The Oktoberfest is a fun-filled, beer guzzling, celebration of Bavarian Culture with a colorful history.
If a tree falls in the forest devoid of people, does it make a noise? This koan was echoed at the 1978 Oktoberfest, when Erich Kiesl, then Munich’s mayor, forgot to utter the traditional mantra “O’zapft is!” after tapping the first barrel, signaling the event’s official opening. Did the Oktoberfest really take place without this vital ritual having been performed? While the scholars and pundits dispute this, let it be said that at least the media stood something to gain. Year after year, with numbing regularity, journalists and chroniclers scurry about the Oktoberfest in search of stories to feed the required footage or columns of their respective medium. Television programs and newspapers are filled with images and reports of Japanese tourists wearing Bavarian felt hats, American tourists clanking huge liters of beer (Mass) or sleeping them off and bands of Australians competing to down the most Wies’nbier in the least time — needless to say, not a pleasant sight while eating dinner. It may seem paradoxical, then, that this festival, almost exclusively devoted to beer-induced mirth, has always been relatively uneventful. Over the years, the police blotter has been filled mostly with reports of spontaneous brawls resulting in various grades of injuries, bouts of rowdiness, incidents of disturbing the peace and various larcenous acts — nothing unusual considering the masses that flock to the event every year from all corners of the world. There have, however, been several notable exceptions. In 1865, the cavalry was called in to break up a fistfight turned riot, whereupon 114 people were arrested; in 1892, the “starvation artist” Riccardo Sacco proclaimed he would stay locked up in a “hunger tower” for the duration of the event. A small crowd tried to break in to his windowed room, spawning yet another riot before Sacco was promptly escorted off the grounds to demonstrate his prowess elsewhere (in Café Wittelsbach, according to contemporary accounts). Since 1880, the Oktoberfest has had its very own police station. In that fateful year, politics and sex brought out Munich’s finest to dispose of a wax-figure scene deemed prurient and immoral at a stand depicting Leda and the Swan, and to take down posters in support of the Social Democratic Party, which had been prohibited by Bismarck. A women’s association alerted the Polizei in 1913 of a life-size doll that was being used for suggestive dances. In 1972, one tent reported the stealing of an entire mutton including the spit upon which it was roasting. The crime that makes all others pale in comparison, however, was that of 21-year-old Günther Köhler in 1980: a right-wing fanatic, Köhler detonated a bomb that killed 12 visitors and himself and wounded 213 others. Nonetheless, since its earliest days as a royal wedding celebration, replete with horse races and a large cattle auction, the Oktoberfest has generally been a well-controlled event. The festival has also been a place to enjoy novelties. In chronicling its evolution from a relatively small Munich celebration to the fiesta bavarica it is today, Oktoberfest historians carefully note the unprecedented and unusual forms of public entertainment that have gradually made their appearance. Each new ride or shooting gallery was at one time considered quite an attraction. In the 1830s, visitors could step into a “Russian swing,” a miniature Ferris wheel with four shovel-like seats. By 1907, the swing had been upgraded to the large “Russian wheel,” featuring 12 little open cabins. Since 1979, visitors have been able to choose between a classic Ferris wheel and the slightly gaudier Wittenborg wheel. As for the Oktoberfest’s simple carrousels, which have graced the Wies’n since 1835, they have been overshadowed by extraordinary modern contraptions that must undergo long examinations by Germany’s technical inspection service (TÜV) before being put into operation. Neither the officials nor the public are eager to see a repeat performance of the roller-coaster collapse of 1921. In fact, in 1976, genuine daredevils were even deprived of the thrill of the questionably safe “Loopingracer,” which was the first ride to have been banned from the festival. In the Oktoberfest’s earlier years — before international tourism, TV, bungee jumping and the Internet — stunts and scenes were all the rage. In 1820, for example, while people amused themselves with such homespun activities as dancing, sack races and tree-climbing contests, a certain Madame Reichard started a memorable if short trip from the Wies’n in a hydrogen balloon. She disappeared from sight, but landed safely near Zorneding some miles east of Munich, and returned to the safety of the festival by evening thanks to the kindness of a passing draper. In 1883, a fellow named Sekurius successfully repeated the “stunt,” however a similar attempt by another thrill-seeker in 1891 failed because his hydrogen balloon sprang leaks while being filled — which was probably a blessing in disguise, since his initial intention was to sail through fireworks. In time, these performances were replaced with participatory attractions, from a large pillow that was inflated under the fairgoer until he was eventually thrown from it, to courses on which people could drive cars (1928). Shows, especially ethnographic ones, long remained some of the Oktoberfest’s most resilient and unusual features. They brought an eclectic mix of exotic people to Munich — Bedouins, Egyptian horsemen, groups of Africans and even Buffalo Bill, sharpshooter Annie Oakley (“Annie Get Your Gun”) and a band of authentic cowboys. These types of show were the brainchild of Karl Hagenbeck, who presented Nubians in 1879. Human abnormalities were also a favorite among Wies’n visitors. Giants, dwarfs, the obese, the hairy (Lionel the Lionman, for example) and others with physical deformities were enthusiastically put on display. A more sensitive view of the human condition in the post-World War II years put an end to such cruel, medieval spectacles. Perhaps the only remaining sideshow that smacks of the “freak days” is that of illusionist Schichtl, whose traditional “decapitation” still draws crowds. over the years, the Oktoberfest has become an international event. The police docket might reveal some unusual or even scurrilous aspects of the “world’s greatest folk festival,” but, for the Bavarians and the city magistrates, the important thing is to keep order in spite of all the festivities and drink. Walling in the Oktoberfest, as some have suggested, is not necessary, for few things can ruffle Bavarian equanimity. Beer-related issues, however, can: its price, its flavor and the manner in which it is served. The move to the glass Mass, the creation of the standard liter-size Eurokrug, the transition from wooden to the more practical and economical stainless-steel beer barrels, which were first foisted onto an unsuspecting public in 1983 at the posh Käfer tent, are all issues that are hotly debated each year, long before the Oktoberfest begins and long after it ends. Be that as it may, visitors experience a well-planned event that is carefully monitored by vigilant Bavarian policemen who are not known for being faint-hearted when it comes to keeping the peace. One of the weak links in a chain of well-controlled events, however, is the barrel-tapping ceremony. It has kept onlookers riveted ever since its inception in 1950. In 1971, Mayor Hans-Jochen Vogel, after 13 years of excellent tapping, made a small error on the third whack, which he promptly paid for with a shower of suds. In 1973, Mayor Kronawitter did everything right, but his Mass had a hole in it: as he turned and joyously proclaimed “O’zapft is”, the anxious spectators were given a veritable Oktoberfest bath. Christian Ude, Munich’s current Oberbürgermeister (mayor), relates that in school a teacher told him that to become mayor of Munich the only skill needed was the ability to tap a beer keg. When his time came, Ude practiced as if his life depended on it. Someone suddenly noticed that he was left-handed, which meant the stage and standing areas for the city’s dignitaries and its press corps had to be switched around at the last minute. After a restless night of dreaming of beer-flooded tents, Ude performed his duty without spilling a drop. In disbelief of his luck, however, he continued to hammer away at the tap. “I stopped only after the spectators started chanting ‘stop it’,” Ude recalls. “Well, if that’s the case, I thought, I might as well stop. I said ‘O’zapft is!’ And that was it.” With that said, the world’s greatest beer festival could begin. <<<