I’ve recently developed a healthy obsession with 70s krautrockers (the term is an echo of chauvinism, no?) Can. Their early 70s run ran pretty damn far and a helluva lot further than most of their contemporaries. A string of killer albums. As to why it’s taken so long for them to wander into my world and make a place, that’s a mystery since it’s a sound I’ve been waiting to hear all of my life. Having found me listening, I am made happy. It’s always a thrill to be thrilled. The music sounds like the hums and whirls, thumps and rhythms your body might make should you be in the position to listen to its organs working. It takes a little focus, there can’t be any background noise, but with a close listen it comes completely to life and from there you’re off, you’re in.
Everyone in the band brings something to the mix: drummer Jaki Liebezei, Irmin Schmidt on keyboards, Holger Czukay on bass and guitarist Michael Karoli with Damo Suzuki on vocals; it is the combination their of sounds. This band cooks. Listening to them I’m reminded what a disappointment it’s been to have no musical talent (and know it). When I hear Can I want to be in a band. Not to be a rock star (the perks of a rock star, while enticing, usually involve a 27 year life expectancy and an albatross of abandoned principles), but to make music with people. To cook a dish like these. It’s a charge listening to their sound, what must it be to produce it? Since I can’t act on it, I’ll have to content myself with sharing my enthusiasm. Can comrades, Can.