Josefine Baker sings in Vienna

I’m travelling to Vienna. On the way, I find the explanation for the economic crisis. Because of it, the government is currently investing a lot of money in infrastructure measures. There are miles and miles of building sites everywhere, which means I can’t keep my business appointments in Vienna. Lost orders are paving the way through the crisis.

Knowing your way around many places in the world is great. It gives you a feeling of control over something that is becoming increasingly complex and actually uncontrollable. I could almost switch off the sat nav. The Viennese still punish every little mistake with wild honking, and I can find a parking space in front of Georg’s hotel after just three laps around the Praterstern.

We’re going to a musical: Josefine Baker. At the very last minute, the four of us top performers arrive in front of the theatre. Rushed by the stress of the day, we settle into our seats. The show begins.

I don’t like shallow entertainment. So if shallow, then really shallow and idiotic, preferably lowbrow, but above all completely devoid of content. In two words: American Pie. Musicals are shallow entertainment. I’ve never been a fan of musicals, but if they throw a cute little and pleasantly meaningless story with a few catchy schmaltzy lines at a gently stirred audience: accepted. In three words: West Side Story.

Josefine Baker is not one of those musicals. Completely incoherent and affected, this piece of rubbish attempts to “bring closer” the falsified history of blues, jazz, boogie woogie and gospel to the audience within two hours, accompanied by quotes from Martin Luther King and images of the Ku Klux Klan and Hurricane Kathrina. The attempt to bring it closer to me fails at around minute 25, when my chair slowly tilts backwards against the wall in a resting position.

The non-existent arc of suspense maximises the impact of the meaningless plot. Yes, the original American cast sings well. But if they understood what kind of merciless rubbish they are bumpily rattling off between the songs, they would probably be constantly banging their heads against something hard on the stage. The biggest mess came at the end: Josefine Baker danced naked. There weren’t even any nupsies in this piece.

Afterwards, we wander through the rain into an almost empty pub. The DJs serve up a music menu with a wild selection of the most colourful styles and songs. Everyone can choose their favourite – the garcon gives advice and announces the choice and dedication with a megaphone. How wonderfully weird and empty of content! How much space there is to make a lot out of a little nothing!