It is a song of the death, this existential ballad, it is a night without end and a sleep with no coming back, it is red like the moon and dark like the sun, it is Büchner and it is rock’n’roll, good and plain, with a voice full of anger and pain, Woyzeck is also about rage, quite true, it is about being beaten up, again and again, and here comes this guy, he looks like Adam from Adam and the Ants, this great, late post-punk new waviest band of bands, and he fucks your girlfriend, more or less infront of your eyes, at least infront of everybody else’s eyes, you are too afraid to see, because you know what will happen, and Büchner, this dark genius, has found a way to tell the story without any romantic self-pity, très outré, no, he tells it straight forward, like a fast song as a matter of fact, beautiful lyrics along the way, the man who walks like a razor (by the way, try entering razor blade in Google, and this motherfucking algorithm tells you again and again that you look for a game or something called razerblade, Eric Schmidt, may you rot in hell), the yes, without there be no no, and the no without there be no yes, the ether that swallows up everything, but Büchner pulls off another thing, he is totally pessimistic about everything man can do to change his fate and still there is a certain lightness, even humour in Woyzeck that is absent in almost any other dystopian piece of literature I know, and this is why Büchner is closer to Kafka than to Hölderlin, for example, madness in all kinds of cases, but this is good, clean paranoia – and as the audience walks out of the large space of the Schiffbau in Zurich after the last words of the great Irm Hermann about what a beautiful murder this has been, a murder as good as any you could ask for, as the audience passes by the dead dog and the teddy bears and all the rest of this debris strewn setting, you want to rip open their head and tear out their thoughts, and then again you don’t want to do that, you just want to drink a cold beer.