There are four small miracles in Can's "Chain Reaction"/"Quantum Physics", from 1974's Soon Over Babaluma. The first occurs at about 40 seconds into "Chain Reaction" when the 4/4 stomp of Jaki Liebezeit's drums line up with Holger Czukay's bass pulse, alongside tambourine and percolating drum machine; I realize that this song is closer to trance techno than the minimalist funk or psychedelic motorik of the band's earlier records. In fact, the first time I ever heard "Chain Reaction", I was mostly unfamiliar with trance, and wondered if Can had actually invented the music. I'd never read anything to that effect, but it seemed obvious they must have had at least a hand in its creation. In any case, the only music I've heard since that approached their primal, impressionistic romp has been by bonafide dancefloor shamans like the Orb or Orbital, or even Aphex Twin's ambient stuff. Of course, I loved Can a lot more: They seemed subtler and messier, like Claude Debussy's ghost tripping over a Mayan ruin mid-thought.
The second miracle occurs at the 6:28 mark in "Chain Reaction", when the swirling mass of synth and Michael Karoli's brain-fried guitar solo is brutally interrupted by a chime and black void of metallic, echo-chamber ambience. The beat stays intact (Liebezeit couldn't stop playing that pulse on a bet), but the mood goes from proto-jam-band orgasm to stark ambience with drums of death. Had Terry Riley not nabbed the Phantom Band moniker for one of his records, Can could have stolen it here-- and Liebezeit did for one of his solo projects in the 1980s! Unlike virtually any other band on the planet, Can were able to straddle the line between primal and progressive, popular and avant-garde in a way that made both extremes seem like the best possible end for Western music.
The third occurs five-and-a-half minutes into "Quantum Physics", when Irmin Schmidt's Alpha 77 synth cluster chord suddenly becomes a fully-fledged major one. By this point in the song, the raging, percussive momentum of the previous track has almost completely evaporated into only the hint of a beat, as if the spirit of the piece had long since been shot out into space, left to dissolve into what popular physics author Nick Herbert once described as "quantumstuff"-- the one true matter of the universe, of which we and everything we see or feel is made. Schmidt lets his tones sustain, and I can hear the overtones forming, one by one, until the chord is more than just major. In fact, the physics of sound dictate that if you let a note ring long enough, you'll get the minor-7th harmonic, and eventually a 9th-- exactly the notes old Debussy liked to insert into chords to make them all pagan and erotic.
The last miracle occurs as the song is fading away from us entirely, when even Liebezeit's drums have dried up and the only discernable sound comes from Schmidt's endlessly spiraling synthesizer overtones. Mid-period Can is arguably the band's most interesting because it witnesses them having to explore more than just the backbeat of experimental rock, more than just the ambience of the space music they helped create. "Quantum Physics" is what happens when discipline and intelligence rams head on with divine inspiration. It is understated and refined, but glowing with life. It's not the kind of song you put on to start a party, but if you want to send a few of your best friends home like angels, you'll put it on at the end. It sounds like the music of the spheres to me.
Can had approached this territory before with 1973's Future Days. After the band's modest success with the "Spoon" in 1972 (buoyed by its use as the theme to a popular German gangster show), they were able to afford a short summer holiday. When they came back to record, it was a collective idyllic, sunshiny aura that most informed their efforts. The title track, fading in on the back of seaside ambience and distant accordion, was Can's smoothest production yet, sounding either like they'd successfully amputated the pulse and precision of Ege Bamyasi, added a lush veneer and forged a new kind of pop music, or somehow invented the greatest tropicalia known to man. Damo Suzuki's cooing ("You hide behind a borrowed chase / For the sake of Future Days") never sounded so alluring, and Can's music had never seemed as sensuous or divorced from gravity. Likewise, the epic "Bel Air" featured Can at their most impressionistic, if not always focused. Czukay once described his band as an "electric symphony group", and the heavily edited and structured "Bel Air" betrays a dedication to long-form statements and an almost painterly sense of blended colors and landscapes.
Following Future Days, Suzuki got married to a Jehovah's Witness and left the band. After trying out several singers, Can eventually decided to keep things to themselves for Soon Over Babaluma, as Karoli took over vocals in most cases, with Schmidt helping from time to time. Due to circumstances, the record sounds obviously transitional, and was in fact the last one Can would complete using their tried and true straight-to-stereo method, before upgrading to more modern, multi-track methods afterwards. However, even beyond the aforementioned "Chain Reaction"/"Quantum Physics" highlight, it's a good record. "Dizzy Dizzy" is something like Can's version of ska (kraut-skank?), and features the first of several future Karoli forays using violin, on which he's surprisingly competent. His refrain of "got to get it up, got to get it over" serves the insistent, space-bounce of the track, and though the band would misstep on world music attempts in later years, this was pretty interesting. The murky electro-bossa "Come sta, La Luna" is also cool, featuring Schmidt's vocals and ominous piano lines. Only "Splash" leaves me underwhelmed, seeming tired and directionless in comparison to the rest of the record.
Unlimited Edition is the CD expansion of the Limited Edition LP, featuring various unreleased tracks from 1968 to 1974, all recorded in Can's private Inner Space studios. Given the nature of the collection, a general lack of cohesion is to be expected, but for my money, Unlimited Edition is one of the most underrated items in the band's catalog. From the heavenly climates of "Gomorrha" and "Ibis", to the more cutting, rock-edged tracks with Malcolm Mooney ("The Empress and the Ukraine King", "Mother Upduff", "Connection", "Fall of Another Year"-- all of which could have comprised a classic EP) to the sometimes bizarre, sometimes funny "Ethnological Forgery Series", wherein Can raid the world's various indigenous music and make stuff that would make both Steve Reich and Boredoms proud. And of course there's "Cutaway": an epic, spliced-together piece that might sound more at home on a Faust record than here.
1975's Landed was the first Can record to get what Czukay describes as a "professional mix", as the band upgraded to 16 tracks and had the opportunity to bring out many more layers of sound. However, what might have sounded like a godsend to fans craving as much Can magic as they could get didn't quite turn out as we expected. Gone were the epic, funky ambient songs or minimalist rock experiments in favor of some pretty straightforward jam-band tunes. "Full Moon on the Highway" bursts out of the gate with a deft pace and Karoli's thin, decidedly non-rock chipmunk chorus. Luckily, his guitar is front and center, though it was clear the band weren't playing space age physics music anymore. "Half Past One", "Vernal Equinox" and "Hunters and Collectors" are variations on the idea of bare-basic chord progression and high-speed beats serving as launching pads for lengthy solos. I give Can credit for having the chops to pull it off, but did I really need to hear them do it? "Red Hot Indians" is more interesting, sounding like bizarre tropical jazz-pop, and featuring Olaf Kübler from Amon Düül guesting on dual sax solos. The 13-minute sound-art closer "Unfinished" doesn't really fit with the rest of the record, but does at least give Can the chance to stretch out their most experimental ideas into 16 tracks, and is reminiscent of "Cutaway" or some of the more out-there moments on Tago Mago.
Like the previous Mute remasters, these albums now sound incredible. Listening to "Chain Reaction", "Gomorrha", and "Future Days", I was constantly surprised at how clear everything sounded, as if the band had recorded all of this stuff in one fell swoop during an unbelievably inspired, marathon session. One of the great things about Can, even in their off moments, was the attention to detail and realization that the affect of each tiny moment in the course of a song can affect the momentum of the entire piece. No small miracles here: even if it's sad to think these albums represent Can's last great gasp, none of their moments have ever sounded better.
