zombie

From Suburban Milksop to Graffiti Zombie

A fictional horror story with a real background

It is difficult to say exactly when he first came into contact with the graffiti virus. The first stories about the zombie who was not yet infected are too confusing and imprecise. But it must have been a male, not conspicuous person from the middle class, around 14 years old, normal environment. It was probably only a matter of time before he felt attracted to the graffiti in the neighborhood, copied it and eventually wore sneakers with wide laces. He now began to take an interest in other like-minded people and made contacts. Since hip-hop fever has spread across the entire planet, it is quite natural to meet people from all sorts of countries. Quite educational, by the way. Confronted early on with apartheid, the oppression of minorities and police violence, his friendship with a B-boy from his parallel class became the decisive factor. Thanks to him, he met even more color-crazy and style-obsessed people. Soon he was waking up at train bombings, painting his name on every wall and going to hip hop jams. He spent every free minute in the hip hop world. It was the transformation from a suburban milksop to a graffiti zombie. Lying to my family with excuses and sneaking out of the cozy sleeping house at night almost became a mission. I spent my entire four-year apprenticeship with graffiti and hip hop. What a crazy time - with real graffiti orgies: illegal painting at night, legal painting and drawing during the day, then going to a (still rare at the time) hip hop jam or concert (where we would also sneak away to bomb). We were totally crazy, always had new ideas and put them into practice. This seemingly endless idea of friendship, the sacrifice for the gang and for style were simply unique. Nothing and nobody could stop us. UpperClass conquered the world! Within a short time we became the epitome of hardcore bombing in Switzerland. It was amazing to see what developed from that. Or to put it from the perspective of the time: We became famous, Zombie had fame, was a radical! Others paid us respect and dedicated themselves to Pieces. I, in turn, met people who deserve my greatest respect. My family inevitably became aware of my daytime and nighttime activities: youth advocacy, wild style graffiti in the bedroom, African-American friends. My mother always thought my Pieces were beautiful, but with WholeCars she always said: "Does that really have to be sprayed over the windows?" My father took off without saying a word, but even he couldn't have changed me, couldn't have stopped me: I was a walking spray can - with the clear intention of spraying everything with paint. Style was never very important to me at the beginning. It had to be big and as shocking as possible. I always loved the nighttime walks in a neighborhood that didn't yet have my name on it. It was a special feeling to have the whole street under control, to be ready at any time to take the spray can forward - or to run. The basic idea of the gang was: to spread your name all over the city. Not for fame. Not for women. Not for money. No! For the gang. For yourself. For myself. Spraying trains - the ultimate thing for a hardcore bomber - became a kind of organized crime. Hours before the actual bombing we were already making our plans. We studied train schedules, composed crazy pictures on paper and cleaned our cans carefully (to leave them at the crime scene in case the police came). Then finally came the bombing, first always checking the crime scene and surroundings. Then access to a railway area with rolling screens. The bombing always went very quickly, everyone knew what to do. Then the distance from the crime scene, always one of the most delicate phases. If a police checkpoint caught us now as we stepped out of the bushes onto the brightly lit street, they would hardly let us pass without checking us.

But then it's time to get out of here, negative thoughts only disturb your aura, get to a safe place. Away from the street! Think about everything again, get annoyed about forgotten dedications or other things, or enjoy particularly cool styles. But the real moment only comes hours later. If at all. Because it also happened that we waited in vain for the train to arrive. These were the "inner ones". So called because they could only be found inside the heart of everyone who was there. No evidence. Nothing! Just imagine: these guys bust their asses to get everything organized and in the end you're left with nothing! So the idea is to intercept the spray-painted train on its first journey (because that can lead directly to the buff under certain circumstances) at a station, preferably while it's standing still, and take a photo. Which can sometimes be a torment in many ways early in the morning in winter: the train doesn't arrive, it's still too dark for a good photo, various SBB and other officials suddenly look very carefully at all the passengers waiting on the platform. We always had to appear as serious as possible at the station, and that after a sleepless and paint-splattered night. But falling asleep dead tired after work was probably the reward. I never slept so well again. And that was during the day, until it finally got dark again. The life of a zombie. Those were golden times. I don't think we really had enemies within the scene. If anything, they were jealous people, but I never had any problems with crossings or anything else. The scene was too small and too tight-knit. Everyone had just one enemy: the police! That was probably one of the pillars of my hip hop: everyone is the same, no matter how different they are. There was an ideology. Nothing else but the world should be changed. We made it colorful or beautified it with dances or songs. For me, some B-Boys were 1000 times cooler than a drunken punk. Back then, everyone had a reason for being a homeboy or a flygirl. Today, it's become a real nightmare: Hip Hop is commercialized. Today, all you need is the new 50 Cent as your ringtone on your cell phone and the right designer clothes, and you're in! Usually none of these little clowns that you see strutting down the street with their big mouths (as if they had just been deported from Campton to the mountain town of Zurich in a private jet) can dance (and breakdance at that), let alone paint graffiti. They can maybe do a rap by Eminem (which they learned by heart from "Bravo") and of course look cool and speak really cool. But these guys (and unfortunately girls too) have no idea about respect and tolerance! Sometimes I go to Hip Hop's grave, arrange the flowers and discuss things with him! Ask him what happened and why and wherefore. But I don't get any answers. Then I wish I could just lie there and be pitied. But as an undead, it is my duty, my task and my torment to outlive others in order to fulfill my mission.

Zombie UC December 2006 Zurich