Zatopeks came out swinging, and the room erupted before Will DeNiro even finished the first line of *Kings of the Hotel Mile.* It wasn’t just music—it was a battle cry, a call to arms for the unhinged mass of punks, misfits, and lunatics packed into the Sputnikhalle. The floor shook, the walls trembled, and the air buzzed with an electric kind of madness.
The stage was a war zone. DeNiro, equal parts poet and punk preacher, commanded the room with sharp, poetic lyrics delivered like jabs to the gut. His words hit harder with every song, each line cutting through the chaos like a switchblade. The band behind him was relentless, tight and furious, driving the crowd into deeper levels of delirium with every chord, every snare hit.
And the Puke-Fest crowd in the Sputnikhalle Münster? Absolute anarchy. The mosh pit was a swirling vortex of flailing limbs, drenched in beer and sweat, bodies slamming into each other without care or caution. It wasn’t about aggression; it was about release, a collective exorcism of every ounce of pent-up energy and frustration. People dove from the stage like human cannonballs, landing in a sea of hands that sent them soaring across the room.
The hits kept coming. *City Limits* had the whole place shouting the chorus like it was scripture, while *Jarama Valley* brought a weird, almost surreal unity to the chaos, a moment where everyone seemed to move as one. *Quality* was a shot of adrenaline straight to the brainstem, fast and loud and wild enough to make even the back-row stragglers lose their minds. And *Jimmy*—holy hell, *Jimmy*—was a riot unto itself, the kind of song that turns a pit into a full-blown storm.
By the time they closed with *Mary Lou,* the crowd was a wreck. Shoes were missing, shirts torn, bruises blooming like badges of honor. But when the final notes rang out, a wild cheer erupted, louder than anything that had come before. People hugged, high-fived, and stumbled out of the pit with exhausted, ecstatic grins plastered across their faces.
Zatopeks didn’t just play a set—they lit the room on fire and let the crowd burn with it. It was raw, poetic, and beautifully chaotic, the kind of show that leaves you reeling and wondering how the hell you’ll ever come down from it. Pukefest didn’t deserve them, but for one night, the Sputnikhalle was their kingdom, and no one left unscathed… 🥰🍻😎