front of him a bottle of champagne for 370 euros and ceramic beer mugs. He shrugs his shoulders and laughs, but it’s still tasty. What else is he planning to do? “You never know where an evening with such nice ladies will lead,” he says, winking at one of his younger companions. “Come on, let’s go,” she says to her friend. In one corner, a jacket from the luxury brand Bogner lies crumpled on the floor.

There are only ten minutes between the yawning emptiness and the packed hall. “I need a dollar, a dollar is what I need,” the song by Aloe Blacc resounds through the loudspeakers, and the crowd roars along with all their hearts – after an evening in the festival tent, many of them will probably find themselves in the lyrics. Waitresses balance champagne in fluorescent bottles over the heads of the celebrants, small clouds of steam rise from the ice in the vats.

Well, it does get a little cliché. A bank from the surrounding area has rented a table, and no, the Dow Jones is not explained there without being asked, but actually it is. Last week there was an equity conference, many listed companies came, important investors met important issuers, yes, you were there yourself and therefore somehow important, would you like to have a drink? Serious men are seriously typing on their smartphones on sofas, and trainees are celebrating at the children’s table.

Outside the door, button in ear, tailcoat open: Max Hager, project manager of the “Wiesnclub” in the Old Congress Hall. The party motto “The Kini lives” is based on King Ludwig II of Bavaria, hence the Sisi films, and the oriental flair, well, the Kini also owned a “Moroccan house”. “Many people think it’s just a party,” he says, “but the demands are enormous.” The guests would all come at the same time, come in straight away and want everything straight away. The planning goes on all year round. Behind the project manager, a group of men stumble out of the door, one of them carrying a cuddly toy giraffe on a leash. They slowly trot home, Hager watches them in silence.

And then back inside, the DJ is climbing straight up, saxophone in hand. He purses his lips, the crowd swells and roars – and suddenly you realize: Damn, today is only Thursday and this party is way too good. Then the confetti pops and everyone sings: “I don’t care, I love it.”

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