It’s a scorching, air-conditionerless Tuesday night in Berlin, in a small dark corner with stage lights illuminating a singer warbling her version of "Mein Herr" from Cabaret to a small but lively crowd. The regulars in the back give a thumbs-up and the bartender sashays overs to pour a shot at the edge of the bar as the music fades.

I step off the stage to the ritual applause, giving a deep bow and settling back in at my little booth. With a “Prost!”, I knock back the shot of Berliner Luft waiting for me. I’m the emcee here at the karaoke bar, which means I toggle some switches, click some buttons, and listen to the same Britney, ABBA, and Queen hits on a week-to-week basis. 

But it means so much more to me than that. I found myself a home in a new city on this stage, where I finally got to exploit my showmanship that’s devoid of any actual musical talent. For the past two years, I’ve spent countless hours here, evading the sun, healthy habits, and my self-respect.

I moved to Berlin three years ago, an American searching for creative inspiration, community and adventure, much like Cliff Bradshaw, protagonist of Cabaret. The show has been on my mind lately, because of the latest Broadway revival, the fourth such revival on Broadway alone; producers and audiences clearly see relevance in the story of a novelist shacking up with a nightclub chanteuse in Weimar Germany against the backdrop of Berlin and a Nazi Party steadily gaining support. 

My internet algorithm knows I'm a theater fan, and so earlier that evening, on my way to the bar, I absorbed every headline and commentary about the new revival through my little phone screen on the sweltering U-bahn. The story of Jazz Age decadence during the rise of fascism seems relevant once again, and I am both perturbed and inspired. 

Cabaret re-entered my life at the juncture where I’ve really begun to face the harsh realities of my decisions and question where I belong, and if it’s still in Berlin. Every day, the news feels worse. For years, it’s felt like bits of my heart and soul chip away with the feeling that I’m not doing enough—because I’m not doing enough, in the face of the pain the world is feeling. The internet feels meaner lately, comment sections full of unchecked misinformation, reactionary retorts, and willful misunderstandings. The world sometimes feels like it’s ending. To cope, I’ve been switching my headphones on and losing myself in another world, another club at the end of the world. 

But Cabaret doesn't offer an easy escape. Many productions have ended performances with a mirror held up to the seated crowd, forcing them to leave the theater asking similar questions to the characters. What do you do in the face of fascism, and what do you do when you’ve seen a musical about the rise of fascism?

Maybe one reason Cabaret resonates with me is because in many ways, my life right now mirrors the show. On the surface, I’m American interloper Cliff. I arrived in Berlin as Cliff did, optimistic and looking for work that could define my career and spirit. And like Cliff, I find myself caught up in Berlin’s specific brand of hedonism.

Functionally though, I’m more like the Emcee, trying to entertain. I often tell my audience that it’s been a privilege to be their emcee that night. I pride myself on giving people a good experience. I’ve gone home sobbing from bad shifts and I’ve gone home in happy tears from people telling me they had the best night of their life. My moods, my jokes, my energy will all define the room for the night, for better or worse.

The Berlin of today also resembles the one in Cabaret in important ways. It is still a city of vices, where your desire to slip into shadows or spotlights can be satisfied on a whim. There is a Kit Kat Club in Berlin now, where I've seen things that would truly shock my mother. At one point in Cabaret, Kit Kat Club performer Sally Bowles sings of her friend who partied to death—"the happiest corpse I’ve ever seen”—and pledges her future to the same cause. Sometimes I feel tempted to do the same; sometimes it feels easier to show up at the same bar and sing every week than to really feel the weight of the moment we live in. At other times, I wonder: Should I get down off the stage and do something? And what?

For now, I sit in my scorching hot booth and queue up the Rolling Stones, Charli xcx, and Adele. I’m lucky to have a place where I can scream about my emotions and wash them down with free booze. Tonight, I’ll sing some more. I’ll cheer and I’ll toast and I’ll try to remember that tomorrow—should I keep my head clear enough—could be a better day.