Fearless: Post-rock 1987–2001

A Jawbone ebook

First edition 2017

Published in the UK and the USA by Jawbone Press

3.1D Union Court,

20–22 Union Road,

London SW4 6JP,

England

www.jawbonepress.com

Volume copyright © 2017 Outline Press Ltd. Text copyright © Jeanette Leech. All rights reserved. No part of this book covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or copied in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews where the source should be made clear. For more information contact the publishers.

Editor Tom Seabrook

Cover art Graham Sutton

CONTENTS

introduction

1. proto-

2. bring the noise

3. you push a knife into my dreams

4. spirit is everything

5. interested female vocalists write 1864 douglas blvd. louisville, ky 40205

6. tooled up

7. too bloody-minded

8. 1994: the year post-rock broke

9. the slow-down

10. vertical flux

11. splitting the root

12. sharks & courtesan

13. badtimes

14. young teams

15. regret. desire. fear. hope.

16. there’s a lot of dust in the air

17. the national anthem

plate section

acknowledgements

sources

endnotes

INTRODUCTION

fearless.

‘That’s the thing. When you don’t know anything, you’re much more fearless about it.’ Graham Sutton, Bark Psychosis

Trying to encapsulate in a title what unites dozens of artists is difficult at the best of times. But when the subject is post-rock, it borders on the preposterous.

‘Maybe the question [of post-rock], in your mind’s eye, might have a definitive answer,’ says Jeff Mueller of Rodan, June Of 44, and Shipping News, one of my early interviewees. ‘But, maybe, then you talk to ten different people and every single one of those ten people would give you a different response.’

For a long time, this book was simply called The Post-Rock Book. No working title, no in-joke, no florid author indulgence. Only those few words. They were frightening in their implied definitiveness. What could they mean?

‘You’ll have to define what post-rock is, in this book,’ David Callahan of Moonshake warns me, not unreasonably.

It seemed sensible, as a first step, to go back to the source. The term post-rock was meant to be ‘open-ended yet precise’, or so hoped the critic Simon Reynolds, as he explained the tag he created in 1994. It meant ‘using rock instrumentation for non-rock purposes, using guitars as facilitators of textures and timbres rather than riffs and powerchords’.

‘I remember seeing [Reynolds’s article] and thinking, ah, he’s a clever cunt,’ says Ian Crause of Disco Inferno, one of the original bands cited by Reynolds as post-rock. ‘He really knows how to come up with a brand name.’

The artists that predated (or were contemporaneous with) Reynolds’s article, on the whole, mind being called post-rock far less than those who came later. ‘I never had any issue with it,’ says Kirsty Yates of Insides, another band cited in the original Simon Reynolds piece. ‘The point was, actually: take rock up a level. I understood what he was trying to do.’

The ‘post’ part, as Yates says, implies that it came after ‘rock’: that post-rock had evolved from it, and yet was still in a symbiotic relationship with it. For some, though, it also insinuated a bit of snobbery. Post-rock seemed to say that rock was heading for extinction, and this was one reason why a lot of bands rejected the term. They saw themselves as part of a rock—and especially a punk rock—continuum.

‘Post-rock is a pain in the ass!’ says Efrim Menuck of Godspeed You! Black Emperor. ‘It’s sad, after this many years, that you roll into a place to play a show, and you see the poster, and the name of the band, and afterward, in brackets, Canadian post-rock. It’s still a little heartbreaking.’

‘The classic question that we’re asked all the time, is, Why did you decide to be a post-rock band? Where do I even start with that?’ Stuart Braithwaite of Mogwai tells me.

I did find ambivalence bordering on all-out hatred toward the term, but perhaps not as much as I’d prepared myself for. ‘Funnily enough, now I’ve come to accept post-rock,’ says John McEntire of Tortoise. ‘OK, we were there; we did that. If that’s what people want to call it, then we should own it.’

Nevertheless, it took time. Post-rock was not artist-created, nor did many bands wear it proudly. There are no albums called The Shape Of Post-Rock To Come or Post-Rock 1: Music For Airports.

Part of the problem with defining post-rock is that the thing constantly slithers away from you. It can be either lazily employed or rigorously policed, the worst of ‘open-ended and precise’. One moment it’s being used to describe virtually all modern experimental guitar music; the next it’s used for a needle-eye definition relating only to a certain type of instrumental volume-based dynamic music. And God help you if you argue otherwise.

Genre names are frequently created, and most simply fade on the page. All periods of popular music history are littered with pithy journalese that the wider public simply didn’t take to (and there are plenty of examples in this book alone). But post-rock clicked for listeners and critics. It became a staple of the modern musical lexicon.

‘I used to work as a rock journalist back in the nineties,’ says Gen Heistek, a Montreal-based musician whose many bands, including Sackville and Hangedup, were a key part of that city’s underground musical community at that time. ‘I remember getting in a huge fight over whether or not post-rock actually existed. They maintained firmly that it did, and I was of the opinion that it did not. I still don’t really believe it exists.’

Fearless argues that it does. It sees post-rock as an archipelago: islands that may speak different languages and are probably only on nodding terms with one another. But they are in the same sea. And that sea, the one ideological core that unites the major artists covered in this book, is deconstruction: a fierce desire to unpick and change predictable channels of expression.

‘One cannot get around the response,’ the theorist Jacques Derrida wrote in 1967, ‘except by challenging the very form of the question.’ Deconstruction doesn’t necessarily destroy. It takes apart, and then reorders, using the same materials.

‘We didn’t want a guitar to sound like a fucking guitar,’ says Rudy Tambala of A.R. Kane. ‘You might think that’s a power chord, but it’s not; it’s just smashing a guitar against something, dropping it, and then going over and having a smoke, or whatever. But it was really: let’s try and tear away, aggressively, any aspect of rock’n’roll.’

Some post-rock artists explicitly and consciously sought to deconstruct rock music; others realised they’d done it after the event; yet more didn’t give the process a moment’s thought. A lot of this deconstruction was made possible through the advent of the sampler, ushering in a new genre-bending mindset. Most of the post-rock bands used samplers in some form, but even the ones who didn’t were influenced by sampling’s possibilities for simultaneous structure and chaos. A major reason for the vast bulk of this book being concerned with the period after the mid-to-late 1980s is because it was then that samplers became more affordable.

The attitude of deconstruction was not only related to sonics. Post-rock was usually adamant that it didn’t want anything to do with rock’s gang-of-mates image. Roles in a band could constantly shift, as musicians changed up instruments, and a single front person or a focal point was rejected. This theory didn’t always work in practice, as we shall see, but the idea—to confront the expected spotlights of rock through decentring both sound and representation—was strong.

‘There’s a whole way you’re meant to interact with the audience,’ says Jacqui Ham of Ut, a trio who swapped guitar, bass, and drums on record and onstage. ‘Oh, you want us to play this song? That wasn’t our thing. We wanted people to enter into this intensity, to be there totally, none of this interacting with the audience. Our whole philosophy was that we were into shaking things up. Making things uncomfortable. We did not want people to be comfortable. We did not want that.’

In many cases, playing live was an ordeal. Post-rock artists generally preferred to shape a sound in the studio rather than prove their ‘authenticity’ onstage. It could be a challenge to find an adequate way to express their ideas in a live setting, as this is where the entire corporate rock machinery dropped its full force on a band: venues were designed for staring at a stage and emptying your wallet at the bar. There were also the technical limitations of small venues, unused to bands turning up with electricity-hungry samplers and film projectors, or spending fifteen minutes tuning up between songs. Some bands got around all this by establishing their own spaces, some by avoiding gigs as much as possible, some by doing a totally different live set to the record that they were meant to be promoting, and still more by muddling through as best they could.

Why did they do all this, usually to very little reward? They were on a mission. And they were fearless about it.

Fearless: The Making Of Post-Rock winds up in the very early 2000s. By this point, two major and linked phenomena had happened. Firstly, post-rock was now substantially and, it seemed, permanently altered from its original positive and exploratory base.

‘For a while, a new record would come out and you didn’t know what it would sound like,’ says Kieran Hebden of Fridge. ‘But unfortunately, after a year or so, post-rock became a sound. It became very predictable.’ Certainly, by 2000, the term ‘post-rock’ had locked anchor and become exactly something that connoted certain (and not always flattering) sonic cues.

Secondly, elements of more conventional rock were incorporating post-rock ideas—sometimes well, sometimes clumsily. But post-rock now had enough creative cachet and visibility to achieve a mainstream breakthrough of sorts. Notwithstanding some excellent individual albums released after the early 2000s, it felt that the most radical period of development had passed, and that post-rock—as a term and as a sound—had indeed been ‘made’.

One of the drivers for writing this book was a general sense of frustration at how some discussions around post-rock lack verve, excitement, emotion, and stories. The music is often written about in an overly dry fashion that, at its worst, gets into an obsession with time signatures.

‘Someone I know told me, There’s this great song, it’s in 7/9 and 8/11,’ says Codeine’s John Engle. ‘And I was like, that sounds great. I can’t wait to hear that. I’m not counting when I’m listening to a piece of music. And I would not say, What’s this song about? Well, it’s about seven measures of this, followed by eight measures of that.’

Sometimes a bit of muso chat is inevitable, but I have tried to keep this to a bare minimum, and only include it when it gave a fresh insight into a track, album, or group’s development.

The possible ways of organising this book were infinite. In the end, I took a thematic approach. It is broadly chronological, but themes and philosophies always override concerns of creating a rigid linear history: for instance, I discuss Scott Walker’s Tilt (from 1995) in chapter 4, and Galaxie 500’s On Fire (from 1989) in chapter 9. I suppose I tried to emulate, in written form, something like Tortoise’s ‘Djed’: building a structure on existing sections, keeping certain elements of what has gone before, while occasionally having to say ‘fuck it’ and revel in the resulting glitch.

Fearless, after all.

Jeanette Leech, London, England, October 2016

CHAPTER ONE

proto-

‘Post-rock, as a term, is relatively new to me. When we were making music, it didn’t really have a category. That was the problem.’ Richie Thomas, Dif Juz

The influences on and precursors to post-rock are more divided than united, just like those who came after it, but they all had this in common: they disrupted a continuum. As soon as ‘rock’ lost its ‘roll’ in the 1960s, there were those who questioned, and from that fundamentally altered, rock’s gene structure. They looked not to Derrida’s then-untranslated and obscure theories of deconstruction. They looked to free jazz.

Ornette Coleman was the first modern artist to challenge the way ‘improvisation’ in jazz was still tethered to formal structure. ‘A lot of musicians couldn’t really dig his type of music because they were so brainwashed to that same formula—the beginning, you know, then the bridge and the end of the tune; then you solo and take it out,’ the drummer Edward Blackwell, who worked with Coleman, recalled. ‘But with Ornette it’s not like that. You start it and then you’re on your own. As long as you’re aware of where the music should go, there’s no problem at all how it would be. When Ornette starts a tune, there’s a certain place he intends to get [to], but there’s no certain way to get there.’ Coleman’s own belle époque, beginning in 1959 with The Shape Of Jazz To Come, offered sound with no anchors in musical convention. Any frameworks that did emerge were organic, developed in relation to their own ingredients: repetition, collective insight, feel. He searched for an open-ended approach with zeal, seeing any settling into a ‘style’ as morally bankrupt.

Ornette Coleman was a divisive figure. Some saw his approach as little more than out-of-tune anarchy, while for others it was an epiphany. Over the next ten years, the inspired minority took Coleman’s approach and introduced more freeing elements. Soon, jazz had even more security snatched away by John Coltrane, Albert Ayler, Sun Ra, Pharoah Sanders, and many others. For as well as freeing composition, these pioneers took further the idea that jazz’s tools—the instruments—could have their sound and purpose remodelled. For example, saxophones might not sound like saxophones. They might sound like hellfire hollers of rage, or mercury flowing down a glacier.

Lou Reed was a lot of things, including a free jazz nerd who named his college radio show after a Cecil Taylor song and followed Ornette Coleman around town. The Velvet Underground imported and regurgitated ideas of jazz modernism: the rudderless yet overpowering energy, the sense of the now and—in particular—the way that the music made sense structurally in relation to itself rather than to outside authorities. Also common in jazz, apparent in The Velvet Underground, and to prove utterly crucial to post-rock, was fluidity in what-meant-what in music. This could range from members being liberated from rigid roles (Reed and Sterling Morrison would frequently swap lead and rhythm guitar) to instruments refusing to obey the rules (Moe Tucker’s steady drums dropping out toward the end of ‘Sister Ray’). All of these concepts were new frontiers for rock music.

The Velvet Underground managed to be both Roman and the Vandal at the city walls. Wherever there was a binary, they would at least challenge it, if not outright smash it: art/trash, music/noise, meaning/hollowness. Rock was a mere infant, and still The Velvet Underground picked it down to the bones before covering it in entirely new flesh. ‘There’s no fucking riffs,’ says Rudy Tambala of A.R. Kane. ‘That dirge-y, drone-y thrash. There’s no cock in that rock. You should call it post-cock rock. Seriously.’

Prior to forming The Velvet Underground with Reed, John Cale had played with La Monte Young and Tony Conrad in the drone-based Theatre Of Eternal Music. Their performances, Cale has said, ‘consisted of holding one chord for forty-five minutes. It was a form of sense deprivation for all concerned.’

This idea of music as endurance, or at least perseverance and patience, also forms an undercurrent of some post-rock. There was no fear of the beyond, and this was sometimes taken to ludicrous extremes in The Velvet Undeground’s live shows. ‘Melody Laughter’, an abstract improvisation featuring a wordless moan by Nico, could last between two and forty-two minutes in performance. It and the better-known ‘Sister Ray’ are extreme examples, but the group’s entire body of work contains long stretches where instrumentation follows its own wilderness trail, and where vocals are absent, sporadic, or incoherent.

As generally unpopular as The Velvet Underground & Nico and (especially) White Light/White Heat were at the time, they were certainly better known than the work of the British improvisers AMM. As a collective, AMM had a somewhat fluid roster, but their album AMMMusic featured Cornelius Cardew, Keith Rowe, Lou Gare, Lawrence Sheaff, and Eddie Prévost. ‘Does group direction, or authority, depend on the strength of a leading personality, whose rise or fall is reflected in the projected image,’ the sleeve notes to AMMMusic ask, ‘or does the collation of a set of minds mean the development of another authority independent of all the members but consisting of all of them?’

Discipline, for AMM, was ‘the essential prerequisite for improvisation’. According to Cardew, ‘Discipline is not to be seen as the ability to conform to a rigid rule structure, but the ability to work collectively with other people, in a harmonious and fruitful way. Integrity, self-reliance, initiative, to be articulate (on the instrument) in a natural, direct way; these are the qualities necessary for improvisation.’

‘AMM music existed before we thought of it,’ Keith Rowe said in 1994.

Although AMM did not plan performances and did not talk about what had unfolded in them afterward, they did engage in weekly philosophical discussion sessions. ‘Concern about what a group meant and the danger of it being a tool for one individual’s thinking always lurked beneath the surface,’ Prévost reflected in 1988. ‘Externally, this fear was justified. Because the world still measured (as it does today) all activity in terms of dominating personalities. The natural collectivist sentiments which our music exemplified were more or less ignored.’

As radical now as they were then, AMM completely rejected the idea of personality and focal point. A difficult battle for AMM to fight—the press would often refer to them as ‘Cardew’s Group’—it was to be no easier for Godspeed You! Black Emperor, more than thirty years later. ‘We were proud and shy motherfuckers, and we engaged with the world thusly,’ the group said, in a collective voice, in 2012. ‘Means we decided no singer, no leader, no interviews, no press photos.’

AMMMusic and sessions from 1968, known as The Crypt, form an extraordinary forward-looking suite of recordings that combine mayhem and discipline. ‘The players could, at time, share a timeless immersion in a world of sound, while simultaneously being free to pursue their individual paths,’ Prévost continued. ‘It was not uncommon for the musician to wonder who or what was producing a particular sound, stop playing, and discover that it was he himself who had been responsible.’ Just as with free jazz, it was seldom clear that an AMM guitar actually was a guitar, so fluent and alien was the new language they created.

AMM also experimented with primitive loops and sampling, deconstructing an original recording and using it as both starting block and target. ‘I used to take things like [The Beach Boys’] Barbara Ann, take a reel-to-reel tape recorder and make forty or fifty butt-edits of that so it would play for about two hours,’ Keith Rowe later recalled of AMM sessions in the mid sixties. ‘We’d put that on really, really loud, and that would be the wall and the AMM would try to climb over it.’

Similar in spirit but different in tone to AMM was The Red Crayola (later The Red Krayola). David Grubbs of Gastr del Sol, who has played with the group, is emphatic about their influence. ‘Mayo [Thompson] always refers to The Red Krayola as a non-membership organisation rather than a band,’ he says. ‘When I started playing with them, dozens of people had already flowed through The Red Krayola. And, yeah, that obviously blew my concept of the band.’

The Red Crayola’s 1967 experimental juggernaut Coconut Hotel is unapproachable drone-jazz psychedelia, a mainly instrumental recording that their label International Artists heard, hated, and hurled deep into the vaults. It remained there until 1995, when it was issued on Drag City, thanks in part to the connection Grubbs facilitated between the label and Thompson. ‘[Coconut Hotel] is both thoughtful and freeform,’ Thompson said in 1999. ‘The improvisational aspects come out of jazz and chance music, like John Cage. The reason it sounds coherent today is we got quite good at it.’

Even more so than The Velvet Underground, the 1960s incarnation of The Red Crayola (Thompson, Frederick Barthelme, Steve Cunningham) staked out a space within rock—psychedelic rock in particular—and then proceeded to dig up the foundations directly beneath it. ‘We set out from the beginning to mark our difference from everybody,’ Thompson said in 1996. ‘We wanted to eliminate everybody, and we wanted to tighten the logic. We wanted to say: is there logic in pop music? And, if there is, if there’s a claim for a certain kind of progressive logic or certain kind of developmental logic, well, let’s see where it goes. So our strategy was totally informed to some extent by art and avant-garde traditions and those kinds of things. But, our aim was to shut everybody else up.’

Psychedelia was also notable for its heavy use of echo and delay, the far-out sound that fattened up many an otherwise lame record. The fluidity of sound in a stereo space—guitars bouncing from one speaker to another; a creepy, trippy drone; organ on the moon—was a psychedelic principle that found even greater expression in progressive rock, originally an optimistic, catch-all term to signify interest in musical experimentation.

Progressive rock then became prog, which very definitely came with a set of other, less open-minded expectations: elaborate gestures and concepts, theatricality, and a certain aloofness from the grubby commercial business of rock. Post-rock is sometimes compared to progressive rock and/or prog; for example, Bark Psychosis were dubbed ‘Punk Floyd’, and Word magazine, in its 2004 Definitive Genre Guide, called post-rock ‘prog rock with crippling shyness’. Post-rock’s reluctance to show off by no means indicated a lack of accomplishment.

‘Quebec is well-known for its love of prog,’ says Ian Ilavsky of the Montreal-based Constellation label. ‘The Quebecoise population famously were one of the first in North America to embrace Genesis and Pink Floyd. A lot of ink was spilled around Godspeed in this province about why they found such success here as an instrumental band, and so transcending the language barrier, but also fitting right in with the prog rock tastes of the Quebecoise population. But that male prog obsession with virtuosity, that obsession with chops, and showing off, and long, noodly excursions—that was a huge normative no-no in our community.’

Common to both post- and prog rock is certainly a sense of ambition and an interest in new technologies. Kieran Hebden of Fridge remembers seeing Tortoise for the first time at a tiny London venue, the Water Rats. ‘Just looking at the equipment onstage was absolutely breathtaking,’ he says. ‘Crammed on the stage is a vibraphone and a marimba. I’d never seen these instruments at a little concert before. And two drum kits. And then there’s banks of synthesizers.’ (‘He was at that show?’ says John McEntire of Tortoise. ‘He must have been about twelve years old or something! I don’t know how we got all that gear on those tiny, tiny stages. It was so hot, so loud, but super fun.’)

Although that setup could have been from a prog concert in 1974, the crucial difference was that, for Tortoise, the range of instrumentation was about creating mood, not showboating. If it took five drum kits to create that mood, so be it.

It is, however, to the West German progressive groups of the 1970s that a more obvious musical debt is owed. ‘There was such a relief at first not to be called krautrock!’ says Glenn Jones of Cul de Sac, remembering when the post-rock label was first applied to his group. ‘Ah, finally, something else! But within a year or so I was so tired of the term post-rock I found myself saying, Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be called a krautrock band again.’ Indeed, krautrock is a term that attracts similar ire from musicians tagged with it—and it has also proved hard to shift in the popular imagination.

The Düsseldorf groups Kraftwerk and Neu! were interested in electronica, repetition; the motorik sound characteristic of them is clearly there in the more accessible post-rock artists. ‘I thought of the concept of joining the very minimalistic rhythmic aspect of some of the German bands,’ says Tim Gane of Stereolab, ‘and combining that with aspects of melody and harmony, which they wouldn’t have done.’ But it is Can, from Cologne, who are the most influential of all. They even inspired Moonshake to name themselves after a song from the 1973 album Future Days.

Both Holger Czukay, on bass, and Irmin Schmidt, on keyboards, had studied under Karlheinz Stockhausen. Michael Karoli was a rock guitarist. Jaki Liebezeit, the drummer, was experienced in jazz ensembles—although by the time Can formed, he had distanced himself from the freer routes it took in the 1960s. Common to all was a desire to deliberately recalibrate their musical training, and to some extent their tastes and interests, into something that was both open-ended and controlled; unbound music that found its own moorings.

‘The prog-rock, jazz-rock thing was totally opposed to what we wanted to do,’ said Karoli. ‘Not impressing people, but caressing them. Sometimes in a rough way, but always as direct physical contact with them.’ The main Can vocalists, Malcolm Mooney and then Damo Suzuki, generally used words not as descriptors but as sound art, and could employ a babbling expressionism that had little in common with the expected clarity of a singer.

‘The more you learn to play, the more you learn to lie,’ Czukay said in 1987, ‘whereas if you cannot play, you cannot lie.’ Although Can are often characterised as a jam or improv band, Czukay rejects that somewhat, preferring the term ‘instant composing’.

‘If the idea was spontaneous composition, it still meant that everyone had to know something about the architecture of music,’ he has said. ‘What Jaki always compared it with was sport. Ballgames like football are the real spontaneous games. The players are trained but they don’t know where the ball is going the next minute.’

Can’s legendary tightness in the face of all this freedom was largely due to Liebezeit. ‘With a cyclical rhythm you cannot change it,’ he said, ‘you have to obey the rhythmical movement. You can change some things but you must keep the basic shape of that rhythm.’ Liebezeit was keen to reduce, reduce, reduce; in a refraction of the Theatre Of Eternal Music, he felt for the pulse of Can and privileged it over all other forms of stimuli.

Nevertheless, environmental factors were important to the group, and Can spent hours, days sometimes, exploring and then customising the nooks and crannies of their studio. ‘Every little noise, every sound became meaningful: steps, a chair, a few words, an accidental sound created by touching an instrument,’ Schmidt recalled. Most of the time Can recorded live, instant composing with only two microphones and an amplified mixer, and then painstakingly assembling tracks from fragments, drawing on the artistic principles of collage and montage. ‘Aumgn’, from 1971’s Tago Mago, is an arresting illustration of this. The zealous attention to detail, the creation of something natural-sounding out of a process that was anything but, and the idea that the studio is as much of a character as any musician would reach mythical status in some post-rock records, Talk Talk’s 1991 album Laughing Stock being only the most famous example.

Can made music for movies, television, theatre. They were in demand right from their earliest days, with one of their first recorded tracks (‘Millionenspeil’) intended for a sci-fi TV show; their second album, released in 1970, was Soundtracks, a compilation of commissioned tracks. The projects they scored, however, were often low-budget efforts, and not always a meeting of artistic minds. ‘[The movie Cream] was part of this wave of erotic films when it was suddenly allowed to show tits onscreen,’ Karoli recalled. ‘We didn’t know it was going to be like that! It had a different story before. I think the film distributor took all the erotic scenes and threw the story out.’

There was certainly a practical element to Can’s soundtrack work in that it allowed them to gain exposure and income. This was to prove increasingly important in the post-digital age, as musicians’ revenue streams dwindled; composing for (or syncing to) visuals represented a significant financial injection. Yet, more philosophically, it loaned Can’s more outré experiments a narrative.

Post-rock, seldom guiding the listener down an obvious path, would also provide a rich seam for film and TV to mine in those terms, from Mogwai soundtracking the French paranormal horror Les Revenants to Bark Psychosis cropping up in Chris Morris’s devastating Jam. There was even Mouse On Mars’s 1998 album Glam, written for an American porn film à la Can’s experience with Cream (although the studio ultimately rejected Glam, presumably on the likelihood of it killing the carnal mood).

The West German bands of the 70s were often experimenting with group structures outside of the rock norm; this sometimes related to other forms of non-mainstream living, too. ‘It was political by doing, rather than words,’ says Liebezeit, with shades of AMM. ‘A group with no leader means everyone is leader, everyone is equally responsible.’

Amon Düül, who rose from the Munich communes of the late 60s, were further out still in these principles. ‘The idea was, everyone is a musician,’ said John Weinzierl, a founder. ‘You didn’t go along to the concert and watch the band; you came to the event and you were part of it.’ Amon Düül were soon to divide into two quarrelsome factions, with Amon Düül II becoming an increasingly professional rock band, and the remnants of the original Amon Düül releasing ludicrously self-indulgent jam records. Still, the era of political progressiveness and idealism, and how it impacted on musical hierarchies, remains an important legacy.

The West German groups caught the ear of one Brian Eno, while he was still in Roxy Music, and the Can-esque tight/free throb can clearly be heard on ‘The Bogus Man’, from 1973’s For Your Pleasure. Bryan Ferry, the self-styled leader of Roxy (no West German mushy togetherness here), was coddling a bruised ego at the time; the press and public passed over him for the colourful, naturally ebullient Eno. And Eno, with what must have riled Ferry further, was now openly professing a snobbish boredom toward his group.

‘Outside the stage door at Roxy shows there’d always be a crowd with these pushy ones at the front, but at the back there’d be two or three more interesting types who were always too polite or proud to bother you, and they were the ones I wanted to talk to,’ Eno said in 1990. ‘I thought, how do I get to them and keep these others away?’

It all ended in a rancorous split and a slight Eno backlash. ‘Eno would appear to have rather overdone it,’ the NME journalist Chris Salewicz sniffed in 1974. ‘He is probably the most supreme self-publicist currently among British rock musicians.’ At this point Eno was still often seen—despite his work in Roxy, the compelling 1973 prog/motorik fusion No Pussyfooting with King Crimson’s Robert Fripp, and a couple of reasonable solo albums—as a bullshitter yet to prove himself.

To be fair to Eno, he knew why people might think this. ‘What happened in Roxy Music was that a particular aspect, a really quite small aspect, came into the open and got an incredible amount of encouragement,’ he said in 1977. ‘And it sort of blossomed, if that’s the right word, at the expense of a lot of other parts of me.’ One of these parts, less apparent in Roxy but certainly emerging fully afterward, was his fondness for theorising and pontificating, sometimes grafting on a concept after the event. Looking back on his first solo effort, 1973’s Here Come The Warm Jets, a few years later, he said, ‘In talking so much about that album, I came to examine my methods very closely and began to see what worked and what didn’t. In so doing I rejected about half the avenues of approach suggested in that record.’

Eno was already gravitating toward music as a process, and an endlessly fascinating one at that. This had deep roots in him. Pre-fame, during his time at the Ipswich Art School, he had a particularly radical tutor, Roy Ascott, who believed that an ‘end product’—a painting, an installation, a composition, an album—was almost incidental.

‘Give the game away.’

‘Repetition is a form of change.’

‘Look closely at the most embarrassing details and amplify them.’

‘Would anybody want it?’

Subtitled ‘Over one hundred worthwhile dilemmas’, Oblique Strategies, created in 1975 by Eno and Peter Schmidt, is a set of cards designed to confront process head on. Its target was creative stasis, and Oblique Strategies helped the user with blocks in numerous ways: hurdling over them, eating them up, breaking them down, or simply backing away from them. Employing chance techniques, such as the I Ching, in musical composition can potentially be very radical. It can trigger counterintuitive decisions, spurring free-associative development down a path that might otherwise have been subconsciously ruled out (or not even considered in the first place). It can also work toward eliminating ego and authorial presence, as it forces submission to chance occurrence. However, it seems very Eno that, in order to get rid of Eno, Eno comes up with the Oblique Strategies: an Eno-specific process.

During 1975, he was certainly in full philosophical flow. ‘We are no longer interested in making horizontal music, by which I mean music that starts at point A, develops through point B, and ends at point C in a kind of logical or semi-logical progression,’ he told Creem magazine that year. ‘What’s more interesting is constructing music that is a solid block of interactions. This then leaves your brain free to make some of those interactions more important than others and to find which particular ones it wants to speak to.’ He was interested in exploring timbre—the quality or ‘colour’ of a sound; that which makes the same note at the same pitch and same volume sound different when played on a piano, a saxophone, a guitar.

Eno debated how to use timbre to liberate instruments from their individual sentry boxes. ‘The way rock music is traditionally organised is to some extent ranked,’ Eno has said. ‘You have voice, guitar, rhythm guitar, piano maybe—rhythm guitar and piano are interchangeable—bass, and then drums. Then at the bottom you have the bass drum. It’s a kind of hierarchy. Partly one of mixing, because normally it was done so that the voice was loudest and the bass was quietest; that was the concept. But that was also the concept of what importance the listener was intended to attach to each of these things.’

The Oblique Strategies, the desire to get away from both ‘horizontal music’ and listener expectation, and months of gorging on Cluster’s Zuckerzeit came directly to bear on June 1975, when Eno and his musicians entered London’s Basing Street studio to make his third solo album. There was no preparation, and no idea of what would come out.

‘I tried all kinds of experiments, like seeing how few instructions you could give to the people in order to get something interesting to happen,’ Eno later said of the sessions. ‘For example, I had a stopwatch, and I said, Right, we’ll now play a piece that lasts exactly ninety seconds and each of you has got to leave more spaces than you make noises—something like that, and seeing what happened from it.’

Every day, Eno would come up with an idea or juxtaposition of ideas—‘Swing the microphone from the ceiling and hire a trombone’, for example—and try to make something of it. But for four long days, nothing usable at all emerged. In front of his musicians, Eno kept up a brave face, but privately, his will to work in this way nearly caved in.

Yet he pressed on, in the face of bemusement and mounting costs. On the fifth day, some fertiliser finally seeped into the dry ground. ‘His initial guidance would be incredibly vague,’ bass player Percy Jones has said. ‘There was a tune called Sky Saw, and the instruction he gave us was he hit a middle A on the piano, and he just went dun dun dun dun dun dun, but it had a rhythm, and that was the starting point for the tune. I just started playing dun dun doodle doodle da da, put some sort of modulation on it, so we put down that sequence, and that was it, and we moved onto something else.’

From razor-cut snippets like these, Eno gradually amassed a suite of sounds. He also modified and invented instruments. Many were fancifully named but had serious purpose. His ‘digital guitar’ was fed through a digital delay unit and then back on itself ‘until it made this cardboard tube type sound.’ Robert Fripp’s ‘Wimshurst guitar’ was so named because its intent was to mimic the Wimshurst machine, a Victorian electrostatic generator. The preparation for ‘prepared piano’ on ‘Little Fishes’ was Eno lodging coins behind the hammers and strings. There was a rhythm generator, a precursor to the drum machine that was also used on Can’s Tago Mago, something Eno then ‘treated’ to enrich its sonic spectrum.

One instrument used sparingly was the human voice. ‘The problem is that people, particularly people who write, assume that the meaning of the song is vested in the lyrics,’ Eno has said. ‘To me, that has never been the case. There are very few songs that I can think of where I can even remember the words, actually, let alone think that those are the centre of the meaning. For me, music in itself carries a whole set of messages which are very, very rich and complex, and the words either serve to exclude certain ones of those, or point up others that aren’t really in there, or aren’t worth saying.’

Instrumental tracks like ‘The Big Ship’, ‘In Dark Trees’, ‘Becalmed’, and ‘Zawinul / Lava’ are not the understated scenery that Eno would go on to advance in his later ambient albums. Instead, they chug and splutter, forming dense fogs of almost-rock illuminated by shafts of hazy pastoral sunshine. If the aim was to make ‘horizontal music’—finding a way to construct, de-construct, and re-construct shifting musical states, and to disorder the expected rankings of sound—then, certainly on the instrumental tracks, it was achieved. Sometimes the listener can nearly hear the smug glee of a man realising that his risk of hiring out an expensive studio and packing naught but his hope had paid off.

‘I read a science fiction story a long time ago,’ Eno said in 1977, of the resulting album’s title, Another Green World. ‘These people are exploring space and they finally find this habitable planet—and it turns out to be identical to Earth in every detail. And I thought that was the supreme irony: that they’d originally left to find something better and arrived in the end—which was actually the same place. Which is how I feel about myself. I’m always trying to project myself at a tangent and always seem eventually to arrive back at the same place.’

Someone else taken with Germany in the mid seventies—its bands, its culture, its turbulent history, and the fact it wasn’t cocaine-swaddled Los Angeles—was David Bowie. ‘Life in LA had left me with an overwhelming sense of foreboding,’ he said in 1999. ‘I had approached the brink of drug-induced calamity one too many times and it was essential to take some kind of positive action. For many years Berlin had appealed to me as a sort of sanctuary-like situation. It was one of the few cities where I could move around in virtual anonymity. I was going broke; it was cheap to live. For some reason, Berliners just didn’t care. Well, not about an English rock singer anyway.’ Bowie had a low profile and, although he had a long way to go in his recovery, it seemed to be suiting him.

Summer 1976, and Bowie, having wrapped up his work on his fellow exile Iggy Pop’s The Idiot a little early, was bouncing ideas about in a Parisian studio. Producer Tony Visconti was with him. A consummate professional, Visconti had collaborated with Bowie before, and could organise around—and with—the star’s sometimes fragile states of mind. He had also brought an intriguing new toy with him. Visconti’s Eventide Harmonizer machine, one of only a few in Europe at the time, could shift pitch and delay recorded sound or, as Visconti