"She told me to start drinking now, because I won't be happy once I get down there," Berkhahn said. "There" was Mostra D'oltremare Laghetto di Fasilides, a national park on the outskirts of Naples, and the venue for that day's Lost In A Moment party. "I asked her what's wrong. She said, 'Everything.'"
Maybe she's joking? "Maybe," he said, clearly unmoved.
An hour later, showered and dressed in a loose burgundy shirt—an understated choice, relatively speaking—Berkhahn strolled into the marble lobby of the Hotel Palazzo Esedra. In one hand was the single piece of gear he travels with: the "DJ clutch," a small leather bag that contains his headphones and USB sticks. Kristian Beyer, the DJ half of Âme, was at the concierge's desk giggling about something. Ahlers smiled at Berkhahn from a couch. When he took the seat next to her, she pulled a Peroni from her handbag. Berkhahn sulked. "Wirklich?" She nodded. He sighed and took the beer.
These two often find themselves in crisis mode. Lost In A Moment is a risky concept. The idea is to venture beyond the established club circuit and into venues never before used in this way. There's no telling what could go wrong. Sometimes it's something small—the venue was more conventional than expected, say, or the security turned out to be a little aggressive. But sometimes it's catastrophic. In June and July, Lost In A Moment parties were cancelled in Barcelona and Amsterdam, in both cases because local governments abruptly revoked the venue's license (in the case of Amsterdam, just days before the event). This uncertainty creates a lot of extra work, stress and sometimes disappointment for everyone involved, to say nothing of expense—even with most of the artists waiving their fees, Lost In A Moment parties tend to operate at a loss.
But the pay-off—an intimate party with a devoted crowd in a striking outdoor location—is irresistible. "The whole thing with nightlife is those special moments," says Marcus Worgull, a Cologne DJ and producer who's been part of the Innervisions family since the beginning. "You have a couple of DJ sets that go OK, or that you don't like because you couldn't get in the right mood or whatever. But then you have those very, very special nights when everything is perfect. And even in this perfectness, there are little highlights that will stick in your mind forever."
Moments like these are what make dance music compelling as an art form, but they seem more and more elusive as time goes on. This is why Innervisions is so widely-loved: in their records, their performances and their parties, they are consciously devoted to creating these moments, both for their audience and themselves.
You can hear this in their music. In a genre defined by functionality, Innervisions gives you the full orchestra. Their records and their DJ sets are packed with soaring strings, barnstorming arpeggios, unabashed emotion and cinematic flourishes. This style isn't for everyone, but for their fans these artists are consistently extraordinary, and even skeptics will admit they do what they do very well. This is probably why Dixon and Âme have risen so steadily up RA's annual DJ and live act polls, eventually installing themselves right at the top.
In our 2014 in review Exchange, a few of us speculated about why these guys were so popular. A few weeks later in Berlin, Berkhahn told me we'd missed the most important thing: the Lost In A Moment parties. In his opinion, artists who play at Lost In A Moment have an opportunity that's invaluable for DJs: the chance to play in a situation that's far more memorable and compelling than most clubs and festivals (precisely the advantage that makes being a resident at Berghain such a remarkable gig). This allows them to play more interesting music and make a bigger impression on their audience.
Arriving at the venue that afternoon, it was hard to tell what everyone was worried about. Mostra D'oltremare Laghetto di Fasilides is a stunning location, a vast, leafy park with roaming geese and a small castle in a pond (apparently a "faithful reconstruction of the Gondar castle and its swimming pool, in the Imperial City Of Facil Ghebbì in Africa"). The afternoon was warm and breezy, the dance floor full of young and upbeat Neapolitans. Onstage, Worgull DJ'd barefoot in the shade of an umbrella. He turned to smile at his arriving friends, and Berkhahn popped onstage to give him a hug, then bashfully acknowledged the wave of cheers that came when he entered the crowd's field of vision.
The afternoon unfurled nicely, thanks in part to the careful engineering of the running order. Berkhahn played right after Worgull, kick-starting the party by delivering its biggest act early on, a scheduling move that would be impossible at most clubs or festivals (where the biggest artist invariably plays last). Recondite played live at dusk, just as the sun dipped behind the palm trees around the park. For some reason I thought he'd be playing when we arrived, and I made the mistake of saying this out loud. "Are you kidding?" Berkhahn said. "Lorenz could never play now! That would be all wrong." Now I understood why: the smooth and gloomy melodies that define Recondite's music perfectly suited the cooler night air and brought things down nicely after Dixon's flamboyant party-rockers.
Early in Recondite's set, two white columns of light shot up on either side of his bobbing figure. This was Robert Grunwald, Innervisions' go-to lighting guy, asserting himself for the first time that night. Grunwald does lights at Panorama Bar, and his work at Innervisions Überall parties at Berghain landed him a role as this crew's traveling lights technician. As Recondite burrowed further and further into his sleek and moody set, Grunwald lowered the two spotlights toward the crowd like a drawbridge. The first full barrage didn't come until the first big track of the night: "Levo," the melancholic roller from Recondite's album on Innervisions, Iffy.
Beyer drove the party home with a three-hour solo set. He began with house tracks so linear and sprawling they almost had a Krautrock edge, and two hours later was soaring through technicolour cuts like Andre Lodemann's new one on Innervisions, "Leaving The Comfort Zone." Berkhahn hopped on at the end for a bit of back-to-back. By then there were a dozen or so people dancing on the multi-leveled stage—the artists and everyone else who'd worked on the party, plus a gaggle of randoms who'd somehow made it back there. The whole crew was gazing out at a sea of faces that flickered in and out of view (Grunwald was really going for it with the lights by now). When it was finally over, the DJs smiled for a few selfies, then slipped out the back gate to a fleet of waiting vans.
20 minutes later, everyone was comfortably installed at an outdoor pizzeria that had stayed open just for them. One waiter, as he dropped off a bucket of mussels, pointed at Berkhahn and drily stated: "Deek-son." (He, too, would get a selfie.) Eating pizza and shellfish and passing joints around the long table, the crew considered going to an after-party—maybe someone could even play a bit?—but ultimately decided to call it a night. After all, Berkhahn and Beyer were on early flights back to Berlin, as they were most Mondays, to catch a moment with their young children before school that morning.
"Bringing my daughter to kindergarten on Monday, that's the best," Beyer told me. "You've had this crazy weekend in front of 3,000 screaming people, then next morning you're on the underground with everyone and you think, 'Right, this is real life. The other stuff is just a bubble.'"
Sitting on that patio, I thought I sensed some relief. Despite initial concerns, the party had been a success. But as I learned a few days later, no one felt that way. "I needed to hold back not to explode after I saw the venue," Berkhan said over email. At one point, Ahlers had told him, only half-jokingly, that if he didn't fire her for the event, she'd resign.
I spoke to Berkhahn and Beyer about this again a couple of months later at the Innervisions office in Berlin. By then, Lost In A Moment had taken more hard knocks—Barcelona had been cancelled, and just that morning they'd just lost the venue for Amsterdam, something they now discussed with a kind of detached amusement. Conversation eventually turned to the Naples party.
"We had the discussion with the promoter afterwards about how bad we thought everything was and how much better it could have been," Berkhahn said. "He said 'Yeah, yeah, I know I fucked up, but two things—"
"'First, I love you,'" Beyer interrupted
"Yes, exactly," Berkhahn laughed. "He said: 'I really love you guys. Plus, you don't know how hard I had to fight to keep the license for that party. There were so many mafia demanding money, threatening to shut it down. I had to pay so much just to keep it going!' That was his response to how badly it was produced. I replied saying, 'Yes, thank you, but this is two different things. If you promise to have the sound system, have the sound system. If you promise to have the stage, have the stage. You know? But now I'm sitting here—Barcelona is cancelled, Amsterdam is cancelled—and I'm thinking, 'You know what? He actually did do a pretty good job!"
This shows why Innervisions is so effective as a team: they're very serious about what they do, and they're frank about their dissatisfactions. But at the same time, they stay calm and good-humored even in the face of disaster.
"They know exactly what they want and they have very high standards," says Andrew Kelsey of Liaison Agency, who books Innervisions artists in the US. "But that makes it more interesting for me, and for the promoter as well. A lot of artists, all they want is the biggest fee, the biggest crowd. Fine. But these guys actually want quality. They want to reach the people who are into their music—not some random 10,000 people, but maybe 2,000 that really care about them—and they want to give them the best experience possible. Fees are secondary; in fact, a lot of times they'll take a cut of their fees and put it toward production costs. I mean, getting Robert Grunwald from Berghain to do the lights, that money's gotta come from somewhere—those flights, those hotels. So for me, for them, for the promoter, it's not just a date on a calendar, it's an actually fun project and everyone puts their utmost care into it."
This energy would seem to arise from the seemingly flawless chemistry among Innervisions' core artists, namely Berkhahn, Beyer and Wiedemann. "We trust each other," says Beyer, "everyone found his position, which everyone is able to fulfill." Those positions are roughly as follows: Berkhahn and Beyer are the curators and decision-makers, Wiedemann is the creative engine. As a label, Innervisions is a pure expression of Berkhahn and Beyer's tastes—the litmus test is simply, "Would we play this?" But the actual content often comes from Wiedemann, most notably the music of Âme.
"Sometimes we have great music, sometimes not so great" says Berkhahn. "And then we have Âme. Without Âme, Innervisions is kind of nothing. If I'm honest, the Château Flight records from the early days and all of Âme's releases—for me, that's the key of Innervisions. And the key of Âme's releases is mainly Frank. But then again, without Kristian, Frank would be totally lost, because he can't really make decisions."
Beyer works more in the role of an engineer and, as Berkhahn puts it, "executive producer." Just as Innervisions couldn't exist without Âme, Âme couldn't exist with just Beyer or Wiedemann alone. "We are very different personalities, but that's why we need each other," Wiedemann says. "We grew old together, we're like a couple now. I trust him a lot and that's why Âme works, I guess. He's like my Quincy Jones."
Take "Rej," the 2005 single that remains the label's most iconic track. This is quintessential Innervisions: vast, melodic and utterly grandiose. "We made at least 20 different versions," Wiedemann says, "then threw away 80% of it."
"Kristian came along and pew!" says Berkhahn. "Stripped it down to the bone. Frank provides 80% of what needs to be there—you know, the magic, the essential stuff. In most Âme tracks, nearly every element was there before Kristian touched it, but then Kristian is pushing Frank constantly: 'Try that again, more of that, no that's not right, that's too Innervisions, too Âme-last-year, just one step more…' And this is absolutely needed for them."
A similar chemistry exists between Berkhahn and Beyer, Innervisions' marquee DJs. Beyer digs for the records and shares everything he finds with Berkhahn, then Berkhahn makes edits of nearly all of them and shares them with Beyer. Unusual as that may sound, it's a natural extension of their friendship. Along with Marcus Worgull and Gerd Janson, Beyer has long been Berkhahn's main source for new music—he was running a record store when they first met, and has been giving him tracks for years.
"These days I'm more of a file-digger, you know?" Beyer says. "I'm still really old school in that I'm checking absolutely everything, even trance stuff, hard techno and so on, because I know that you will always find something somewhere, and this makes a difference to the others who are just checking the normal stores, promo platforms, Beatport or whatever. So all week, or at night in hotels, this is what I'm doing—wearing my headphones, digging."
Just as Beyer is a natural digger, Berkhahn is a born optimizer, always making improvements through small tweaks. The best example of this is probably his edit habit. "As much as I'm free-floating while I DJ, I also prepare before and invest time and effort into every single one of the tracks," he says. "Half of that is just technical nonsense, a longer intro or something that makes it fit more to the way I want it. I'll take a real techno track for instance, but in Ableton I'll change the tempo from 132 to 124. Then maybe I edit a hi-hat here and there. Little things. More than half of the edits, people will not realize I've changed anything, but it has a very real effect.
"Take Levon Vincent's 'Anti-Corporate Music,'" he went on. "12 minutes or whatever it is, you know? A real journey. I made it to nine minutes, chopped parts here and there, EQ'd parts here and there. I didn't change it dramatically, no one will notice it, but I made it so it fits perfectly in my sets. And it's a big tune, a really big tune in my sets." To further enhance its impact, Berkhahn likes to ask the lighting guy to make the club completely dark for the duration of the track. Grunwald, of course, knows this routine by heart.
Honest feedback is another key force at Innervisions. "We've been part of other companies, and we've seen how working with friends makes things harder, because they don't talk honestly to each other," says Beyer. "They avoid the negative stuff, and that makes it worse." Innervisions, on the other hand, has an atmosphere of almost brutal frankness. "Steffen especially—he's raised in Berlin, he's a typical Prussian," says Beyer, who, along with Wiedemann, comes from the southern German city of Karlsruhe. "Prussians are very, very straight."
In the same way Berkhahn itemized his dissatisfactions with the Italian promoter, he and his label-mates reliably inform one another of their shortcomings. They also welcome criticisms of themselves. In 2013, when a critic panned a record that included a Dixon remix, it caused a minor meltdown on Facebook and elsewhere. Berkhahn, though, said he "smiled about it and shared it," adding that he found it "funny and fresh that someone dissed my work." (He also encouraged me to include my own criticisms of Innervisions in this article.)
"With Kristian and Dixie you will always get a real opinion," says Wiedemann. "That can be… well, it does hurt here and there, but it helps. You know—'Hey, that track is awesome man!' That really doesn't help, but that's how it usually goes among friends."
"We fight a lot, but in a friendly way," Beyer says. "And at the end you've accomplished something. And this is the way we work."
"I have to say," says Wiedemann, "I wasn't friends with Kristian when I started making music with him, and I wasn't friends with Dix when I started doing business with him. We knew each other, yes, but I wouldn't have called him a friend at the time. And I think that's maybe why we can have this kind of honesty, this professional kind of honesty."
The story goes something like this. By the late '90s, Dixon was already a respected DJ in Berlin with regular gigs around Germany, as well as a residency at Globus, the house room at Tresor. "He was the Berlin house guy in the '90s," says Beyer, "the main deep house DJ."
"Since 16 or 17 years, I was playing at Robert Johnson quite often," Berkhahn says. "At one point I noticed something—someone would come over to see what I was playing, and then this other guy would come over and talk to him. It was always the same guy. Finally I asked him, 'What are you doing?' And he said, 'I run a record shop in Karlsruhe, and I've got most of the records you play in my car. Whenever someone asks you what the record is, I sell it to him.' It was Kristian, of course.'"
Some time later, Berkhahn played in Karlsruhe and Beyer gave him a ride from the airport. "It was the middle of the night and we had to drive for maybe an hour," he says. "We're having this really cool conversation and I'm thinking, 'Wow, interesting guy!' And the whole time there's this crazy music playing. After 30 minutes or so I said, 'By the way, what the fuck is this music?'" It was "Tonite," one of Beyer and Wiedemann's first productions together. Berkhahn was doing A&R work for Sonar Kollektiv at the time, and he signed Âme right away.
"Sonar Kollektiv was freestyle, you know?" says Beyer. "It could be broken-beat, jazz, could be hip-hop, could be soul, could be house. The first release on Innervisions was Psyche Dance from Tokyo Black Star. I remember we showed it to Alex from Jazzanova [who founded Sonar Kollektiv] and he said, 'I don't get it.' So we were like, 'Hmm, but we like it! What should we do?' And then we proposed to start a sub-label called Innervisions, which would be 100% under our control. Second one was 'Rej,' and they didn't get that at all. They were like, 'What the fuck is that? It sounds like trance music." Berkhahn, Beyer and Wiedemann split with Sonar Kollektiv and went full steam ahead with Innervisions.
Over the next five years, Innervisions' sound became more and more bold. "We were always kind of the underdogs," Wiedemann says, "fighting for the harmonies and the melodies in the club." Another key force in this fight was Henrik Schwarz, whose 2008 track "I Exist Because Of You," a vivid blend of European deep house and South African chants, was a high-water mark for the label. This kind of cross-pollination would become common on Innervisions. The South African producer Culoe De Song achieved international recognition through his two EPs on the label, most notably The Bright Forest. In 2010 there was Kuar, a single by the Sudanese child soldier-turned rapper Emmanuel Jal that was reshaped into an avant-garde club tune by Olaf Dreijer of The Knife. (Schwarz also provided a remix.)
Even Innervisions' more straightforward records tend to be somewhat extravagant. There's the chase-scene drama of Laurent Garnier's "Back To My Roots," the theatrical vocals of Osunlade's "Envision," the pop-ballad emotion of Ry and Wiedemann's "Howling," or the cosmic melancholy of Lee Burridge and Matthew Deekay's "Lost In A Moment." All of them are splashed with color, delivered with a grandiosity that stops just short of being too much.
Depending on who you're talking to, anyway. Many people find Innervisions' style distinctly not for them. I'm not in that camp, but I'm not an unconditional fan either. I've had a spectacular time seeing them play over the years—Dixon's set at Panorama Bar on Easter morning in 2010 was probably the best time I've ever had at a club. But some of the records they play and release are, for me, too emotionally heavy-handed (in the past I've described some of these tracks as "tech house ballads"). But in the end, their taste in music is like their taste in cover art, or, in Berkhahn's case, shirts: touched with a flamboyance that, even when it's a bit much, embodies their spirit so perfectly that you have to admire it.
As a label, Innervisions has an elegantly simple mode of operation: it puts out six records per year, and limits itself entirely to music that Dixon and Âme not only love but play out frequently. It's also driven by an urge to keep moving forward. "It's like, how do we… be different you know?" Wiedemann says. "You always have to find a way not to stand still."
This impulse extends beyond the music itself. At the end of the 2000s, Innervisions launched Muting The Noise, a brand and online record shop. In addition to records, Muting The Noise produced and sold a rambling variety of items, from standard merch like T-shirts and posters, to things less common for a record label, such as Lost In Sound: Berlin Techno And The EasyJet-Set, Tobias Rapp's book about clubbing in Berlin.
"We were like, 'Hey, we want really nice laptop bags, we want these T-shirts," Wiedemann says. "Some things turned out to be a great idea. Others were just economically a disaster. If you look at Innervisions in the first years, we made so many weird mistakes—for instance, making a book without any idea of how publishing works or how to sell it. We thought Lost In Sound would be huge, the 'Rej' of books, in all the shops, in train stations, at airports!" He laughed to himself. "But it turns out, for instance, that Amazon won't even stock your book unless you've got another four coming. There was just so much we didn't know. But we never fucked up too bad, and everything we did we still proudly stand by."
Perhaps Innervisions' boldest move was the decision to drop their distributor, Word And Sound, and sell all of their records directly through Muting The Noise. Like their events, Innervisions records have always had high production costs. Sometime around 2010, falling record sales made their 12-inches financially unrealistic. "We always try to deliver high-quality mastering, and we do elaborate covers with unusual packaging, and we want to keep on doing this," Berkhahn told RA at the time. "We were trying to decide like everyone else: should we go for lower quality because the numbers are down, or should we keep up the same quality and find other ways to distribute?"
Self-distribution is no small task: on the simplest level, it involves storing thousands of records, taking orders from customers directly (fans as well as record shops) and shipping each package individually. But dropping the expense of a third-party distributor would allow Innervisions to continue selling records that met their standard. The choice was obvious.
In a way, Lost In A Moment is very similar to Muting The Noise: both are driven by an urge to establish direct contact with the audience by cutting out the middleman (in the case of the former, clubs and promoters). It, too, is technically a separate venture, albeit one firmly connected to "the Innervisions mothership," as Berkhahn calls it. Today, all three operate alongside one another on the top floor of an old building in Kreuzberg, with a combined staff of five people. Inside this wide and brightly lit space is a studio, a kitchen, a few work areas and the Muting The Noise record shop, which is open to the public every Thursday.
But no matter how much love goes into those projects, there is of course another activity that swallows up most of these artists' time and energy: gigs. Wiedemann, who stopped DJing a few years ago to become Âme's devoted live act, loves playing but admits to hating travel. Worgull plays regularly, but has always had other ways of making a living. Beyer and Berkhahn, on the other hand, throw themselves at their gigs with gusto, often playing as many as four per weekend.
"My body is used to it by now," says Beyer. "Only two hours sleep, three hours sleep. I'm blessed that I can sleep everywhere, even in the club sometimes. This is how I survive."
"I think with Steffen there's maybe a little more danger," he adds. "He used to be an athlete, so he's really pushing his limits sometimes. Frank and myself, we are not doing that."
The weekend of the Lost In A Moment party in Naples should have been a four-gig weekend for Berkhahn. In addition to the party on Sunday, he was meant to play clubs in Venice and Rotterdam, plus an open-air in Mannheim, but that one was cancelled due to bad weather. "If I had been in Mannheim now, then it would have meant that I basically go straight from the club in Venice," Berkhahn told me just before his gig in Rotterdam. "Maybe I would have slept one hour or something. Then to the airport, then arrive at 2 PM in Mannheim, then play Mannheim from 3:30 PM to 8:00 PM or something, then I would take the last flight from Mannheim to Amsterdam. I would arrive here in Rotterdam around midnight, and then I would have played at two o'clock. Finish at six or seven, have a quick rest, then on the plane to Napoli for Lost In A Moment."
"Dixon is a trooper," Recondite told me in Naples. "For me, playing gigs is secondary to the studio. For him, playing gigs is the main thing, and he takes it really far." As a former personal trainer, he shuddered to think of the health implications. "I can't even stand getting less than six hours of sleep in one night, it's so terrible for you. I don't know how he does what he does."
Berkhahn's response to this was pretty simple. "Um, I love it. That's the main thing." He also thinks the chaotic schedule keeps him on his game. "Say you play at Sub Club till three in the morning, and then you take the first flight at six o'clock to Berlin and you play Panorama Bar—you're feeling completely over the top, and you're on the same level as the people there." He thought for a moment. "I definitely would have played better in Rotterdam if the Mannheim gig had happened."
On the second Sunday of August, a friend and I set out for Lost In A Moment: Berlin. It was a hot afternoon, and a fleet of hired buses shuttled people from Berlin to the venue, a drive that was expected to take one hour but, thanks to traffic on the motorway, ended up taking more than three. This turned out to be the day's only snag. For possibly the first time ever, pretty much everything at Lost In A Moment ran smoothly.
The venue was Burg Rubenstein, a medieval castle whose attractions typically include a falconry and a medieval market. Today its slanted courtyard was a dance floor, with a small wooden hut as its DJ booth. The crowd, some several hundred people, was loose from the off but always well-behaved. They seemed to charm the locals who were working there, from the bartenders doling out beer and Kräuter-Hexe (a schnaps not unlike Jägermeister) to the fireman gleefully soaking punters with cold water—presumably to keep them from overheating, but with an evil flair the crowd enjoyed as much as he did (at one point he could be spotted twirling his gun, a kind of professional-grade Super Soaker, and blowing a wisp of nonexistent smoke from its barrel).
The day slipped by quickly. Gerd Janson, the Running Back boss and longtime friend of the Innervisions family, played first, greasing the wheels with colorful and understated house. Beyer's records were more dramatic, though his booth presence was unusually laid back—at one point someone passed him a staggeringly enormous joint (I'd say about a foot and a half) and the crowd got a brief glimpse of the squinty grin he so often wears offstage. Marcus Worgull went heavy and vaguely balearic, bringing the party to a boil with KiNK's "Fantasia." Wiedemann played live but I missed it—I was imbibing in the castle's wood-beamed tavern, where the staff from Innervisions' favourite speakeasy made sekt cocktails in tin cans daubed with the Lost In A Moment logo (the party's only visible branding, aside from the free fans that had been given out).
By the time I made it back to the dance floor, dusk had fallen and Berkhahn was in the DJ hut. Poker-faced but grooving liberally, he rolled through a set more lush and subtle than what I'd heard from him earlier in the summer, full of off-kilter cuts like Red Axes' "Pil Sagol" (he shouted the ID for this one to someone in the front row). By now the crowd was quite saucy—sweaty from a long day in the sun, fist-pumping near the front or dancing with closed eyes further back. The sun went down, and Grunwald's lights flashed across the castle around us.
The music ended at 11:00 PM sharp, but a few dozen people hung back in the tavern until 4:00 AM or so. There was no music, something that led Berkhahn to later describe this afterparty as "rubbish," though at the time even he seemed charmed by the scene: everyone strewn around the cool, amber-lit room, chatting and helping themselves to what was left of the bar. I sensed a feeling of satisfaction—correctly, this time. No one at Innervisions could name a perfect Lost In A Moment party, but this one had been pretty close.
The crowd seemed to feel this way as well, at least based on the comments that appeared online that week (a form of feedback to which this crew pays close attention). "Thank you Innervisions!!" one person wrote on RA. "This was the best party I have ever been to. Such an intimate venue, sharing the experience with a few hundred of your biggest fans, and everything was organized so perfectly. Even better than the moments we shared at Trouw years back! Still lost in that moment…"
Later in the thread was a comment from Innervisions' RA account. "We are so happy that we finally could enjoy a Lost In A Moment without licensing problems or shitty weather," it said. "We hope that in the future we will create many more of these special moments. For sure we will never forget this one."