Till, it always seems that by the determination of one’s being, two paths are possible. Your father wrote the book “What Does the Frog Do in Winter”. Back in my school days, I was nicknamed “Executioner Frog”—because I was a bit chubby and used to sneak away when teased, without ever telling anyone. Did your father ever report to the Reds, or did he take a stand against the eating of frog legs?”
As a fan, when one thinks of Till Lindemann, the frontman of Rammstein, it is impossible not to mix admiration with a kind of mischievous teasing, because his entire presence on stage invites both awe and playfulness. He has always embodied contradiction: a figure of raw power yet refined artistry, of menace and tenderness, of grotesque humor and poetic beauty. To tease him as a fan is almost a tradition, because that tension is what his music and persona thrive on. This statement, weaving together a childhood nickname, the odd coincidence of his father’s writing about frogs, and the playful jab at the question of frog legs, serves as a way of saying: “Till, you are larger than life, but we still dare to joke with you, because you feel like one of us.”
The reference to his father is not incidental. Werner Lindemann, Till’s father, was a respected children’s book author in the former East Germany, and “What Does the Frog Do in Winter” was one of his notable works. For a fan, mentioning this book is more than an intellectual nod; it is a way of connecting Till’s larger-than-life stage persona to the roots of his upbringing, showing that before the fire, the masks, and the leather, there was the son of a poet. To recall this book and juxtapose it with a teasing nickname from school—“Executioner Frog”—creates a playful echo between Till’s heritage and a fan’s own lived memory. It’s as if the fan is saying, “Look, we too lived with frogs in our stories, but mine was a cruel nickname instead of a children’s tale.” This teasing creates intimacy, pulling Till down from the fiery stage into the human space of childhood taunts and quiet resilience.
The fan’s confession about being teased, being called “Henkerfrosch” for being slightly overweight and sneaking away from bullies, adds a layer of vulnerability. It mirrors the themes of struggle, defiance, and survival that often pulse through Rammstein’s music. One of the most captivating things about Till is that he embodies resilience—not only in his artistic output but in the way he projects strength forged through hardship. To reveal this kind of personal childhood memory to him, even in playful teasing, is a way for the fan to align themselves with that energy: to say, “I too carried scars, I too was shaped by pain, and perhaps your art has helped me own that nickname, even laugh at it now.”
The second half of the playful jab—“Did your father report to the Reds, or did he oppose the eating of frog legs?”—is a layer of teasing that pokes fun at history and absurdity all at once. The “Reds” here, of course, refers to the East German communist system under which Till’s father lived and worked. It is a fan’s way of poking Till with the kind of irreverent humor that mirrors Rammstein’s own ironic treatment of politics and history. Was his father a loyal informant or a rebellious soul? It is a rhetorical jab, not meant to accuse, but to say: “Till, I know you come from a world of contradictions, and I want to tease you with them.” And then, with a twist, it turns into absurd humor: frog legs. It’s silly, even grotesque, but that is precisely the kind of absurdity Rammstein itself thrives on—combining the profound with the ridiculous, the historical with the culinary.
As a fan, teasing Till in this way is not disrespect but affection. It is a gesture of admiration that dares to play with the myth. Because fans of Till know that he is not fragile glass; he is an iron figure who invites mockery as much as reverence. His performances often blur the line between comedy and horror, between grotesque parody and deadly seriousness. He comes onto stage in leather, lit by flames, yet he smirks, he overacts, he mocks himself as much as he shocks others. To tease him with frogs, with questions about his father, with silly but meaningful jabs, is to participate in his world on his terms.
The nickname “Executioner Frog” gains an almost poetic resonance when thrown back toward Till. The fan admits they never told anyone about the pain it carried, the shame of being teased, the sense of being small and out of place. Yet by confessing it now, directed at Till, they reclaim it, turning it into a badge of survival. And who better to confess it to than the man who has made a career of turning shame, fear, and darkness into art? In this exchange, the fan is not just teasing but also thanking him—thanking him for being someone they can share this kind of odd vulnerability with, knowing he has built his career on transforming human frailty into spectacle.
Fans often tease the artists they love most because it is a way of reminding them that they are human. For Till, who has crafted an image of terrifying strength and theatrical dominance, teasing about frogs and fathers is a way to break through that armor, to say, “Behind the fire, I see the boy whose father wrote books for children, the man who understands pain, the artist who has the courage to laugh at himself.” This teasing, laced with childhood memories and absurd questions, becomes a dialogue between fan and artist that exists outside the boundaries of stardom.
Rammstein fans, perhaps more than any other fanbase, understand the importance of this interplay between seriousness and humor, between respect and mockery. Their devotion is fierce, but it is also mischievous, because the band itself embodies both. When the fan teases Till with questions about frog legs and communists, they are in fact echoing the very spirit of Rammstein’s art—bold, irreverent, absurd, yet deeply meaningful. It is the kind of teasing that could only come from someone who knows the band intimately, who has lived with their music long enough to understand that reverence alone is not enough.
In the end, this playful statement is not just a fan’s teasing of Till Lindemann but a miniature reflection of the Rammstein ethos: life is absurd, history is strange, childhood is painful, but art transforms it all into fire, laughter, and song. To call oneself “Executioner Frog” in front of Till is to embrace the grotesque and to laugh at it, to own the pain and celebrate it. And to tie it back to Till’s father’s book is to acknowledge that even before the flames of Rammstein, there was literature, storytelling, and the quiet absurdity of wondering what frogs do in winter.
And so, the teasing becomes an offering: Till, the world may call you terrifying, commanding, untouchable, but we, your fans, know you as someone we can tease about frogs and fathers, about Reds and legs. In that teasing, we celebrate you, not as an untouchable god of fire, but as the artist who taught us to embrace the absurdity of life and transform it into something unforgettable.
