Don't Call It Krautrock

In the late 1960s, a new generation of postwar youth in a divided Germany began making music that reflected their own surroundings and lack of a voice in the popular culture.

They were influenced by the Velvet Underground, experimental jazz, modern classical music, and progressive rock, and they were bursting with new ideas.

The term krautrock came from the attempt by the British press to gather these disparate musicians under one umbrella; much to their consternation, the name stuck.

Krautrock, aka kosmische musik, was a drastic departure from rock'n'roll up to that point, its innovators having stripped away the blues influence from American and British rock'n'roll to create their own distinctly European sound.

And what a diverse sound it was, from Kraftwerk's icy odes to pocket calculators and Can's freaked-out psychedelic drones to Tangerine Dream's ambient idylls.

Many of these bands' sole sonic commonality was a pulsing 4/4 beat—the motorik beat—like a car streaking down the autobahn, like the pattern of a robot's heart.

Tempestuous personalities and unstable working relationships meant that few of these groups lasted long enough to reap the rewards they deserved. Most were relegated to cult status in their day.

Yet their collective influence was immediately felt in the larger pop world thanks to David Bowie, who, after discarding his Ziggy Stardust persona (see "Glam Rock: Oh! You Pretty Things," LJ 3/1/09, p. 51), found inspiration in the sf propulsion of kosmische.

From that point on, kosmische became essential listening for several generations of tastemakers. Wilco, Radiohead, Stereolab, Joy Division, and Silversun Pickups all owe a great deal to this movement, many of whose prime movers continue to make interesting and challenging music today.

The bands represented here have at least a couple of titles each available domestically. The deeper you go into their discographies, or if you search for albums from more obscure acts like Ash Ra Tempel and Popul Vuh, the more you will end up paying.

Weeding should not be an issue. If anything, it will be difficult to replace these titles if damaged or stolen, as they go in and out of print so quickly.

That said, the last few years have seen a steady stream of new, expanded editions of classic albums (e.g., High Wire Music's wondrous version of Tracks and Traces), and fascinating curiosities are continually being uncovered as well.

Can. Tago Mago. Mute. 1971. UPC 7-24596-93772-3.
An album full of mantric lockstep grooves that are reverent and thoroughly freaked out in equal measure. Frontman Damo Suzuki is at his craziest here.

Cluster. Cluster & Eno. Water. 1977. UPC 6-46315-71562-0.
The first, and best, of the many collaborations between this duo (also in Harmonia) and ambient pioneer Brian Eno.

Faust. Faust/So Far. Collector's Choice. 1972. UPC 6-17742-01792-2.
Kosmische's mad scientists tried out some actual songs, with stunning results: the music veers from pastoral to unhinged at the drop of a hat.

Harmonia. De Luxe. Lilith. 2007. UPC 8-013252-91232-0.
Take one member of Neu! and two members of Cluster, mix in a home studio, and you get this album of shimmering, pulsing electronic music still way ahead of its time.

Kraftwerk. Trans-Europe Express. Capitol. 1977. UPC 0-77774-64732-8.
Kraftwerk defined its robotic, emotionless image and utterly individual sound with this masterpiece album that fused technology and electronics to vibrant pop hooks.

Neu! Neu! High Wire. 1971. UPC 8-54882-20071-9.
Fiery duo Michael Rother and Klaus Dinger created music that was as precise as it was unfettered before they turned on each other. Here, they are at their trailblazing best.

Tangerine Dream. Phaedra. Virgin Records. 1974. UPC 0-77778-60642-0.
This milestone album brims over with lush synthesizers, melodic vapor trails, and all manner of treated sound.