Pyrotechnician: Mebel Hummig lets it rip

Mebel Hummig doesn’t flinch when there’s a bang. With the detonator in her hand, the 25-year-old stands unmoved in the yard of the Hummig Effects company, while behind her a gas shot explodes in a six-fingered cloud of fire. Pressure and heat, the flames reach temperatures of up to 800 degrees, can be felt several meters away. “Noise? That was quiet,” she dismisses. 120 decibels at most, about the volume of a jet plane taking off. More are not allowed when spectators are there. And viewers need the Hummigs for their business.

Everything a special effects heart desires

When Mebel Hummig has his hand on the trigger, it doesn’t just bang and burn. If desired, the pyrotechnician with the copper-red rockabilly quiff can also create wind or fog, make it rain or snow. She is the youngest employee of Hummig Effects, a family special effects company. On the site of a former coal mine in Peißenberg, Upper Bavaria, they produce so-called pyrotechnic and flammable effects: simulated car explosions or pyres for film and television, blazing stage volcanoes or clothes bursting into flames for opera houses. But also quiet eye-catchers like the silent snow machine that once transformed the stage into a flurry of flakes during a performance of “Ring der Nibelungen” in Vienna – with the singing Plácido Domingo right in the middle.

“We brought the fire to the international opera stages”

Nestled between mountains and forest, the factory premises look like an adventure playground for adults. An airplane is parked next to an armored car. Under a canopy are a dummy rocket painted with the lettering “CCCP” and a wind machine big enough to blow-dry an elephant. The wooden ceiling of the six meter high workshop is black with flying sparks and smoke. Mastermind here: Mebel’s father Wolf-Ingo Hummig. In the 1960s he worked as a lighting technician at the State Operetta in Dresden, and he also performed as a magician in an illusion show. However, his self-made bombastic effects were not well received by those responsible for culture in the GDR. “We don’t want such sensations here,” it said. Wolf-Ingo Hummig applied for an exit visa with his wife Franziska. In Peißenberg, the family not only found a new home, but also the ideal location for their company for stage technology and special effects. The international breakthrough came in 1991: with a fire wall made of 48 compressed air-controlled torches for an Amsterdam opera production. “The whole stage was on fire. At that time you didn’t even smell of lighting a cigarette on stages.”, says Wolf-Ingo Hummig, who is wearing lederhosen with a Bavarian coat of arms and a Saxon accent as a tribute to his new homeland. The Amsterdam piece went on a world tour together with the wall of fire – and attracted commissions from New York and Sydney. “We brought fire to the international opera stage,” said the 78-year-old.

Backstage

In the future, the youngest, Mebel and her 31-year-old brother Moritz, will keep this fire going. The two practically grew up in the workshop. “I was already sitting on this cannon when I was three years old,” says Mebel Hummig about a theater cannon parked in the yard. Her father prepared her first own small fireworks for her when she was five years old. “I was supposed to ignite it with him, but I didn’t dare.” Instead of a shower of sparks, there were tears. In the meantime, she reloads the silver launch tube of the gas shot as routinely as other butter sandwiches. The effects of the Hummigs are mostly built by hand. “Sawing, soldering, flexing, welding,” says Mebel, listing what you need to be able to do in your job. It would never be boring. “Unless we have to bottle foam concentrate for the snow machine.”

Mebel only had to be 21 for the certificate of competence under the Explosives Act, which is required for her work. While her three brothers apprenticed directly with their father, the mother insisted on “solid” vocational training for their daughter. To Mebel, an office job sounded more like duds than thunderbolts. She chose home economics school. “Because you can use everything you learn there.” As a part-time job, she now teaches 13 to 15-year-olds at the secondary school. They think their extremely dangerous teacher is great: “Every class asks me again if I can blow up their school.”

In the afternoon Mebel teaches completely different students. Around 100 interested people complete a pyrotechnics course with her every year: employees of event agencies. Private individuals who want to become large fireworkers. Stage technicians who want to qualify for Bang and Smoke. But also security forces or members of the armed forces who need an additional license to handle explosives. Big fireworks are on the schedule this weekend: no conventional New Year’s rockets, but potato- to coconut-sized firework bombs. Mebel routinely clicks through the PowerPoint presentation, explains how bombs are constructed and handled and why no arms or heads should be placed over the launch tubes when setting up the fireworks. She illustrates the latter on a television set with a specially filmed video: a doll with a watermelon head falls victim to a misfire. In slow motion, the melon peel bursts, pulp splashes around. “Then we can get started,” says Mebel, turning off the television.

We can start now

With her brother Moritz and the participants – 18 men, one woman – the pyrotechnician drives to the Peißenberg Guggenberg. The budding fireworkers assemble their mortar cases on a dirt road that has been cordoned off especially for this purpose, with a view of the surrounding villages and the Alps in the distance. Depending on the caliber, i.e. the size of the ball bombs, up to ten mortars are lined up like vases in a wooden box. The participants sink their ball bombs into it – “yellow peony” or “silver palm tree”. Very gently. After all, nobody wants to end up as a mud melon. However, it is not possible without risking body parts. Setting up a large fireworks display is manual work. Bombs have to be placed in mortars, fuses attached, boxes wrapped in kitchen foil to protect against rain, carefully – very carefully – balanced to the launch site and then wired in the desired order (gold rain only towards the end!). Even experienced fireworkers need hours for this. While the course participants are working with concentration, the sky over Peißenberg ignites its own special effects: the copper-red sun outshines the gathering storm clouds.

In the evening, just before the big bang, six participants swarm across the dark meadow to block access to the launch site. The trainees check the wiring of their mortar boxes one last time and, standing amidst the fireworks, arm the detonators. Pushing a button is rarely so exciting. Five minutes before Wumms, Mebel’s parents appear out of the darkness. “Is everything working?” – “Of course, Dad!” Then the show begins. Golden sparks spray from floor fountains. “Peonies” exploded in red and yellow lights in the sky. It’s foggy and smells like burnt carpet. When the laburnum has dried up and the smoke clears on the Guggenberg, cheers and clapping can be heard from the valley. The Hummigs organize two training fireworks up here every year. The Peissenbergers are obviously happy.

Mebel’s work does not end with the finale. The scattered remains must be collected. She checks whether everything has exploded as desired or whether duds are still hiding in the mortars. She smothers the occasional plume of smoke with the water canister. Extinguishing is the pyrotechnician’s latest hobby: she has just completed her basic training with the voluntary fire brigade. Only when everything has been tidied up and the last course participant has been dismissed does she get into her car, a bright red fire engine bus that has been converted into a camper. Quite befitting. A cracker.

barbara