“Sure,” he says “this town is dead.” I’m sitting in a bar in Solingen, a small town in Germany, talking to a local legend. Jacob is a Punk rocker born and bred, and is representative for artists in this town.

Solingen is a rainy city in North Rhine-Westphalia. It sits on the northern edge of the region called Bergisches Land, south of the Ruhr area and east of the Rhine, and has a population of about 170,000. It is known for the manufacturing of swords and knives and not much else. It is the town I was born in. Like many smaller towns in Germany, Solingen suffers from bloodletting: it has no college, and few jobs available to young people with leaving certificates. Not very appealing to anyone who wants to become a musician – so people leave town.

“After finishing school I stayed in Berlin for a while, where I first encountered punk.” Jacob tells me, fondling his Beck’s and taking a deep sip. “From there I moved to Cologne, where I started playing in bands and still do, even making it to a couple of US-tours and a record deal. But I never had the guts to sever all the ties that connected me to Solingen.” Jacob lives a small apartment in Solingen and has also rented a room in a shared flat in Cologne, where he stays if the band rehearsal of his current combo takes longer than expected, and to prepare for tours. “The one thing about Solingen that always fascinated me is the fact that we have more bands per capita than any other city in Germany. I guess this is why we came up with the term ‘Rock City No. 1′. ”

The few people left in Solingen fighting to keep up some kind of music scene are a close bunch. With only 2 venues hosting live shows, bands and promoters have to rely on improvised shows in rehearsal spaces whenever possible. To spread the word about Solingen, Jacob (who at the time had become the manager of one of the venues in town) and other promoters came up with the above mentioned slogan. Due to its DIY-shows and -culture, Rock City Solingen made a name throughout Germany, and for a couple of years bands were flocking to town. Not that they made any money with it.

“As it always happens, people move on. You did.” He points his finger at me and smirks. “But we never lost hope in this boring town. Venues closed, new ones opened up.” From a semi-professional approach of marketing shows, the next generation of artists has moved to a much more simple principle. They opened up a members club in the run-down storage room of a disused train station. Every member can run a show or event of his or her liking, all is financed by the club fees, and visitors pay a small entrance fee that makes you a club member for the night of the event only. “It’s the same old story for this town. But I still like it here, it’s so well-arranged and you get to know everyone. Anyhow, I’m off. See you around.” He sips the last mouthful of beer and leaves me to pay for it, slowly walking to the door. As I watch him departing into the rain, the first chords of the band on stage fill the room.