How I wish my lips would lie completely still in my face and they would not be playing around, telling a story into every auditory canal passing by, a story which I myself already have had enough of. That story is surely capable of performing some interesting dances upon the audiences` eardrums. But my eardrums are so bored and their once perfectly waxed floor is beaten depth and blind by an uncountable number of dancing steps, just like it is in so many small-town dancing schools.One… Two… Three… Step… Of course, my moustached friends would love to report again and once more. Belching out the old story once again and spreading an unpleasant smell throughout the room. They would hold a long-winded speech about earliest childhood memories which - completely blurred - are haunting through their heads. How I was won in a raffle in the People`s Republic of Yugoslavia by my legal guardians and how they sneaked me through into Erich Honecker`s Republic, hidden between Eastern German tupperware-replications. Eloquently they were colouring the pictures using too much colour. Coloured much too much, my childhood would be - slightly ashamed - completely at the audience`s mercy. Six year old – set the first fire, eight year old – first look at the schoolmistresses` underwear and nine year old – the grief over the first pet which died of thirst in early life. There is not much to tell about the tenth year of life and therefore it is just like the seventh - not part of the story. The eleventh year has deserved to be mentioned, because it was awarded with the taste of the first Western German chewing gum. Vaunting, puberty would begin much too early and mentioned escapades and excesses would only be half the truth. Beautiful narrated, my teenage was embedded in a warm swelling of musical, sexual and intellectual success which, offering unequalled opportunities, had to be prepared for longer day`s marches. Then my bulging lips would come to the story`s most captivating part which has the smell of butyric acid. Oh, if my lips had their own small eyes, they would flare up at that point, just like the passion of drunken teenagers does. First tries to play the triangle, a sexual relationship with the piano teacher that was broad in the beam. Subsequently, touring as an entertainer in front of an audience of Siberian workers and worldwide fame as an offhandedly versifying flutist would perfectly season the hodgepodge of this a little bit overdrawn cock and bull story. But nothing of it is true. I never had piano lessons. There were never any escapades or excesses worth to be written down in my diary. And I never went to Siberia. My personal-dj-data-sheet never began as a house-dj called “TuneTurner” and I never worked on Goa as “DJ Trackpitcher”. I was merely born into the tranquillity of the dying DDR and now, over 20 years later, I gave myself an English name, just to prevent anybody from realizing that I - besides of working as a forester in Jena - am devoted to. music.