DOO-BEE-doo-bee-doooo. Richard Dreyfuss has to be lurking in the Apollo Victoria somewhere. As the house lights went down, Tangerine Dream's stagelights rose from the gloom like the mothership appearing over Devils Tower. Lights strafed and circled the stage as over a million quid's worth of hardware started flashing, blinking and making with the alien speech.
The audience of specially briefed undergraduates responded with childlike awe. Or perhaps it was the effect of the pall of dope smoke hanging in the hall. They had been brought from BA (Hons) History Of The Novel courses far and near to establish contact with the ET's. They were reduced, to a person, to the occasional yelp of humility. Who would the aliens choose to take with them?
Personally, this supplicant will take a raincheck on the invite. The ETs are on a mission of cosmic Niceness and those who they encounter are looking for the shortest distance between two pairs of carpet slippers.
For over two hours the Tangs did what comes naturally; switching on, weaving silky layers of sound, slipping in choral effects and tone clusters, bringing a sequencer riff up through the haze to dominate for a while then subside, switching into the occasional slow baroque keyboard feature, more sequencer slaloms, more banks of synthesised fog, with speed, attack and tone varying at each turn.
Your response to the blow dart hails of sequencer-work is biological, riffs twining around your body-rhythm, and the resounding subterranean voices lull you into an Arthur C. Clarke serenity. It's rather like, if you'll allow the indulgence, the '2001' ape ignoring the Stargate, scratching his back with the bone and rolling over to fall asleep.
I know beyond a doubt that Froese and Co are admirable and honourable people, but the ultimate effect of Tangsmusic is of a compromise between them and their slovenly audience. It is sometimes exciting and uplifting, but generally it contents itself with giving the audience socially mobile mood music.
It would be ridiculous to expect them to do a Gristle or Human League; this is how they've been playing for a decade and they have no intention of challenging or 'educating' their audience. But their grand, pleasant epics are the outward signs of their passive relationship with both their music and their audience. The hi-fi nuts and the funny nosed brigade demand easily-digestible music, and the customer's always right.
I came away from this somewhat distant encounter thinking that Tangsmusic is avant-garde served up on Habitat tableware for lazy/ unimaginative/nervous people who can't handle the real thing.
JOHN GILL
the phrase Patronising git springs to mind - what were we supposed to do dance?
I still remember that concert s being so special, silver scale particularly was just awesome. Does anyone know if this made the tree or leaves? - if possible I would love to get hold of a copy, whatever quality, and only if this is still permitted by the band of course.
Mac cuber transfer wrote:the phrase Patronising git springs to mind - what were we supposed to do dance?
I still remember that concert s being so special, silver scale particularly was just awesome. Does anyone know if this made the tree or leaves? - if possible I would love to get hold of a copy, whatever quality, and only if this is still permitted by the band of course.
Mac cuber transfer wrote:the phrase Patronising git springs to mind - what were we supposed to do dance?
I still remember that concert s being so special, silver scale particularly was just awesome. Does anyone know if this made the tree or leaves? - if possible I would love to get hold of a copy, whatever quality, and only if this is still permitted by the band of course.
I dont think a TT/TL exists
That's correct, but the recording exist, as it was sent to me by a nice chap
If you happened to be hanging around outside the Victoria Apollo on the evening of the 9th November around the hour of five o'clock you may well have noticed a chauffeur driven car pull up outside. Three unlikely looking gentlemen emerged from this car. The first, you might have noted, was a thin, frail type, with long lank hair whilst the second was youthful, short haired and fresh of face. The third was a stocky sort of chap with almost white hair offset by a pair of black shades.
It was only Tangerine Dream arriving for a sound check. Inside the building, they politely enquire as to the whereabouts of the stage, and upon being told its, location, they hurriedly vanish downstairs. Five minutes later, the sounds of electronic rhythms float up to us inside the backdoor, us being the doorman and me. He's waiting for a cuppa, and I'm waiting on the chance of an interview.
Almost oblivious of the bustle around us, my new friend and I are deep in discussion, debating the pros and cons of high decibel HM with specific reference to the local population. There are by now all sorts of people going here and there, doing this and that as befits the entourage of a high technology band on the road. The chauffeur pushes his way through the throng, demanding to know, in broadest London, just when 'this lot' will require transporting back to the safety of their hotel. The promoter, Adrian Hopkins, a charming and courteous man, fills him in on the schedule as the elegant figure of tour coordinator Andrew Graham Stewart weaves into view. He is forced onto his back foot as the chauffeur shoves his way out, and accidentally back heels a waste bin. The sound of breaking glass cuts across the hubbub. There is a short period of silence. Somebody titters, Then it's business as usual.
The doorman and I part on easy terms, having agreed to issue a joint statement condemning the depredations of marauding ear bashers like the Ian Gillan Band, and I wander around the building on the look out. I finally settle on a seat upstairs out of the way, where I can observe what's happening without interfering. Froese and new boy Schmoelling are on stage tinkering with the equipment, while Franke sits in the stalls chatting quietly with a couple of what I take to be sound engineers.
In the foyer, jobsworths are out in force setting up merchandising stalls and there is a crowd of fans outside queuing already. There's no chance of an interview, so an appointment is arranged for the next day Back on the stage, it looks like Froese is searching around for his guitar, so I judge the time to be appropriate for me to exit.
As I walk towards Notting Hill the next day, I'm reflecting upon my immediate surrounds. My thoughts are set against a background hum of rattling sequencers and pitter patter rhythms from the previous night's concert, and fixed firmly in my mind is a picture of Edgar Froese newly migrated from behind his synthesiser banks to stage centre, with his guitar in his hand, his free arm poised to deliver the first keraaaang!
I wince as I pass through the main entrance of my destination, the Kensington Dream. The Dream is the most formal of London's mid to top range of hotels, full of expense account businessmen and ultra respectable touristy sorts, and set amidst parts of London which are rapidly becoming good examples of inner city decay - North Kensington, and Shepherds Bush where it meets Notting Hill at the convergence of a series of Motorways and major trunk roads. An air of neglect gives way to one of prosperous sterility when one crosses the threshold into the hotel lobby.
This is home base for Tangerine Dream, from where they are shuttled back and forth to the Apollo. There's something ironic about the set-up.
Froese and Franke are sitting in the lounge sipping on some coffee. I introduce myself, take a seat and choose the earliest opportunity to ease my tape recorder onto the table, ruefully noting the intermittent bursts of muzak washing over us from the house PA. This row is surely going to block out a lot of the taped conversation, and it does as I find out later. Franke is looking solemn. Not unusual for him, according to what I've heard. He comes over as very intense and serious, both as an individual and as a musician. I also understand that he's not been in the best of health recently. He doesn't add much to the conversation. For a start, I'm sitting next to Edgar, who naturally dominates the proceedings, and also someone else turns up for an interview, and so Franke gets himself distracted. Schmoelling approaches the table. He exchanges a few words in German with Franke, and then he departs and that's the last I see of him. He's very good on stage, adding some very fine keyboard work and upping the energy of the performance as a whole. He got a round of well earned applause after his solos. I ask Edgar the obvious question, where did you get him from, then, he's an unknown quantity, isn't he?
'Yes, he was the one we selected. You know, we had some auditions, and you would be surprised who wanted to try, but it would not be fair to give out any names (there is a pause while he lets that sink in). He worked in a small studio in Berlin, nothing to get him noticed.'
He's definitely in, as-surely as Peter Baumann is out. Baumann's days as a wandering star with Tangerine are over. As far as TD are concerned, he's in New York, they're in Berlin and that's fine by them, although I think that Edgar is convinced that Baumann has made a mistake in moving to the Big Apple. It's Franke who answer my question about the Baumann/Koek album. It is definitely not the Peter Baumann, although who the other guy is, he could not (or would not) say.
Talk turns round to the concerts. They're both pleased with the tour so far, although some concerts have gone a bit better than others, and they fully expected this to happen anyway - it's just the way things happen. Edgar is very keen to point out the extreme youthfulness of the audiences in general. Perhaps he labours the point - it's a fact that no one particular band (be it Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin or Tangerine Dream) could survive for so long without capturing a new audience. Indeed, it is almost essential because if any of the original fans are still out there, then most of them are sitting at home in front of the tele, and making the occasional move in the direction of the hi-fi. In any case the London audience I saw last night was mostly late teens/early twenties, with a large contingent of continentals in attendance. They were polite and fairly passive, applauding at the right moments, and generally behaving themselves. They are the silent be-denimmed majority personified.
The music itself was just fine, perhaps more up tempo that one would have expected (and better for it too), with a vary good mix and very professional presentation. The biggest cheers were reserved for Edgar's guitar work. Did he find that at all ironic?
'No, not really' he says,' people like something to identify with. To give too big a dose of electronics is a bit too much.'
He also acknowledged the power of the guitar, and he doesn't disagree when I speculate that it will always be hard to get a machine to generate the pure excitement of the guitar, to express that degree of emotion. Besides, for him the guitar is a relief from the disciplines demanded of the operator of such highly complex machinery. There's no doubt for me that it is a very good crowd pleasing tactic, and maybe a link between the old and the new. During the concert, I was frequently conscious of one or two motifs which I couldn't quite place, although they seemed familiar. Have Tangerine turned to set pieces?
'No, no set pieces. We have a certain amount of reference points, when we all know which direction to take, but generally it is live, still a live set, very much dependant upon what happens on the night,'
Indeed, Edgar claims to be very conscious of the mood of the audience, sensing the reaction as the show progresses. As he elaborates further, he goes to great lengths to avoid using the word 'vibration', because of it's connotations, but essentially it amounts to the same thing but never let it be said that TD are marking time, a bunch of hippies carrying on with their game until they get rumbled by Joe Public. They are, in fact intensely aware of the new technology now coming onto the market, and they are very keen to establish themselves in this area.
'You know, we never have done what a lot of the really big musicians have done; which is to earn a lot of money and then hang around the bars getting drunk and all that old s.hit, This is a big mistake for these people, They don't realise that you have got to know what you are working with if you are at all serious about what you are doing. This applies to all types, of music. The potential for recording all types of music is incredibly strong, you can't just leave it in the hands of some studio technician.'
He goes on to maintain that Tangerine have re-invested more of their money (as a proportion of their income) than most; and this will pay-off for them in the end, of this he is sure. Hi-tech hardware doesn't come cheap.
TD are also not blind to the dangers that lie and wait for those who seek too much perfection, who race, on without due regard for the human element. One of the ways to counter this is to use a randomiser in order to introduce a certain, amount of unpredictability into the rhythmic processes. In effect, this piece of equipment reduces rhythmic exactitude to the level of an ordinary drummer.
So,-for concerts., it would seem that the reference points they use aid the structure of the set, whilst the randomisers plus their own improvisational abilities add an element of spontaneity; together producing the correct balance. Perhaps the popularity of the guitar indicates that the emphasis is slightly too much in favour of the structure.
I also ask about the tenth anniversary 4 LP compilation album. My attempts to draw them on this are not entirely successful: Mention of 'smart business moves' and hints about 'good marketing tactics' cut no ice. Instead, Edgar discusses the merits of the package. They insisted on a classical quality pressing instead of settling for the usual garbage churned out by CBS (who press Virgin in the UK). Also it's a celebration of ten years in the business, a chance for new fans to catch up on the back catalogue and so on.
Edgar is well up on the business side of things anyway. He makes it quite plain that you don't survive ten years in his line of business without picking up a few tricks along the way.
Time has also blunted his sensibilities somewhat, he doesn't relish the prospects of being interviewed, and doesn't buy any of the old stories about interviews being a good place to sound out your ideas. He has seen too much misrepresentation for that, and says that he's only seen two interviews throughout his entire career that he would call good.
One was by a guy from the New York Times, and the other appeared in an Austrian paper. For the rest, it's the same old guff.
Here you are, Edgar, here's some more guff for you.
