Formed during the student riots of 1968 but schooled in classical ballet and water polo, the main members of CAN fell into classic archetypes: Irmin Schmidt, the expansive synth-tinkler with a Silver Surfer on his jacket and golden melodies at his fingertips; Holger Czukay, the genial bassist and sound manipulator sporting a highly iconic moustache; Jaki Liebezeit, the "best jazz drummer in Germany", never ever ever out-of-time; Michael Karoli, the hot guitar wizard with funky moves, recruited whilst still a schoolboy. (Duty of care? - Ed.)
These volcanic talents learned to harness their personal lava flows under the stern tutelage of Karlheinz Stockhausen, the infamous avant-garde composer who once banned melody for an entire year; another year he composed only with paper-clips. For Stockhausen, anything could be music, apart from most sounds that humans actually enjoyed. His masterwork "Desperate Sting of a Dying Wasp" required 88 people on stage to play atonal comb-and-paper for 88 minutes. You'd riot too.
This cerebral high art was all very well for developing one's sense of importance, but CAN's first paying commissions were of an altogether lower cultural form - blue movies. Many early Rodox pornos ("Me! I'm A Nympho"; "Curiosity Killed The Cock" etc) are backed by their unmistakable propulsive grooves. They recorded enough to finance the purchase of their Dusseldorf studio, Kling Klang (hang onnnnn, are we not doing a Kraftwerk entry then? - Ed.) which was so named after the internal resonances that adult metal Ben-Wa balls create once inserted into the vagina. It stayed their home for the rest of their career and is a place of pilgrimage and fervent worship today.
To this klinging-klanging CAN though, one crucial aspect was missing - they needed a singer, a totem on stage through whom to channel their improvised grooves. Their first vocalist was Malcolm Mooney, found during a dangerous excursion to 1920s Chicago. Malcolm had some difficulty adjusting to the modern German lifestyle and language, prompting his trademark repetitive delivery as he asked the same questions again and again, hoping for a different answer: "Are you waiting for the streetcar? ...Are you waiting for the streetcar?"
Eventually, mere grooves could no longer hold Damo, and he spread in all directions, becoming a mycelial network. The voice was now beyond human comprehension.
After Damo's transmogrification, the remaining core members decided to refocus on an important
element for all musicians: their bank balances. This was, perversely, CAN's most commercially successful period. Hit singles included "Mauve It", their take on the Cliff Richard rock-and-roll classic; "Silver Saturday Knight", a disco smash; and "Funky Gibbon", in which they took on alter-egos as a group of middle-aged English comedians named "The Goodies". These sold in bucketloads. Some accused CAN of selling out. This upset Holger in particular, who vowed to "disprove the groove" by not using the bass again on a CAN record. To get round this, the others brought in a new bass player who was, if anything, even more wedded to the groove. This was followed by an extra bongo player, and before long entire bands were attaching to CAN like limpets to a kraut-rock.
These volcanic talents learned to harness their personal lava flows under the stern tutelage of Karlheinz Stockhausen, the infamous avant-garde composer who once banned melody for an entire year; another year he composed only with paper-clips. For Stockhausen, anything could be music, apart from most sounds that humans actually enjoyed. His masterwork "Desperate Sting of a Dying Wasp" required 88 people on stage to play atonal comb-and-paper for 88 minutes. You'd riot too.
To this klinging-klanging CAN though, one crucial aspect was missing - they needed a singer, a totem on stage through whom to channel their improvised grooves. Their first vocalist was Malcolm Mooney, found during a dangerous excursion to 1920s Chicago. Malcolm had some difficulty adjusting to the modern German lifestyle and language, prompting his trademark repetitive delivery as he asked the same questions again and again, hoping for a different answer: "Are you waiting for the streetcar? ...Are you waiting for the streetcar?"
Eventually Malcolm developed not only his own voice but many voices, all at once; and he sensibly left the band for the sake of clarity. Whither the great plant! Little did they expect though, the great plant was actually growing every minute on the streets, where he moved and hollered like an otherworldly visitor. This new cutting was Damo. All hail Damo. This particular great plant had been a Japanese seedling, and now he took root in the richly fertile soil of CAN music. And my, what roots! Damo gave the band raw sex appeal. Before long, their gigs were ascending into impromptu orgies, the band dutifully soundtracking every joyous squeal and squirt. Luckily, CAN were also sonic healers, with the power to cure scurvy.
CAN were infamous for a combination of slack-bottomed freaking out and intensely parsimonious tape-editing. One song beloved of CAN devotees, "Can Can", came out of a continuous eight-hour recording session, 467 minutes eventually edited down to 1:24. (Michael: "My fingers bled for a week afterwards - then they cut my entire solo.")
CAN were infamous for a combination of slack-bottomed freaking out and intensely parsimonious tape-editing. One song beloved of CAN devotees, "Can Can", came out of a continuous eight-hour recording session, 467 minutes eventually edited down to 1:24. (Michael: "My fingers bled for a week afterwards - then they cut my entire solo.")
After Damo's transmogrification, the remaining core members decided to refocus on an important
element for all musicians: their bank balances. This was, perversely, CAN's most commercially successful period. Hit singles included "Mauve It", their take on the Cliff Richard rock-and-roll classic; "Silver Saturday Knight", a disco smash; and "Funky Gibbon", in which they took on alter-egos as a group of middle-aged English comedians named "The Goodies". These sold in bucketloads. Some accused CAN of selling out. This upset Holger in particular, who vowed to "disprove the groove" by not using the bass again on a CAN record. To get round this, the others brought in a new bass player who was, if anything, even more wedded to the groove. This was followed by an extra bongo player, and before long entire bands were attaching to CAN like limpets to a kraut-rock.
All good containers have their sell-by date, and okra must be eaten fast. CAN had the good grace to scrunch up with a final single, "Can Cannot", following which they only reconvened once a decade to sign spoons, dismiss their musical legacy and carp at one another. Tribute band Bang On A Can made a whole career out of confusing audiences with their almost unrecognisable cover versions. Meanwhile our great plant, Damo, had a second wind as the star of horror movie "Ring". Remember: don't pick up if it's "Out Of Reach".
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