Singer From The Ether (Interview by Wolf Kampmann)

Holger Czukay

Can belongs to a phase in your life which is long past. How does it feel to talk about it now?

My relationship to Can has relaxed with the passing of time, thanks decidedly to our manager,
Hildegard Schmidt. Can is still the most important part of my artistic development, because it was
really my first practical and enduring experience with music. After I'd spent a long time feeling unsure,
wondering if I'd ever get my feet on solid musical ground, I suddenly realized what it meant to work
together in a team with other people. Completely different rules apply than the ones that are in effect
when you're working alone.

So you're not like other people who say: I'm finished with all of that old shit, I'd rather look
forward to the future.

I do that anyway. I enjoy playing with younger people. Right now I'm working with a young singer by
the name of U-She, with whom I've already recorded several tracks; and with, for example, Dr. Walker
from Air Liquide. However, I can't avoid admitting that everything that I've learned had its origins
during the decisive nine years with Can.

One could assert that Can is the most important pop or rock music that's come out of
Germany.

One could say that. Although we never came off as particularly German. We focused more on
international music scenes. You could even say that we behaved autonomously. Behind all of that was
the idea that we were a collective.

Your first record, "Delay", was not actually your first record.

We recorded that without a mixing board. Because we only had a few microphones, we all stood
around the microphones and balanced our amplifiers. If anyone had moved, it would've destroyed the
recording: there was no extra engineer. Apart from a couple of rolls of tape stolen from a radio station,
we only had home-recording tapes dating from 1954. You have to imagine that. They were all taped
together; I'd found them on a trash heap somewhere and had no scruples about using them because
we needed something on which to record. For instance, "19th Century Man" was recorded on these
tapes. I can identify where the tape is edited, because there's always a skip and a yowl at that spot. A
lot had to be edited out, and thank God we played very badly whenever there were jumps on the tape.
If there were longer stretches of uncut tape, then, musically speaking, everything went well. But that
was a wonderful time. That might be allowed to be my single nostalgic comment. "Delay" belongs to
my Can favorites. And "Little Star of Bethlehem" is certainly one of the strongest songs that Can's ever
recorded.

Why did you then release it so much later?

At the beginning of 1969, when we were shopping it around, we got nothing but rejections. And when
I'd later prepared the record for release, Conny Plank said to me, if this record is not an enormous
success, then somebody's doing something wrong. He recognized Can's quality. Can was always
showing its good qualities when the band was unable to deny its “soul character" no matter the way
you understand that. And we never got so far over the top in our adventures to lose that.

Everyone says that you combined Stockhausen and rock. But what actually happened?

We never combined Karlheinz Stockhausen with rock music. In the first place, we forgot everything
that we learned with him and just let things happen. In 1968 David Johnson began to film street battles
in Paris and integrated these films into our first live performance. Before that, we'd never performed
live - although we'd performed for all kinds of gallery owners and artists in Schloss Nörvenich, those
performances were probably wretched. We were miles away from being a worthwhile group. But from
the beginning on, we incorporated all kinds of music from all over the world.

David Johnson's name appears on the cover of the record, but he's not mentioned in the
lineup.

1
David Johnson was one of Karlheinz Stockhausen's assistants. Irmin and I studied with Stockhausen
from 1963 to 1996. It was David who made it possible for us to master our first record "Monster Movie"
in an electronicstudio, something that was not possible in our Inner Space studio, due to technical
limitations.

Did Stockhausen ever find out that you cheated him?

We didn't cheat him - why should we? The studio was and is part of the Westdeutscher Rundfunk
(West German Radio), which was headed at the time by Karlheinz Stockhausen. We were glad to be
able to do the necessary work on "Monster Movie" there. And I was especially glad that David spent
four hours helping me to put together my first Canaxis track, "Boat Woman Song." Good, at that time,
and probably to this day, Stockhausen never learned of it. In hindsight, it didn't hurt anyone.

What did Stockhausen have to say about this music that his students were making?

Recently, someone from "Die Zeit" played a few German pop/rock songs for him, without telling him
who the musicians were. "Aumgn" from "Tago Mago" was among them. Just as I had already thought,
it was clear that he didn't go for it favourite wise, but he was reluctant to say something negative about
it. I heard him say once, in either a Dutch or English radio interview, that there were no real originals
among his students. I, on the other hand, would never have attempted to copy him, and he seemed to
view that in a positive light. While I was a student, he told his fellow teachers that one day I would take
a completely different path and leave the world of so-called contemporary music behind me. He then
spontaneously invited me to dinner at his house, where I played for him "Persian Love" and
"Hollywood Symphony" from "Movies" . He listened concentratedly to the end - and he really knows
how to concentratedly listen! Afterwards, how he'd received it - it must've said something to him.
When we said goodbye, he gave me all of his records, each one with a personal inscription. He was
simply very happy to hear from me how important his influence on contemporary music (as well as on
my own, naturally) was. For that, I can never be grateful enough. But in this context, it occurs to me
that it's almost impossible for a classically-trained musician to make the spring into the musical
hereafter - or should I call it the musical hyperspace? The hereafter can be seen as the domain of
punk, whose genius lies in its dilettantish origins. To bring in a little biblical comparison: a camel will
pass through the eye of a needle before a well-educated musician can reach the kingdom of rubbish.

What is Schloss Nörvenich?

An art collector by the name of Mr. Vohwinkel lived across from me. A real gentleman. He'd rented a
castle somewhat west of Cologne, and he allowed us, for an entire year, to have a studio there,
without paying a penny in rent. We really used that opportunity, until we finally had to leave. Later, one
of Hitler's sculptors, Arno Breker, found his artistic home there. At that time, it was a very open place.
Now it's been renovated and turned into a museum. The present owner, who also lives there, is a very
nice gentleman from India.

Let's talk about "Monster Movie".

That was another attempt at an LP, this time with new songs. There were a couple of recordings that
we'd already made, such as "Father Cannot Yell": that was our first official recording. I believe that we
recorded "Father" three or four times and were proud that we'd managed it at all. At least that's the
way I felt. For instance, I was glad that I managed to play bass for the seven minutes that the song
lasted. Afterwards, I crossed myself three thousand times, I was so happy to have gotten over that
hurdle. The record is also recorded quite unconventionally. Also only five microphones and no mixing
board. We mixed using the pre-amps of our monitor system.

As a test, I played this record for a number of very young people, and every single one thought
it was a very new band.

I experience that quite often. At the beginning of the eighties, many English journalists told me that this
record could have been recorded today, and now I'm experiencing the same thing in America. At the
moment, they're working on a Can tribute album in the U.S. I'm really wondering what it's going to
sound like.

At the moment, more American musicians than German ones are referring to your influences.

2
In America, at this time, there's a great deal of interest in us. I visited Russia before I got to the States
the first time and in Russia Can has an incomparable status like in America.

At that time, had you any idea of the visionary power of this record?

I think we did. Not only in commercial hindsight. The music will accompany us for the rest of our lives.
I'm certain that it will be a part of our - so to say - "old age pension."

When I hear bands like Sonic Youth or Stereolab, I hear thousands of references to "Monster
Movie".

Sonic Youth recently did a remix of "Spoon." I saw them live on television. I thought, they're much
better than we were. They added a fantastic bit at the end, organized chaos and foaming at the
mouth, and I could hardly keep my mouth closed. Public Image was also that kind of a band. By
English standards, they recorded in a manner similar to that of Can's.

No wonder: a song like "Outside My Door" has a real punk energy.

We often had to play with our backs to the wall because nothing on stage functioned anymore. In
conventional hindsight, any third-class rock band could have done better than we did. It wasn't true
that everything just flew out of us. We had to fight for it. When you're an experienced, capable
musician, you deal with music differently than you do if you're just flailing around musicially, and we
did the latter.

The playing was a little hesitant, but from a harmonic standpoint, revolutionary.

We were completely open in that aspect. Can always thought of itself as an electric chamber
orchestra, I think. And a rather loud chamber orchestra at that! We were all very good with polyphony.
With four or five people, you're forced to deal with more voices. We allowed ourselves that, and didn't
arrange our songs like a circus ringmaster. Afterwards, we certainly laid hands on the songs in order
to do justice to the medium that we had to serve.

The difference between "Monster Movie" and other albums of that time is that although you
were excessive in terms of time, you never were exhibitionistic instrumentalists.

None of us was obsessed with soloing, going it alone. Jaki never wanted to play a solo, not even for
money. And Michael was the same. As I said, we thought of ourselves as a chamber orchestra in
which each one had his own voice. The guitarists who always have to show what they can do, don't do
themselves any favour in the end, although, of course, there are exceptions.

"Yoo Doo Right" was the product of a twelve-hour improvisation?

That's correct. We sat around for twelve hours and played the same groove. At the end, there were
three takes available, out of which we then edited a final version. The end was actually the beginning
of a new version.

Okay. "Soundtracks".

Actually, that should not have been an album. Since we couldn't make much money with records,
Irmin was luckily able to get us involved with a couple of film projects. From a production aspect, they
were much more complicated than "Monster Movie". There was a great deal more editing done. All in
all, there were more songs - perhaps with the exception of "Mother Sky."

They were also recordings that took place under very different circumstances.

For example, we recorded "Soul Desert" as a completely normal album cut, and then sold or else
delivered it as the title song for the film "Mädchen mit Gewalt". I still remember how Irmin warned us to
exercise caution so that the music wouldn't kill the film. "Kill it, kill it," I advised, and I was right. The
music was the only thing that rescued the film. The director didn't like the track; he finally understood
what he'd gotten about thirty years later - perhaps twenty-six. At the same time, it was the last track
that we recorded with Malcolm Mooney before he became mentally ill. I have to say that that was one
of his most gripping recordings. His part was unbelievably good; oh, what do I mean, his part - the
song is terrific, in my opinion. It belongs to Czukay's Top Ten (though I'm not very exact with the

3
numbers). But Malcolm had to be watched twenty-four hours a day, otherwise he would've thrown
himself out of the window on the twelfth floor. We didn't want to risk that. So, very heavy-heartedly, we
had to send him back to America. He probably couldn't handle hashish mixed with alcohol.

So "Soundtracks" marked the transition from the first to the second Can lineup.

Right. And with that, we come to "Tago Mago". I remember that we'd planned our first show in Munich
without a singer, until I saw Damo on the street. He was strolling along, sun-worshipping, and I said to
Jaki: "Look at that, he makes such weird movements, he's going to be our new singer. I'll ask him if he
wants to appear with us tonight at the Blow Up." That was a large live discotheque in Franz-Josef
Street. It could hold 1500 people. The Munich based audience fled from the show. At first, Damo sang
quite peacefully, but suddenly he let a hoarde of Samurais out of the loudspeakers and seemed to
want to hit everyone‚s head off. So the entire audience stormed the doors and there was a fight. At the
end there were about thirty Americans left, along with Abi Ofarim, who was our manager at the time,
and David Niven, who, when later asked, had no idea if the whole thing had anything to do with music
or not. It was really great, but a complete loss for the Blow Up.

How great was the difference between making abstract music, such as that for "Monster
Movie", and delivering music specifically for a film soundtrack?

We had luck making film music. In 1988/89, I met Ennio Morricone in Italy,and he described making
film music in a way that sounded very similar to what we'd experienced. He was a friend of Sergio
Leone, who told him what the content of his coming film would be, and then asked him to start
preparing musical sketches before the first frames were even shot. That is a big difference in
comparison to common practice. We were lucky that Irmin understood something about film. He could
describe the scenes very accurately, and then we began to play the scenes intuitively. That's much
more imaginative than when you, the musician, sit in front of the screen and look at the already
completed film. That can be pretty uninspiring.

What does the sentence on the cover mean? It reads "Can Soundtracks is the second album of
Can but not album number 2."

The album was squeezed in. "Tago Mago" was meant to be the great second album. But we just didn't
want to throw away the material we already had. We'd worked a long time on "Tago Mago".

You announced a second Soundtracks-album, but it never appeared.

Yes, it was never released. The relevant songs saw the light of day in another form.

Let's talk about "Tago Mago".

With "Tago Mago", the second round of progressive sampling production began. One of the main
tracks, "Halleluwah," was created out of played rhythm loops. We recorded them, but in the end we
only used parts of the rhythm and then, out of that, edited the entire track together. Michael Karoli
maintains to this day that we made a mistake, that we should have used just one single rhythm part. I
have another opinion, but you can see that, in a certain sense, we'd already begun developing
sampling techniques before the hardware for it was actually invented. The first part of "Tago Mago"
contains pieces that we recorded in the normal way. The second part could be regarded as the dark
side of the moon, so to speak. When we had to pause to break down the equipment in order to create
a new recording configuration, the others got bored and started whiling away the time by playing. I
gladly recorded that. These tapes then served as the basic material for sides three and four. Later,
"Unlimited Edition" and "Soup" were created under similar circumstances. They were products of
accumulation, which accrued apart from the regularly recorded material.

Basically, "Tago Mago" consists of two relatively independent records that landed
coincidentally in the same package.

If that's the way you see it...

Over the course of time, did the improvisational moment become more important?

The improvisational moment has always accompanied us. I have to say that, at the beginning, the
relationship between improvisation and production was balanced. We didn't have a multi-track

4
machine, just a simple tape recorder, and later, a very simple 8-channel mixer which was enough for
Can's needs. Our technical advantage was that we understood how to edit. In the nineties, editing has
become a real topic. For instance, cutting on scratch got right involved within the sequencing process.

I have the impression that your music with Damo Suzuki became more celestial.

Damo was a melody person. He actually wanted to make successful songs. And he had the ability to
do that. Malcolm Mooney was a rhythm machine. The English had a few reservations about him, but
Jaki said that there's only one singer who could sing better than Malcolm, and that was James Brown.
We liked it that he could move humorously through a flowing rhythmical structure. That was enough.
He didn't need great melodies: similar to Ludwig van. In contrast, Damo reacted sensually to his entire
musical surroundings - and he had by far a much lighter voice.

I have the impression that "Tago Mago" fits more comfortably into its era than does "Monster
Movie".

If that were true, then "Tago Mago" would not have survived its era. Naturally, you learn with the
passing of time. I don't know, however, if that could not be applied to the last few Can records. Also
here, exceptions prove the rule.

I'm not insinuating that it wasn't a conscious process. But in opposition to the timelessness of
"Monster Movie", "Tago Mago" was perhaps a typical record for the seventies.

Really? Maybe that had to do with the singer. Who knows what "Tago Mago" might have been like if
Malcolm Mooney had been there.

"Ege Bamyasi"!

That was when we'd gotten our first Neumann condensor microphone. Suddenly, the drumkit had
transparence and ambience. This record sounded altogether more cultivated. But we were also lucky
because we still didn't have a multi-track machine yet, just two Revox tape recorders. We were still
working together as a team. "Future Days" led to more changes. The others were upset with me
during this production because they assumed I wasn't playing bass up to the top anymore, that I was
paying too much attention to production techniques. They wanted our roadies to take over the
production end. I defended myself, but lost, and went back to concentrating on bass. Therefore, on
this album, I allowed more things to pass on my instrument than I normally would have. The
disadvantage was that the recording was out of balance. We couldn't really fix it afterwards. The
drumkit was just too loud for me. Later, I went back to the mixing board because the others agreed
with me.

Let's stay with "Ege Bamyasi". I have the impression that the guitar sounds different on this
album. It's funkier than the somewhat more static guitar that was on the earlier records.

That might be true. We'd all learned something, including Michael.

On the other side, it appears to me as if the far Eastern elements became stronger.

Maybe that was again due to Damo, or his slanted eyes. But other things also played a role. The song
"Vitamin C" was rather Brechtian, especially Irmin's organ-playing. "Vitamin C" was also the theme for
"Dead Pigeon" by Samuel Fuller.

You had a real hit with "Spoon".

In Germany, yes. Because the number was played six times during Durbridge's "Das Messer" credits.
We had a Top Ten hit. We had a completely new "riding" feeling, like getting new tires on our cars.
And then the television stations began calling us to ask if we could appear on "Disco 72" with Ilja
Richter. That gave us the reason not to trust our new tires that much, so we turned down the offer.
Today, I would probably accept the offer and think...hmmm, think very maturely, there must be
something that we can do. But those were other times, and these decisions are made differently when
you've got four people to deal with. I think we did the right thing.

So we come to "Future Days".

5
That's a very ambitious piece of sounding plastic. For the first song we did a couple of takes
underwater. It's probably the most of symphonic of all the Can records. We heard it got to number one
in Argentina. Why not in Tierra del Fuego? At any rate, with that record we gained a lot of new lifelong
Can fans.

I have a slight impression that "Future Days" was, at that time, by far the most artificial Can
album.

I would agree with that, but not in a negative sense, although we‚d worked on that record for a long
time. All of the "samples" had to be cut, processed, and added. That took time, and you can hear it.

It's also the first Can record that seems to have overly long stretches.

Although the first side consists of relatively distinct songs. That might apply to "Bel Air," but it might
not. If we'd been able to get the right balance at the time, I would've been at least a little happier. I'm
sure the others have the same opinion. Nevertheless, this record set standards around the world,
standards that still apply today and will in the future.

Why did Damo Suzuki leave after the album was recorded?

He met a girl from Altötting who was firmly bent on marrying the most famous singer in Germany. And
she did it. And because she was a Jehovah's Witness, Damo had to give up all worldly pleasures,
including singing. So he got a completely normal job in a completely normal Japanese company.
When the marriage ended a couple of years later, he tried to take up again at the point where he'd left
off with Can, and that led, logically, to completely different results.

Can it be said that "Future Days" describes the end of a particular phase; whereas afterwards,
everything took a different direction?

To paraphrase W.C. Fields (whom I really admire): we never took a bath in the same water twice.
Perhaps "Soon Over Babaluma" fits into this phase, but without a real singer, Can was another band,
and Drum 'n' Bass lay far off in the future.

The singing on "Soon Over Babaluma" sounds much more like a function of the music than it
ever did before.

I won't say that Michael had a bad voice, but perhaps a guitarist ought not to sing. Because we
urgently needed a singer, he sang. We had to take the singers as they came, or leave it alone.
Altogether, "Soon Over Babaluma" turned out to be a far more indistinct production than the others.

I agree. What began to bother me on "Future Days" really disturbed me when I listened to
"Soon Over Babaluma".

That's perhaps your opinion, but I've heard the exact opposite opinion from the American side. The
decisive point came with the arrival of the multi-track while we were recording "Landed". We could
point out every single mistake, which lead to intense criticism. It meant that each person wanted to
hear thus and such completely alone, which further lead to a situation in which each person wanted to
do their homework alone. So we started another learning process.

When listening to "Flow Motion", I have the impression that you had become much more
comfortable with the multi-track process. This record has, on one side, a very agreeable
easiness, and on the other side, an art-gallery feel.

When making "Flow Motion", we didn't have the multi-track at hand exclusively as a linear recording
system. What was recorded on the two-inch couldn't be played back. To express it in contemporary
terms: the multi-track became a database. And if someone from the record company had come by and
said play that for us, we want to get an impression of what things sounds like, it would have been
completely impossible. Somewhere there was a window, for example, after 15 minutes and 24
seconds, that would be perfect for a middle part. At another place, we would have worked out
something that would have made a good end. So there were little bits of different things all over the
place that were available for use, even some things that were uncoupled from the entire structure. You
could say that we'd learned how to deal with these techniques far ahead of their time, and I believe

6
that there are a couple of good tracks on "Flow Motion". But a number like ≥Unfinished" didn’t need to
be recorded on a multitrack at all.

I'm of the impression that "Unifinished" is rather your credibility number. You're introducing
your new songs, but with "Unfinished," you're saying we're still Can.

We'd still recorded things spontaneously. The various parts were then later mixed together on the
multi-track to make a whole.

But then why didn't you return to your old methods of recording?

I myself later returned to old Can recording techniques. But we could never go back to the old
methods because Can had altered. Our musical expectations had changed, which made it necessary
to use multi-track equipment. That was simply a logical step. From my private perspective it's easy for
me to maintain that a multi-track had too much importance, that it delayed all of the decisions. Then
you've got these monster mixing sessions that you've got to deal with, and that leads to a lot of stress.
Today I don't mix anymore. Instead the sound as such is set during the recording - including effects. I
start organizing the insignificant things first and then add important things like drums and voice at the
end. Using digital equipment you can mix everything as you like without a multi-track system. The big
psychological advantage to this is that after every step you really have to ask yourself, do I need
something more, or was that it? And if necessary, you carry on with the work. Nowadays I'm working
with a minimal concept. That means minimizing the recordings. At the end of Can, that was no longer
the case. Instead, we asked ourselves how many tracks are left to fill? I don't think this is a particularly
good idea, but it was useful as a learning phase.

I also like the reduced things better.

Yes, when once you've developed a sense for reduction, then you've got to stick with it. That means
you sometimes have to be able to sacrifice. Occasionally you need someone who doesn't have
anything to do with music. Directors in Hollywood had to submit to the decisions of the editors: they're
not allowed to be present during the montage because they've got too much emotion invested in every
scene of the film. That's not always good for the film itself.

All of the Can musicians have gained an immense amount of experience and have _honed(??)_
their precision. Has that perhaps led to a point where each musician doesn't need the others
as much as they did before? You yourself began to work on "Movies" at the time.

That started around the time of "Saw Delight". I had a lot of difficulties. I had to fight to see if the vision
that I had of the magic characters of electronics and media would fit at all into the Can structure.
There were obviously different opinions, and I felt myself, after a while, to be a disturbance, the
collective sound was gone.

"Saw Delight" is, for me, Can's low point. I think the magic of the sound was lost.

I have to disagree with you. "Saw Delight" still turned out to be a good record. Especially "Animal
Waves," after I'd reworked it again for "Cannibalism 3". By the way, Michael, who knows exactly what
the weaknesses of this song were, says the same thing. When he heard the later version, he said at
last this song is finished. The principle behind this song was grounded in a contemporary concept.
This idea was created out of the necessity to at last find a singer. We had to conjure one out of the
ether. The only question was, how do you synchronize the whole thing? So I had the idea of using
morse key because it allowed me to turn my invented singer on and off. I could chop the voice up so
that I could fit it into a new version. My IBM 212 dictaphone had something like an accelerator that
allowed me to fit the pitch of the notes into what was happening, at least to a certain degree. Naturally
I didn't have to use just short wave. Instead I could use all possible sources of sound. I could use
ethnic influences, for example. The only problem was the disagreement among ourselves. Reebop,
who later had also joined the band, thought that this music would steal people‚s soul. That's a typical
native idea, that someone can take your soul away by taking a photograph. Fine, you can have this
idea, but you can't get out of the middle ages with it. I had, moreover, a vision of special media-
referent music. It even came to fisticuffs with Reebop. I should say, he hit me, and I defended myself.
Ten minutes before the start of a concert in Berlin. Of course he was sorry, and I'm only mentioning it
because it was a clear sign to me that it was time to go my own way.

Wasn't that a kind of implantation - expanding the band with half of Traffic?

7
Not really. It always depended on how Jaki played. He needed someone to play with. On one hand,
he had very exact ideas of what he wanted to play, but on the other hand, he loved to be led along by
a bassist, as long as he didn't feel disturbed by him. Jah Wobble, for example, who was someone he
got along with very well, would put down a bass line and Jaki would know immediately what to do. So
naturally, musicians like Rosko and Reebop were exactly right. Only I was wrong.

Everybody else in the group agrees that the magic disappeared with Rosko and Reebop. For
instance, because Rosko insisted on being credited separately for his songs.

That was just a side effect. When they joined, we were immensely proud to be playing with musicians
of their caliber. That was clear. But the new musicians brought their English perspectives on
authorship into the group. Before, Can was the author regardless of who had done what, because
each person had his own strengths which he brought to the band. Suddenly the equality was
destroyed. Nevertheless, that was just the straw that broke the camel's back.

What bothers me about "Saw Delight" is that there's a big change in the rhythmic feeling: it
has unmeasurable rhythmic density and impenetrability.

That's not really true, and I can't understand that. Can did always have a noticeable rhythmic
something about it; even in a song like "Pinch" Jaki had already begun to play very freely with the
rhythm, like an experienced tennis player - in the sense of taking hits and returning them. We began to
always expect more from the rhythm. So Rosko's and Reebop's influence on the group was absolutely
successful because they were the perfect people to play in this style. I'm not such a great
instrumentalist - it's easy for me to lose my place. As a bassist or guitarist I'd certainly fail any audition.

But you just confirmed that a strange rhythmical compression took place.

It did take place, but you shouldn't think that that was due to Reebop's and Rosko's presence alone.
The forks in the road were already there. In this sense, I really have to say that both were a good
addition to Can. By the way, I'm not a fundamentalist who'll say this or that shouldn't occur. That's the
way it is, so that's it. Rosko is a fantastic bassist, everybody knows that, otherwise he wouldn't be
playing four nights a week in a late night show. And Reebop was the son of an African chief, with a
centuries-old drumming tradition behind him that he really knew how to use. He showed us all what it
was all about, rhythmically speaking. He'd worked a lot with _hestitations(???)_ and thought very anti-
mechanistically. The most amazing thing is that this anti-mechanistic aspect later turned up in the
techno scene. There, rhythmic patterns were placed so close together that they interfered with each
other. Reebop had always known how to do that.

The following album, "Out of Reach", was never re-released.

That's probably for the best. All of the disadvantages that you've spoken of came to fruition there. I
was out, and the others could finally romp about to their heart's content. In my opinion, there was too
much concentration on instrumental technique, the magic was gone. You always see that in musicians
who become victims of their own skill. They don't love single notes anymore, the way it's necessary
and proper to do; they keep far distant from musical dilettantism. That's why punk spoke directly to my
heart. Not because the music was so wonderful, but because there were dilettantes at work. At that
time I visited Conny Planck every day in hisstudio. One day Devo, from the U.S.A., showed up, and
we did a session together. I played the bass line from "Yoo Doo Right," without telling the others who
or what it was. But as soon as someone lost the beat or simply somehow didn't sit right in the saddle,
the rest just pulled him right back. I didn't have this experience again until I met Air Liquide, who
invited me to an underground party here in Cologne. We played for three hours. It might not have
been the most fabulous concert ever, but something happened there that I'd waited for for twenty
years. I could do the craziest things, and everyone understood immediately what was going on. They
got the nastiest and trashiest sounds out of their equipment, and we discovered a common
relationship to sound right away. After three hours I went outside and asked myself if I was awake or
dreaming. I'd never thought I'd experience that again; I'd almost given up hope. That's why I think it's
astounding that what was in Can times very revolutionary, is completely natural these days and not
only left to today‚s electronic music scene.

Why then, out of this unbelievable reservoir of new punk singers, did Can not find anyone who
had the strength and originality that Malcolm had earlier?

8
We tried everything in our power to find someone. But we just didn't have much left. Can functioned
like a soccer team. When it was good, then it was a good team that could get the ball, pass it, and
eventually get the ball through the goal posts. Our later singers didn't know how to share this basic
feeling with us. Maybe they believed they had to prove something, I don't know.

But just at that time in punk, there were a lot of singers who didn't view themselves as
frontmen, but as part of a mob.

At that time no punk singer would have been really interested in Can. It went in a completely different
direction. Every person in the group has to have the feeling that they're playing with the best
musicians in the world. This feeling gives you security, even if, in reality, you're playing in the worst
band in the world. Before, we were all proud to be playing with the best musicians of the time. That
was also a characteristic of the punk bands. Yet we came from a different corner and didn't have the
smell of punk about us. For example, Jah Wobble told me about an incident in London, during the
days when Public Image was at the top. He noticed that a hippie was running after a bus; a punk
stood on the platform. He stuck out his foot and tripped the hippie, crying: "Not you, you hippie." We
came out of the hippie days. The younger people wanted to find their own language, I think.

You've said that you were proud to be a member of Can. Were you unhappy when you left the
band, or was there more of a liberated feeling?

Naturally I felt a mixture of both. It was simply time to say goodbye: it was clear to me that it was
unavoidably at an end. I didn't know at the moment what I was going to do, and for two years I didn't
really speak to anyone. That led to really intense communication with plants. They understood me
better than my fellow human beings. At night I went out in all kinds of weather and perceived the
wonders that opened themselves up to me. I'd stand in front of a tree and although it would be
completely still, it would rustle its branches. The same thing happened with my house plants - without
a breeze. In these moments, I became a plant myself. At some point though I said to them that I now
had to getting back into contact with my world. After all, I had two legs that wanted to run around and
not be stuck in the earth. That was when I found my way back into the human world. Outfitted with the
gift that I'd received during the quiet time with the plants, I returned to this world as a completely new
person. That was an exciting time. For example, I had a television, and noticed that I particularly liked
old black-&-white films. I had my microphone, a cassette recorder, and my bass; and I still played with
the film scene. Very intuitive. Very surprising music scenes arose from these "t.v. sessions." I
developed a feeling for the way music could become filmic. When I was in America in 1997 with Doc
Walker, we used dialog from films as a "replacement singer," instead of having a singer on stage.
Suddenly the film took over the function that film music usually has for the film.

Did the others try to keep you in the band?

Why should they? My time with Can, at that time, was at an end. But Can would not have been Can if
they'd simply let me go out into the streets. Hildegard, who was actually the mother of the group, paid
me - with the agreement of the rest of the band - the same amount of money that the others received
for months, for years even, so that I could carry out my intentions. After my last concert in Geneva,
she borrowed money from her mother so that I could go on vacation and get away from it all. Nobody
in the group would've simply let me fall, even though the entire affair was very painful. That was simply
Can's way. It's really astounding, the way that Hildegard's unshakeable faith in us helped the group to
rise out of the ashes like the phoenix. First she founded the label Spoon Records and with that,
managed to get Can out of its dependence on the record industry. She knows a great deal, but above
all she knows how to make effectual contracts, and that can only be for our good in the end. We all
have to thank her initiative and unstoppable ability to apply pressure in the right places, so that the
"Sacrilege" plans also became reality. Her good relations with Daniel Miller of Mute Records also
helped. His deep belief helped to organize the project and finally pulled out all the stops. Suddenly
Can, in a new package, was once again on everybody's lips. Something like that doesn't happen very
often in our business. She ought to have earned a Rolls Royce without a motor for all of her efforts.
Wouldn't it be fantastic, to drive up to a record company in such a car, pulled by two old nags, and a
company lackey deferentially opens the door with the words...they fail me - ok, never mind. Naturally
Hildegard would have to wear a big hat. Hmm, that could go into my not-yet-filmed film scene, which
can be found in the Internet under the address www.czukay.de/writing system.

Did you actually take any notice of the two records that came afterwards?

9
Oh, yes, because I always went to Inner Space Studio. I was practically the nightwatchman there.
When the others were finished with their work and had gone home, I came in and worked on my
things. Once Irmin said to me that I wanted to put too many things into one track. You could make five
songs with the material. That's when I realized that I was completely somewhere else. He could have
been right. You could make five songs out of "Persian Love." But then it wouldn't have been what it is.

On "Can", you're again credited as editor.

Well, I'd figured it out again and could edit the material. That wasn't the case on "Out Of Reach".

This album has a certain clarity.

The band had made it through the vale of shadows. I was even jealous of "All Gates Open", and that's
always a good sign. There are certainly a couple of things that I would've done differently, but, as we
like to say in German: with full trousers it makes good stinking - let's let it rest there. There were also a
couple of leftovers from the "Out Of Reach" days.

After a long break you all reunited to make "Rite Time". How did that come about? Was there a
regeneration of the old chemistry?

Malcolm started it all by writing to Hildegard. He just wanted to sing again. I thought that there might
be a good surprise. At first it seemed as if recording something would be difficult. It took a long time
before we were all in the swing again. Not least because I still felt myself to be a disturbing factor, and
not everything went well together. Malcolm was all right. He brought a fresh wind into the situation. But
it still took a great deal of effort to get "Rite Time" to what it became. I know people who say that it's
one of the best Can albums. It has a couple of fantastic songs: for instance, "In the Distance Lies the
Future," which wasn't available on the LP, just on the CD. There was a lot of fuss about this song
because nobody wanted it. Only Michael and I believed in it; I thought it was one of our strongest
tracks ever. That shows how strong the differences were between us, and how strong they still are.
Jaki and I had a confrontation because there were a couple of small timing mistakes in the drum part,
actually just bagatelles related to the medium. I said, "Jaki, don't worry about it, I'll take care of it."
However, I didn't edit the tape, instead I just waited until it was time to mix. But Jaki didn't want to
accept that at all. He wanted to hold back the song. "But all of my efforts were in vain, Jaki. We all
listen to the song five times a day - you're the only one who's upset - satisfied?" "Rite Time" was
recorded with a great deal of humor, at least that's the way I experienced it. There are a few tapes
from that period that would be worth listening to.

Could you imagine all of you going into the studio again and making another album?

Difficult. I wouldn't be in favor of making another record right away. I missed performing live; my first
thoughts were of performing again, instead of making a new media product. I thought in that way we
might be able to find a path back to each other. The problem is that you can't force the good old times
to return simply because you feel nostalgic. We had to distance ourselves from that in the end. But
Michael and I had wanted more than anything to perform live again. I could only imagine Can playing
together again under certain circumstances: there would have to be a completely different technical
challenge for the band, so that each individual wouldn't be able to fall back on the old instruments.
Can would have to transform itself into a kind of virtual band, and that leads us to the Internet, with its
special possibilities for feedback.

Perspectives to the Future:

I intend to continue where I started since the opening of my web server www.czukay.de That means to
explore the new medias which make it possible to get directly connected with other musicians and
fans by a chat system, live transmissions, founding a new virtual band for example where the actual
creators are just having a shadow existence behind their up fronted characters". Record companies
are getting less important these days unless they start learning their lessons and I‚m sure they will. At
the moment I am participating at a collaboration with GVOON preparing a visual and sounding live
project including the new medias, not to forget the natural" voice of U-She who feels anyway at home
in these new worlds. To follow new and still undiscovered ways is still important for me. And finally I
should start to present the music which I have created the last five years to my patient audience.

10