Can set a trap with their fifth album, Future Days, and I took the bait. Two years ago, I wrote a review of Future Days that characterized it as a gentle, tranquil, ambient album. Ha! That's just what Can WANTED me to think. The truth is that, while outwardly cool and peaceful, the music of Future Days is a furious alchemy just below the surface. Can's playing and collective improvisation is so intense, it absolutely percolates.
In all fairness, Future Days does qualify as a quiet, melodic album by almost any standard, and certainly in comparison to the chaotic madness of Tago Mago and the jittery paranoia of Ege Bamyasi. There are also no real solos on any of the album's four tracks, which certainly adds to the impression of a low energy level.
That's Can's genius on Future Days: it's BECAUSE there aren't any solos that there's so much energy. No soloists means that everyone in the band is on equal footing, which means that tension between the instruments is extremely thick. All five players are working together to fill the gap, and ideas sizzle. But they do so under a muted, beautiful facade.
As "Future Days" (song and album) begins, we hear a collage of white noises (courtesy of keyboardist Irmin Schmidt), and underneath, a melodic, pop-popping rhythm fades in. Holger Czukay's bass and Jaki Leibezeit's cymbals and bongos keep a finger-snapping groove, while Schmidt's electronics slice in and out in waves, and Michael Karoli contributes funky jags of guitar and occasional violin licks. Vocalist/poet Damo Suzuki uses lots of space and lots of dynamics, here whispering, there chanting, sometimes even shrieking, until the whole matrix binds into a wall of noise-addled drone. And yet, the mix is so cunning that from beginning to end, it sounds like one great wash of melody and atmosphere.
Ditto for "Spray," the next track; but what simmered on "Future Days" nears boiling point here. The sounds Can makes are as dissonant as they come: shuddery organ; tuneless, high-pitched guitar vamps; Czukay's trademark bass throb; wheedling electronic noise; and maddeningly fast and repetitive drumbeats. Damo drops in with a melody that sounds like he's gotten off of a four-hour roller coaster ride--which, the way this band worked, he might have been. But does this make the listener as dizzy as Damo sounds? No. You are simply riding the wave that Can's creating, never realizing how much energy goes into that wave's motion.
"Moonshake," the shortest track by far, is a dark, nasty piece, almost sneering at you. The all-important rhythm section (which basically means the whole band) plays the same groove as the Rolling Stones' "Shattered," and Michael Karoli plays a minor-key riff with gospel-ish organ and low saxophone accenting him. Damo whispers a sing-songy jeer, which, of course, being that he's Damo Suzuki, would make no sense even if you could understand what he was saying, which you can't. And when he pauses in the middle, jarring, pounding electro-sounds fill in, not at all unlike those infuriating noises your insensitive neighbors might be making all night long. That's the kind of track "Moonshake" is, but still--so tuneful! This one will raise your eyebrows a bit for how incongruous--though only slightly so, because it's still so quite--it seems, but the tune and the subtlety of it will ease your mind before you realize it's done so--then, once you're at ease again, the track's over.
The entire second half of the album is comprised of the epic "Bel Air," and this one is the most genuinely tranquil, and thoroughly deceiving, of the bunch. "Bel Air" starts off with the kind of tempo and feel of a late-night beach scene. Irmin Schmidt plays the sound of a tropical breeze, while Michael Karoli's guitar is a sea gull's call. When Jaki Leibezeit turns his cymbals and snares into crashing waves, Damo comes in with his light croon and changes everything. The bass gains in volume, ever so slowly, and then the other instruments swell, drowning Damo's song in their melange of sounds. Czukay and Leibezeit grow ever more insistent, and Karoli and Schmidt make ever more freakish sounds...and then, the deluge. Up comes a wild, evil storm of music, with Damo "Oooh"-ing in falsetto, taunting you from underneath it, and the instruments swirling in a (still very quiet!) maelstrom of music. Jaki Leibezeit leads everyone into careening free jamming (he doesn't solo or really lead, but it's clear that Jaki's the one making it happen), which winds carefully down to the sounds of nature, which fades back into the oceanic melody. Where it all starts over again: the calm before the storm, the storm, and the calm after the storm. It's a mad maze of music, but so exquisitely beautiful and lush that you ignore the frenzy of it.
I almost always end up saying of Can's albums that you hear something new with every listen, but that observation is the most important for you to know with Future Days. I've gone through all of this to give you fair warning: you will not notice most of it on your first listen. Or even your first fifty listens. Can will convince you that they're making calmly flowing rivers of music, and you'll happily believe. I did. Only after close scrutiny (I recommend a pair of expensive headphones) will you hear the rough currents and undertows in those rivers.
Don't let that sway you from hearing the sheer beauty of Can's work here, however, because Future Days is full to the brim of intricate, beautiful music. I still believe that this is Can's best album, and it's certainly the most gorgeous and atmospheric. But remember--even on the prettiest of days, the atmosphere has plenty of turbulence.
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