Tone Glow 148: Michael Rother
An interview with the German musician of NEU! and Harmonia about his love for cats, living in Pakistan, and the differences between working with Klaus Dinger and Jaki Liebezeit.
Michael Rother
Michael Rother (b. 1950) is a German musician who was a founding member of legendary krautrock bands NEU! and Harmonia. Born in Hamburg, he would spend much of his childhood moving across cities and countries due to his father’s job. After moving back to Germany from Pakistan in 1963, he became enamored with rock and roll music, citing artists like the Beatles, Little Richard, and Jimi Hendrix as early influences. As with other artists in his country, Rother was deeply invested in creating music that would go beyond the conservativism of post-War artists popular in Germany, and sought a new style that would help him feel at one with his personality and identity.
Rother would find likeminded artists at the turn of the 1970s. He was in an early iteration of Kraftwerk, though soon left with drummer Klaus Dinger to form NEU! Together, they would release three influential albums in the 1970s: NEU! (1972), NEU! 2 (1973), and NEU! ’75 (1975). After the release of NEU! 2, Rother started collaborating with Hans-Joachim Roedelius and Dieter Moebius of Cluster, and was excited by the ability to create music that didn’t need to rely so heavily on the studio. The three would form Harmonia and release two albums: Musik von Harmonia (1974) and Deluxe (1975). Later, the three would collaborate with Brian Eno and record music together in 1976. The tracks were released in 1997 on the album Tracks & Traces (1997). Recently, Harmonia’s debut album was reissued for Record Store Day and features a second disc complete with reworks and remixes by various artists.
In 1977, Rother would release his first solo album, Flammende Herzen. This, as well as the three records that followed—Sterntaler (1978), Katzenmusik (1979), and Fernwärme (1982)—feature Can drummer Jaki Leibezeit. Rother would continue releasing solo music in the decades that followed. More recently, he released the albums Dreaming (2020) and As Long as the Light (2022), the latter of which was recorded with his partner Vittoria Maccabruni. Box sets of his works, both solo and in NEU!, were also released by Grönland Records. Joshua Minsoo Kim spoke with Rother on May 7th, 2024 via Zoom to discuss his childhood experiences, Little Richard and Jimi Hendrix, the differences between Klaus Dinger and Jaki Leibezeit’s drumming, and his undying love for cats.
Joshua Minsoo Kim: How’s your day been?
Michael Rother: It’s a rainy day in Pisa, which is where I am these days. It’s good for work; I’m in the studio and I started working on some new beats for a track that Vittoria Maccabruni and I are working on. The day is still young.
I wanted to start by asking about the earliest memories you have of your childhood. What comes to mind?
You probably know that my family moved around a lot. I was born in Hamburg, Germany and when I was four, we moved to Munich. It was all because of the job my father had. He worked at what was then called British European Airways, it later became British Airways. I don’t have very clear memories of my first four years in Hamburg. I know that my mother was a classically trained piano player and, in Hamburg, we still had a piano at home. I know that her favorite composer was Chopin and that she played that music at home. I’m pretty sure that I was inspired and filled with the tonalities and compositional ideas of Chopin from that. Nowadays, his music is not too close to my heart—it’s too complicated. If I had to choose a classical composer, I would look to other places, like Johann Sebastian Bach or earlier music.
What appeals to you about Bach and the earlier music?
I have to point out that I’m not a regular music listener. Maybe I’m different from many musicians; I enjoy silence, which is hard to get nowadays. My typical torture is going shopping in some supermarket or store and there’s music everywhere. I discover my ears following all the music—I can’t stop it. That’s part of my reality and why I’m so happy with the sound of silence. I have recently discovered the beauty of lute music from the 15th and 16th century. Being a guitarist—and it is still my main instrument—the sound of the guitar strings just always appeals to me. These strings of the lute and the combination of the notes are very close to my heart.
My partner and her eleven-year-old daughter enjoy listening to popular music and I am enjoying some of it. They are especially big fans of Queen and Freddie Mercury, the Black Keys, and just last night, on a very different level, she played a song by Kae Tempest. I was totally touched by it. I was blown by the sincerity and intense artistic quality of the performance. The honesty really touched my heart.
Would you say that sincerity is the most important quality that a piece of art can have?
It’s true that it’s a very important quality for me. It’s always exciting to hear new approaches to technology and music-making. Last night, I put on headphones and I spent a few minutes being deeply moved.
Going back to your childhood, I’m curious what early memories you have of listening to music or to your surroundings. What comes to mind there?
I had a brother—he died a few years ago unfortunately. He was nearly 10 years older than me, so it is safe to say that I was exposed to his favorite music in the 1950s, which was rock and roll. Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Chuck Berry—those people. In my heart, it is Little Richard who never fails. I come back to him every few years and, for instance, if you think about the power of his performance, which is very passionate and strong, and if you also imagine his life—a Black, gay musician in the 1950s in the South of North America with all the oppression and hatred—it demands so much respect, and the strength of the music blows me away. When I listen to his live performance in Britain in 1964, that was a few years after his first big success, and it was a sort of rejuvenation of his success in the UK. There is this one recording of him where you see him standing at the piano playing a few notes to get the tonality just right, and then he hammers away at the piano and it takes off like a rocket! You see the young audience in the studio—it was still a conservative, careful audience—and they all jump up within seconds and go crazy. That is the power of his music.
It is interesting to me how you were interested in these various pop and rock musicians when you were younger. You were struck by the simplicity of their music. I know you were interested in Eric Clapton and Cream, for example.
Yes (laughs). That was much later, though.
Right. I know you were trying to move away from the clichés of pop and rock music when you started making your own. When you think about Little Richard or Cream or the Beatles or Jimi Hendrix, what do you feel was important to learn from them before you made your own music?
At the beginning, it was not an intellectual process. I was just emotionally touched. In 1963 when my family came back from staying in Karachi, Pakistan for a few years, the Beatles were in the air. It’s impossible to imagine for young people how little music was around. There was maybe one radio station—BFBS, the British Forces Broadcasting Service—that appealed to young people. The German radio stations played schlager or classical music or folk music. This other music reached us and it was fascinating.
The revolutionary spirit, the positive energy of the Beatles songs—it’s something I want to achieve with my music but I never can. You can hear one second of “She Loves You” and start smiling. It is there immediately—the message and the positive power of the song. And then they would refine their music and have “Tomorrow Never Knows” and the many beautiful compositions that even today I find fascinating. When my partner’s daughter brought them up again, I was like, yeah, I remember why I loved it. It’s good music, the compositions are great, and George Martin is a great producer who probably helped them develop their skills in the studio. The appeal of this music in 1963 made so many young guys in my class excited. I think there were four people who played in a band.
My mother had a lot of understanding for my love for music. It was a sad element in her life that her love for music—and her desire to be a professional musician—was crushed by the economic disaster of the 1930s. She had to work for money instead of making music. She endured my stumblings on the guitar at home. I played guitar for four, five, six hours a day, and I don’t want to imagine how demanding it was to listen to my plonks and plinks (laughter). The other guys with whom I was exchanging my love for all these new recordings—the Kinks and the Stones, etc.—they knew I had the ability to play melodies. It’s maybe how I’m wired, that I have this affinity and understanding for melody. I became what was known as the solo guitar player, and I was responsible for all the solos and melodies.
When Jeff Beck came around, as well as Eric Clapton, I was very impressed. Jimi Hendrix came two years later I think, and that was another chapter in music. It’s like he came from outer space. When he appeared on German television, it was like everything was different after that. I learned guitar techniques from copying these musicians. That was the whole story of the period from1965 to 1969 when I tried to become better on the guitar. I sometimes joke that I apologize to Jimi Hendrix because it must have been terrible when I tried to impersonate him. His song “The Wind Cries Mary” has this wonderful tonality and technique and beauty.
How does that all relate to you creating your own music?
Growing up, I became more aware of the political and social environment in Germany, as well as the struggle between the conservative and progressive parties. This made me evaluate my position as an artist. I realized that I could never become Jimi Hendrix. There was this search for identity, which really led to this moment where I realized that I had to leave that chapter behind, this history of Anglo American music. With all the respect and love for these artists, I knew it was not mine.
There was a transition period around 1970 when I was working at a mental institution. Psychology was very fascinating for me, and thinking about what shapes a personality—these ideas were on my mind. I had a long crisis. The problem for me was that I knew what I had to leave behind, but I didn’t have a clear path for the future. I looked into jazz, I looked into classical music, which I immediately stopped. A friend of mine, who played piano at the conservatory, told me that I was not allowed to do this or that. This was very big-headed, maybe, but my idea of being free was to think there was a new musical path that reflected my personality and identity. But there was nobody around me that I knew of who had anything similar on their mind. That was the crisis.
What was your opinion on schlager at the time? There were artists like Margot Eskens and Conny Froboess.
(laughs and then sighs). It was just not inspiring for a young person. These musicians in Britain like the Beatles and Rolling Stones were bad guys and inspiring. It’s funny that you mention Conny Froboess. If you asked me to name schlager musicians, I would’ve had a hard time remembering any. As a 14-year-old, this was a word you thought belonged to the old people. It’s funny, I’m 73 years old now and “old people” back then meant, like, 40 year olds. But that was the climate, there was this friction that became clearer in the late 1960s when bands from America were coming with new, disturbing, revolutionary sounds. It had to do with the Vietnam War, I’m sure, as well as the civil rights movement.
You probably know the film Dr. Strangelove (1964). That was a real feeling. War was not necessarily imminent, but the possibility of war was real. I remember that when I was in Pakistan, I was with a friend one day and heard about the Cuban Missile Crisis. I quickly took my bike and went to my parents to be with them if the war broke out. There was this feeling of permanent nuclear threat that went on in Germany until the mid-80s.
Do you have any other specific memories of Pakistan that you feel were important?
I could talk for hours about the experiences I had in Pakistan. We don’t have the time to talk about it all, but it was a gigantic step for me. Before that, we lived in England in a small town near Manchester—my father switched to [working for] Lufthansa. I was in a very beautiful little country school where animals were running around the bathroom. It was a very relaxed, friendly environment. Coming to Pakistan, I was a pupil of the Karachi grammar school, which back then already had a history that went back to, I think, 1840 that included military tradition. It was a quite impersonal handling of the pupils, it had strict rules, and there were high expectations.
My English was not developed. I remember at the very beginning of being in Pakistan, we had to learn a poem about young Lochinvar. It was a Scottish nobleman in 1500 or something. I just had to learn it by heart—I didn’t understand the words, so I had to learn it phonetically. There was a lot of stress, actually. Thinking back on Pakistan, my understanding of my laziness today comes from how high the pressure was back then. I had bad nights. We even had to learn Urdu, which was because 25 of the 28 students were Pakistani. They of course knew the language, but foreigners like me had very little knowledge.
There were of course many wonderful memories. I loved being at the beach, I loved the ocean and the waves, though I was afraid of sharks (laughter). I loved the music. There were musicians who were running around from house to house, sometimes little bands playing, and the rhythms fascinated me. I couldn’t understand the structures. It was totally unclear to me when it started and where it was going. It felt like a music that had no beginning and no end. I have this love for infinity, like the endless road, so I think this music—which seemed to be going on without the need to stop, which was the case for classical German folk songs or classical music—shaped my understanding of what music could be.
Is there anything you remember specifically about the Arabian Sea? How did it compare to the bodies of water in Germany?
The water temperature was certainly better (laughter). When we lived in Munich, I think we jumped into the river, the Isar, which ran right by the house. My brother would dive in the Isar, and I remember him teaching me to swim. I loved being in water. I didn’t go to the public bath and swim 5 kilometers and things like that, but jumping and diving into the water, being playful in the water—that always gave me a lot of joy.
What fascinates me about water is the invisible world underneath the surface. That is part of the mystery of water. And when you dive in, you are in a world belonging to other creatures. We can’t breathe underwater, so we have to be careful. I remember my brother jumping off a cliff into the sea and swimming to the bay, and we heard from a helicopter that flew above us that there were sharks. So I guess sharks are a recurring theme here (laughter).
To bring my experiences in Pakistan back to NEU!, you can think about “Hallogallo” for instance. One element that me and Klaus Dinger shared is taking to the road, to the air, to the waves, and going all the way to the horizon. We didn’t care about red lights or stopping, it was about endless movement. After Klaus and I left Kraftwerk, it was clear that we would have this one idea in our songs—this fast, forward movement. At the end, what mattered was what happened in the studio. It’s hard for young musicians to understand that we didn’t have any tape machines or multi-tracking or computers, of course.
We called what we had a “vision,” but we never discussed the vision. He was strong-headed and that’s why he played the way he did. He had a strong determination in his drumming, and that was his personality. People often get this wrong because he was a difficult person in later years, but we never argued about music. In the later years, we argued about nearly everything outside of the studio, but working on music was different. Klaus once said that we had a “blind understanding” and, to quite some extent, that was true.
Do you mind talking about a song like “Leb’ Wohl”? It has these field recordings that so seamlessly merge with the instrumentation. It reminds me of what you said about being in the water.
The whole story of NEU! ’75 (1975) is a bit strange. I started the project Harmonia when I found that jamming, playing, and working with [Hans-Joachim] Roedelius and [Dieter] Moebius was what I needed to develop new ideas. Klaus and I had a contract for a third album with [record label] Brain, and at that time, Conny Plank had his own studio. We had more time at our disposal to be in the studio than for the first two albums when we were at rental studios in Hamburg. Klaus was already working with two drummers, Hans Lampe—who is now my live drummer on stage—and his brother Thomas Dinger. That later turned into the project La Düsseldorf, which was especially popular in Germany. It’s a bit like my solo albums were, which were much more successful in Germany than outside.
I was not so interested in working with the two drummers, and so we had disagreements before we went into the studio. We did one side [the A-side] as a duo—the classic Dinger and Rother combination—and the other side [the B-side] was with the two drummers. Klaus, I think, was driven by the idea to play live, and he wanted to get away from being the drummer. He wanted to be the guy at the front of the stage, playing and singing, being the center of attention. He wanted to deliver his message. He always felt stuck behind the drums, though people were always so incredibly impressed by his playing. He was groundbreaking.
When we went to the studio, I had some ideas. “Leb’ Wohl” was an idea Klaus introduced, but of course we contributed elements to the each other’s ideas. So I played guitar on the rock and roll side with songs like “Hero,” and he played wonderful things on “Isi” and “Seeland.” With “Leb’ Wohl,” that was an example of… how should I call it… his sad story of a girlfriend that was taken back to Norway by her parents. That was a source, even in later years, for creating passion, for expressing anger and frustration and sadness in music. “Hero” is all about that lost love of his, too. On “Leb’ Wohl,” he sat at the piano and played these little notes. I later added the synth sounds and the waves. That’s what me and Klaus had in common: this love for water. You can hear it on the first NEU! album. It’s a wonderful sound. I remember when we were recording “Für immer,” I said, “Conny, I would like these instruments to come like a big wave toward the listener.” I remember these two guys making fun of me. “Leb’ Wohl” is very quiet and genuine and it is a real expression by Klaus, and that was his strength.
“Hero” was so impressive. I was in the mixing room with Conny when Klaus went in to record the vocals. The delivery of the vocals was so spot on and he did it right the first time. He tried to improve it, he tried to make it clearer and more structured, but it was less powerful. Luckily, Conny and I convinced Klaus to keep the first take because it was so strong. He had ideas, sure, but we didn’t talk about that. He had ideas about the lyrics, but the way he then performed it on the spot was very, very impressive. Maybe you’ve heard that I played “Hero” with Iggy Pop a couple years ago (laughs). He invited me to join him in Hamburg. That was big fun. Iggy is a great performer too, but you listen to what Klaus did with the original and it is unreachable. It was like Little Richard—there is this originality and Klaus was the guy.
Did you ever talk with him about the loss of this girlfriend?
To be honest, we appreciated each other as musicians because we knew we worked together so well, but we were never friends.
Right, this is one of the things I always think about with NEU!
Many people are surprised and even unhappy when they hear this. They think that musicians who record together and release stuff must be close friends, but it is not true. And especially in the case of Klaus Dinger and me, to be totally honest, he had traits that I could not accept as a friend. It was respect and admiration of his artistic qualities, but aside from working together, we had separate lives. My girlfriend didn’t like him and, actually, all my partners didn’t like him. I don’t want to judge him though, and he is no longer around to defend himself. So, I could not console him and he had to deal with this loss himself.
You can keep such hurt, although it would be wiser to make peace with what went wrong, but this tragedy can be used for artistic purposes. I don’t work that way, but I know that feelings of sadness and such experiences can erupt and turn into compositions. That’s where they come from. Many of these emotions may be hidden, and I may not even be aware in the moment where that sadness comes from.
Can you talk to me about Harmonia? When you think about Musik von Harmonia (1974), Deluxe (1975), as well as the tracks that were recorded and appeared on Tracks & Traces (1997), how do you feel like working with these artists shaped you? How would you be different if you were never in Harmonia?
That’s a difficult question and it’s impossible to answer, really. What would happen if I never met Ralf Hütter in the Kraftwerk studio and jammed with him? What would happen if I had not shown to the other people, Dinger and [Florian] Schneider, that there was something we had in common that led to everything that followed? You have to count all these musicians as important cornerstones where my life took a new direction.
When I went to meet with Roedelius and Moebius, I didn’t even have the idea of going away from NEU! and doing something different. I was not totally convinced of NEU! 2 (1973) and was quite unhappy with some of its failings, but it was a positive experience with Roedelius to meet an artist with whom I could create music on the spot. He played these endless notes, these repetitions. Without us ever talking about it, there was always this idea that it could go on forever—these notes had no natural ending and we took it as far as we wanted to and as far it took us. The teaming up of my guitar work and his endless piano melodies were so beautiful and so promising. It was clear to me that I had to try and take it somewhere. It’s not that it had to be an album, or that it would be formative for my future as a musician. It was love, really. I fell in love with this music.
Moebius introduced his qualities, and then we were a group. On good nights, it was magic. With Klaus Dinger, it was a guitarist and a drummer, and sonically, it was something that had to happen in the studio—we needed the help of multi-track machines and layers being added on top of one another. With Harmonia, we could just play. We probably bored most of the audience for hours (laughter). On the first Harmonia album, there is this track called “Ohrwurm.” We recorded that live, and that was the first semi-public performance. It was only for friends of the band—these were people who were living in the same place. There was some special party happening and we played for nearly two hours. I haven’t listened to the full recording in many, many years, but my memory is that one hour and fifty-five minutes of that performance was three musicians searching, doing everything spontaneously, and trying to find magic. The five minutes that are on “Ohrwurm” is when everything came together.
You cannot create that when you sit in the studio. The electricity you hear in those five minutes is pure magic. It can give you shivers. But the problem with this spontaneous music is that we tortured the audiences. We made them wait for something to happen, and maybe at that moment they were just talking and didn’t notice that something special came from the stage. We were not very successful and the concerts were not successful, I must say. Harmonia was a commercial disaster. But artistically, I always loved Harmonia, and I was always convinced of the music. With Deluxe, it was the same. This was a development, and maybe not all three of us were tugging in the same direction, but that was the magic of Harmonia. We were three artists with our own artistic handwriting, with our clear preferences.
Moebius did so many incredible things spontaneously. Sometimes they were bum notes, sometimes they were just the right notes, and that’s just the way Moebius worked and lived. I think of him quite often when I make music. He was a great artist. So that was the story of Harmonia, and I’m sure that the struggles with Roedelius and Moebius, as well as my interactions with them, shaped my experiences and views on the possibilities of music. It also made it possible to make material like the title track “Deluxe,” as well as the song “Isi.” For me it is quite clear that without this collaboration, I would not have reached that level. But it is impossible to know because I never lived that other version of my life. These musicians really inspired me in a big way.
Was there a specific cat that inspired Katzenmusik (1979)?
(laughs heartily). There was one cat that was brought to Harmonia and stayed with us. And when the band dissolved, my partner moved in and we found a small cat—maybe 6 weeks old—along the Rhine. A dog was barking at her, and so we said, “What can we do? We must protect this little kitten!” We took her to my mother’s home because we were visiting her, and then we took her back to Forst. And that was the beginning of the dynasty of cats (laughter).
Katzenmusik is an expression of my love for cats. It is still unbroken. I am deeply moved and fascinated by cats and their qualities—I enjoy their presence. “Katzenmusik 10” has a sad melody. I remember recording that when I had to give away one of the little kittens. They were born there and because you couldn’t keep all of them, you had to give them away, and this was before we realized we had to sterilize the mother cats. I was working on the album and I remember being in the studio and recording the slide guitar on “Katzenmusik 10.” I was really sad. Oh, these beautiful little cats. I could call every album Katzenmusik (laughter).
Did you have a cat when you were a child?
No, that was not possible because we were moving around. In Karachi I had two dogs, and that was an environment where dogs were maybe more sensible to have. Cats entered my life very late, and it was in moving to Forst in 1973 that I got in touch with them. Since then, I’ve been the number one fan of cats.
What specifically do you like about them?
They’re so elegant. I like the fur, I like their movements. It’s the mystery—it’s a bit like water. You look at the cat and… what does it see? What does it understand? How does it see the world? They are all quite different and have personalities. I’m always touched by the mother cats. They can also be ferocious. I remember in Forst, we had a cat that had little ones. There was also this dog—it was our neighbor’s dog—and he was a big fan and friend of ours. He’s on the back cover of Deluxe and in some photos. He was always in our lives. He would come and visit Harmonia; he would come up the stairs and bang on the kitchen door to come in. He was always welcome and he was always there. I think it was in 1977 when our cat had kittens and the dog came to visit us. She jumped on top of his neck—he was 20 times as big as she was—and she rode on him. He had no chance. He had to get away. So that is a memory I had that impressed me. It was terrible of course because I felt for the dog.
So yes, cats can be quiet, they won’t talk, and sometimes they do talk and it is very funny and special. I am very silly whenever I see a photo of a cat on the internet. Before I know it, I’m smiling. I have to admit that I get quite silly. About Katzenmusik, and the thing about all music, is that it is about all emotions—joy and sadness. Sadness is part of our lives, unfortunately.
I end all my interviews with the same question and I wanted to ask it to you. Do you mind sharing one thing you love about yourself?
Oh, wow. Huh. That’s a good question, actually. And a dangerous one. To be honest, I am at ease with my weaknesses and I accept myself. Like most people, I have strengths and weaknesses, but maybe I am too relaxed. Maybe I should struggle more? Hm… what do I like about myself? I would like to say that I am kind, but that would be very tricky because I am not only kind (laughter). But to be honest, I am okay with myself, and I try to be a good person. I don’t succeed all the time.
I’m wondering, what do you consider your weaknesses?
That’s another full interview (laughter). Spontaneously, I would like to mention that I don’t like to be wrongly criticized. But maybe that’s my weakness—it is only that I think that I am being wrongly criticized when it is actually justified (laughter).
You’ve said in past interviews that you knew that you would never be able to play like Jimi Hendrix so gave up on that idea. So there is this acceptance you have of who you are, and this has allowed you to make the music you ended up making.
Oh wow. I am working on a track and the lyrics of my partner, Vittoria, just came to my mind and she sings about things like that. What a coincidence.
I would love to be much smarter and know much more about science and the world. Those are weaknesses, and maybe it is because I am lazy that I do not know them. I follow American politics. I have…. how do I say this… strong feelings about your former president. And I fear for the American justice system, the Supreme Court mess, the struggles of decency against violators of decency. Before I started being interested in psychology, I was very much impressed by [Friedrich] Schiller and these authors of the 18th century. So I have this interest in justice and justice for rulers who have exploited people. That’s something that is still very strong in my heart.
Do you feel like your interest in psychology or Schiller ever impacted the way you thought about music or art?
In the 1960s, it was of course about justice and overcoming the remains of the Nazis and of conservative structures in society. And that has always been true. The struggles of normal people trying to live decent lives against the powers that overstep and exploit and suppress. There is not a direct link between Schiller and my music, although maybe I should think about it. There is of course a line and a development in personality and perception of reality and politics, but it is not a simple, straight line. It never is. Being a teacher, you probably recognize all these links.
There are a couple things I wanted to ask about that I just remembered. In 1974, the filmmaker Bastian Clevé premiered the avant-garde short film Götterdämmerung at the Oberhausen Film Festival. That film features a naked woman dancing to NEU! and it had quite the controversial response among audience members. Do you have any memories about this film, Clevé, or the audience reaction?
That’s an interesting bit of information! I don’t recall hearing about the filmmaker Bastian Clevé and his film. If there ever was any clearance request from him for the NEU! track, which I doubt, there’s a good chance the record company just gave them permission without asking us. Do you have a copy of the film? I would be interested in seeing it. I remember going to the Oberhausener Kurzfilmfestival in the early ’70s and seeing some very experimental films there.
Yes, I can send that to you. I also wanted to ask what it was like playing with Jaki Liebezeit as he appears on your first four solo albums. What was it like to play with him versus someone like Klaus? What were the differences?
They both were great drummers. Jaki Liebezeit was a technical drummer, he was a natural. He was a magician. It was incredible. Klaus was a powerful, determined worker on the drums. He was not fine-tuning like Jaki, and his qualities came from his determination, which he put forth in his performances. Klaus once cut himself on a broken cymbal and there was blood flying all over the stage. He never stopped for a second! He just kept on playing, and the audience was very close to us and I remember them looking at him. Any normal person would say, “Sorry boys, I have to take care of my hand here.” But Klaus just went on. This was a quality of his that impressed me so deeply.
With Jaki, when we went into the studio to record Flammende Herzen (1977), I just played a few cassette materials that I recorded in Forst at home on a 4-track, the one we used with Brian Eno. He listened to it and he didn’t talk much—Jaki was very cat-like. He was very careful, he listened, and then we went into the recording room and laid the tracks. “Flammende Herzen,” the song, has about three minutes of only guitar. And then the build up starts. It is so impressive that Jaki, without knowing the song—all the guitars were not there yet, they were just in my mind, and there was only rhythm guitar—was able to feel the seams and know how to increase the tension and drama. It’s a mystery, much like Conny Plank’s abilities at the mixing desk and being able to memorize all these elements over 10 minutes, like with “Hallogallo.” I could go on for a long time about Jaki Liebezeit’s contributions to drums. He came to Forst when I was recording Fernwärme (1982). On “Silberstreif,” I asked him to play twice, so it’s a bit like phasing. He plays on top of himself without a click track.
Do you have any favorite songs from your solo discography?
I don’t listen to my recordings. Recently, I listened to something from Traumreisen (1987) and I thought, oh, that’s much better than I remember (laughter). I was also on a trip with a friend and she played Flammende Herzen and I thought, yeah, I was really lucky. I was lucky that I had the help of Conny and Jaki to come up with that. I don’t really need to listen to my own music. Of course I do it sometimes, but I would like to continue going forward. That’s a nice idea.
Harmonia’s debut album, Musik von Harmonia, was recently reissued as a double LP for Record Store Day. It features a second LP complete with reworks and remixes by various artists. A tribute album to NEU! was also released for Record Store Day two years ago as part of a box set and was released this year as a standalone LP. Both of these albums can be heard on streaming services. Rother’s solo music and work as NEU! and Harmonia can also be found on these services.
Thank you for reading the 148th issue of Tone Glow. Jaki was cat-like, and Klaus had the dog in him.
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