Werner Warnken

I met Werner shortly after I arrived in Lübeck, Germany in 1992. He was working as the Hausmeister for the legendary Hüx discotheque, just around the corner from where I was living. Thanks to Werner, I don’t think I ever had to pay to get in there for decades—at least until the years rolled on and people didn’t have a clue who I was anymore, as inevitably happens as the decades pass!

I would often frequent the Rauchfang pub where Werner would also go drinking. There was an old acoustic guitar hanging on the wall, and the two of us would regularly take it down and strum tunes for the other locals. We were served by Uschi Winkelmann, downing the odd Korn, Saurer, or whatever was on offer. Once the evening was in full swing, we would inevitably head straight across to the Hüx to down even more Saurers.

At one stage, we found ourselves chasing the exact same girl—unsuccessfully for the both of us. Werner, ever the resourceful craftsman, painstakingly fashioned a custom Mercedes-Benz star for her car; I went and wrote her a song which, in hindsight, was probably a bit over the top... We both failed miserably. Oh well—she moved on from there, and we ended up in the same old place time and time again, sharing a drink and having a laugh at ourselves.

Werner was a thoroughly practical man and often a port of last call in a crisis. Once, my jacket was stolen with my flat keys zipped inside, and Werner came straight round with his tools and know-how to help me break into my own flat!

He also introduced me to the wry, dry humour of North German cult filmmaker Detlev Buck, whose films I absolutely loved. Werner would croon over those scenes with his inimitable "Braunkohl" Bremen accent, delighting in every punchline.

It also took me almost a decade to learn how to pronounce his name properly. With my barmy English accent, I would always call him "Woerner" instead of "Werner", which was an endless source of amusement for him and everyone around us.

To the biking community across Northern Germany, he was affectionately revered as Guzzi Werner—an adept mechanic who could fix absolutely anything. A trained Steinsetzer (master stone paver) by trade in Germany, Werner was a skilled craftsman whose hands were just as natural setting heavy stones as they were tuning motorcycle engines.

Speed and motorbike racing were deep in his blood. When he was younger, Werner competed directly on the daunting tarmac of the Nürburgring. He also made the journey several times to experience and race at the legendary Isle of Man TT—revering the terrifying 180mph compression of Bray Hill and the high-speed sweeps over the Mountain Course.

His practical genius carried straight into music: he didn’t just buy a guitar off the rack, he hand-built his own Telecaster during an instrument-making course on Formentera. In our band, he held down slide guitar, dobro, and rhythm guitar with genuine soul.

Werner was a truly lovely guy, and he helped me out seriously on more than a few occasions over the years. Whenever life threw an unexpected problem your way, you knew you could rely on him without hesitation.

I don’t have that many photographs of Werner that I can easily lay my hands on right now—though I’m pretty sure there’s an old cardboard box back in Lübeck awaiting my rescue. In it, no doubt, are snapshots of wild, smoky nights at the Rauchfang, and a good few from the Pannekoke to boot.

I know just how much he genuinely enjoyed playing in the band with all of us, and it breaks my heart to think that there won’t be a reunion. But as long as these recordings play and we share his memory, Werner’s spirit, that roaring humor, and his weeping slide guitar will live on right here.