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The Tills
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When I saw them in Munich they looked gorgeous and at ease because they were at home in this city that they had charmed into loving them and sometimes worshipping them with a vengeance for their nightly ceremonies, a court following in their dynastically inclined city which seemed to have turned this dormant town into a moveable feast. When I saw them in Berlin they looked wild and slightly lost in the best possible way, wearing moustaches and the pride of people who know better than to feel lost, a gift of fate only bestowed upon the happy few. When I saw them in Paris they looked like they had just stepped out of a French movie that had never been made, neither in the 60s nor the 80s nor the naughts and surely not because of a lack of sex or pop or the sheer and beautiful provocation that youth is over and over again, for each time anew – but because they were the movie, it was already there, no point in trying to put that explosion of glamour and truth into a film. The Tills, Milen and Amedée, are, in other words, a cultural phenomenon of their own making. They do come from a thouroughly cosmopolitain background, the mother French-Bulgarian and publisher, the father a Munich institution as a museums man – but what is more, they are able to direct the vagabund longings of their period towards them, they are a magnet and their medium is music as much as the mirrow they provide for the rest of us, less blessed, devils only in our own minds.

People
The Tills
by Georg Diez