The context, and the timing, of this release is everything – well, almost. The plan was to release a new studio album, but this has been temporarily parked in favour of this live release, for the simple reason that Brötzmann felt compelled to do so in the light of global affairs right now: as such, ‘it’s a love song’ is a statement, made through two radically differing versions of the song ‘All This Violence’.
Let’s not skirt this: the world is at war. Much of this has been building for some time, but after the pandemic, it seemed a trigger went off and all hell broke loose. And people are dying the world over, needlessly, brutally.
The two versions – each of which run for around a quarter of an hour – are preceded by the brief ‘Bar Open’, with discordant drones and sounds like detonations at distance. It’s dark, disturbing, and serves as a reminder of how utterly terrifying it must be to live in proximity to actual war rather than simply erratic explosions of sound.
The Wien version of ‘All This Violence’ is harsh: scaping strings peel off metallic shards of noise amidst booming drones like roaring jets. It presents a soundscape of twisted noise and sonic devastation. Discordant, dissonant, riven with feedback and at times building the most harrowing prolonged bursts of ribcage-rattling noise, it’s designed to be challenging.
The Dresden version, which is the longer of the two, is low, slow, the metallic grating sounds of earthworks reminiscent of Sunn O))) and early Earth, but also evoking scenes of destruction, of piles of rubble, of rumbling tanks. Again, it’s a difficult listening, searing blasts of abrasive, angular noise tear from the speakers. The impact is immense, and listening with an awareness of the context only makes the brutal sonic assault hit harder.
Although the music itself is the statement, Brötzmann has released a lengthy statement to accompany it, and while to quote at such length often feels excessive, here, it feels relevant, and listening while it sinks in is by no means easy. But now is the time to reflect on all of our thoughts and actions.
»The Axis . . .
. . . after just a few moments, it became clear that the live recordings I was hearing, had a message, a power to reflect on current events. None of my studio recordings had this power. Even more – it also became clear to me that I was finally finding my musical path with Massaker, a future sound for my old band. Over the past twenty years, I have been on a search, which I have often abandoned then picked up again, either because there was no more money, no label, Corona, or no future direction. That doesn’t sound like much fun – and it truly hasn’t been. Yet, my vision and feeling of a new sound remained present and kept exciting me. I just had to do it one way or another . . . Deep inside of me was a feeling I could not yet define . . .
. . . and that was only one side of it. The Axis also meant finding the space between black and white, between light and darkness, between lightness and heaviness (all my other songs needed a placement too). I have been searching for the Axis for a long, long time and suddenly, unexpectedly, there it was…
I think I am probably difficult to understand. I try using words to construct something that might explain something. Words are just a tool, of course, and a means to an end, eventually building a cage I do not wish to step into. This is why I love the freedom of music so much. Music comes along just like that and wants nothing, needs no explanation, demands nothing,
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This makes me all the happier to write “It’s a love song” on this record and that I have done so with my band Massaker which has always been my very own way of enduring the horrors of the world. I get the feeling of having done something that stands up against these horrors and I hope the album conveys not only this but so much more . . . “
»Caspar . . .
. . . I realise people still remember Caspar Brötzmann Massaker. Personally, I wouldn’t have announced a new Caspar Brötzmann Massaker album as a new album after 25 years, if only because – what does time mean after all? For me 25 years were somehow nothing. During this time, my parents and my stepfather died, my son was born. And while after all this time, I still love my wife and son, people are still bashing each others’ heads in. I’ll never understand why people hurt people. So these 25 years of mine are of no significance, except that I still love making music, love my guitar – my sword that helps me endure it all. Of course, I have been working in the studio, and have over thirty songs in the pipeline (or rather, a heap of material), but as I was recording my songs in the studio, I’ve realised how irrelevant we may be in the face of our times, when compared to my old band Caspar Brötzmann Massaker. And I thought to myself: what am I supposed to do? Deliver songs, self-importantly affirming my presence? ‘Here I am.’
But we had been on tour and over the many years that I played Bass Totem has already created something much bigger that I hadn’t even dreamed of and was probably just as surprised as everyone else involved. And now, here I stand, challenging expectations and hearing things I can understand, while also asking myself whether more courage would serve me better, wether we’re running out of time…
The achievements of the Caspar Brötzmann Massaker can never be repeated, as I’m no good at commissioned work, no good at repeating musically successful recipes, no good for selling myself. But I am good at playing my guitar. It’s always been that way and it’s not exciting – almost rather boring. But those moments when I find the right note after trying out 1,000 boring notes create an experience which carries me on and makes everything else disappear – except for an all-encompassing love . . .
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