Nobody can be told about the pandemonium dwelling within Berghain, it simply has to be experienced in person. Only once you're past the half-a-mile queue and that censorious bouncer, through those foreboding factory doors sans camera, does the full scale of this dark dungeon of musical masochism become clear. On ground level is the cacophonous cauldron of visceral energy that is Berghain, its ascetic music policy a weekly religious experience for the noir-chic nocturnal revelers of techno's second city. While, upstairs, the housier, shoulder-to-shoulder bump of Panorama Bar is the lick of any international aficionado's spoon, its intermittent window-shuttering a reminder that the outside world is still there, alive and bright, but thankfully of no concern to this dissident, sleep-deprived lot. Then, there's the hidden nooks and crannies of the venue where the lascivious clientele get up to whatever they please, while minds in the main room get lost even further after two days on the trot. Really, honestly, seriously, there's nowhere in the world quite like it. Don't take our word for it. Go there!