It's Saturday night in Berlin and the Hoochie Krew is stirring it up. DJ Don Rogall surveys the crowd, takes a sip of beer, and slides a 10" screamer onto the deck. As the scruffy yowl of a guitar unites with an insistent upbeat, a man in a beret shouts into a mic, speaking in tongues, transported, "Wobedoowop! Do the Camel Twist!" Go-go girls in leopard print bikinis undulate to the wail of a sax. A sultry showgirl appears like a mirage and peels off a crystal-crusted glove to whistles and whoops. It's a juke joint, a barrel house, an alternate time and dimension, with the whole room flailing in giddy unison, spirited into that raw, earthy, elemental rhythm. That is the Hoochie Koo. This is