“The Beatles never had to sell aging”: Chris Bohn and Max Dax on Depeche Mode’s <i>Delta Machine</i>

With the release of their 13th album Delta Machine, Depeche Mode have sustained a successful career for over three decades. Electronic Beats’ editor-in-chief Max Dax and Chris Bohn, editor of the revered British music magazine The Wire and a former writer for NME when Depeche Mode released their first records, contemplate the new album together.


Max Dax: What I always found very interesting about Depeche Mode was that they’re basically one of the few continuums in pop or rock music, like U2 or The Rolling Stones: even if they do a bad record, they seem to be untouchable. Since you are a bit older than me and you have seen The Grateful Dead, I wonder how do you see the significance and relevance of Depeche Mode?

Chris Bohn: Most pop groups are not supposed to last more than, I don’t know, 18 months, but Depeche Mode arrived in the immediate post-punk period; New Romantic, futurism, all these new trends cropping up every few minutes within within the UK music scene. You wouldn’t have immediately thought of them of having a long life, especially when their songwriter Vince Clarke left just as the first album was coming out.

But I remember when I was at New Musical Express writing about Depeche—I think I chose their first three records as records one, two, and three of the year [laughs]. The simplicity of everything, the melody, voice, rhythm, everything was perfectly in sync—and all being done with electronics. As a group, their early hits really touched something, and something about them has always stuck.

For people who’ve been around as long as me, those of us who saw Depeche way back when they began, 33 years down the line you treat the whole body of work as a thing in itself. Yes, they go through phases when it’s not so interesting, but you hang in there, because like any group with a long history, their songs are bound up with your life. Maybe the best and worst aspect of popular music is when the whole human side, the personal side of things, becomes public knowledge because of various problems, the addictions, or the arguments within the groups. Somehow the fact that Depeche Mode came through and still stand side by side, remaining much closer than the likes of, say, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards—where it seems to be a total hate relationship but bound together by emotion and financials and success. After however many years you’ve followed somebody, you kind of do know them, and you even get concerned when they almost die, like Dave Gahan did.

MD: At least he lives, John Lennon was shot. DM have been going over 30 years now, and it’s a truly new dimension of growing old with people. Have you seen the video for “Heaven”? What I liked about it is it shows the band ageing. You see David Gahan an old man, you see the white beard, you see wrinkles; basically they’re not hiding anything. The video’s not a masterpiece, but it’s honest.

And it draws a thread to the gothic movement. Basically, it says, “Yes, we are gothic,” even though real goths probably would say they were never gothic. So, they reconnect to the early ’80s, both genre-wise but also as a message to their fans: “We are aging, you are aging, let’s do this together.” And The Beatles never had to sell aging. Paul McCartney, probably, but moreso The Rolling Stones. And I wonder if we are facing an era where the chasm between a group that stands for being young and a group that stands for openly aging blurs? Because I think the sounds that Depeche Mode use on their new album are very much influenced and addressed by modern, contemporary music—taking “Angel”, the first track that leaked from the album, or the opening track “Welcome to My World” as examples. These are very dark, slow, ballad-ish tracks, but they still sounds much fresher than many young bands.

CB: Because they came to attention via Mute, whose founder Daniel Miller was sort of their spiritual father—Daniel had this idea which he expressed through Silicon Teens of a group that came into the world at a time of electronics, so they picked up synthesizers rather than guitars. And Depeche Mode were the living embodiment of that—they obviously weren’t Silicon Teens, I don’t think Daniel would ever see them as that, but they lived Daniel’s dream for him in a way. But through Daniel, they had really good connections. They would be in Berlin in the early ’80s, they recorded with Gareth Jones and Gareth would be bringing in sounds from Einstürzende Neubauten, etc. The kind of people they were falling in with back then, none of their contemporaries were anywhere near so interested or well connected.

MD: You’re touching a point that I also noted about this new album. I think Depeche were always really important when they were able to basically transfer underground or vanguard ideas into the mainstream. If you take records like Violator or Exciter, but also their first few albums, I think due to success they had the mandate to try out things, and if my memory serves, “Master and Servant” was the kind of song that nobody had heard of except for the few people who were digging in the underground, who were listening to Fad Gadget or Neubauten—who weren’t as big back then as they are now. I think they kept on pursuing this tradition; it’s like a curve that they follow.

CB: I agree, I think the very opening track of this record really takes you in there. The first thing I thought of: somehow—maybe by osmosis if not through direct contact—they’d picked up from Carsten Nicolai and the Raster-Noton types. Rather than digital, it sounds like electricity switching on and off, almost. The dirt, the grit, the dust in the system. By pulling that straight away, it immediately takes the album into the present time. But takes it out of time, too, because of the nature of the sound. Somebody within Depeche Mode or something about Depeche Mode is very much of the present moment, in the present time, pulling in what’s around them. It’s the way they are, it’s in their nature to just listen. But that’s rare for a group that’s been around 33 years, I think.

MD: Yeah, exactly. And rumor goes that they have invited a respected Raster-Noton act to be support act for some of their upcoming concerts. It’s a rumor, but it’s something that totally makes sense. And I think they actually always behaved like promoters of the music they really liked. When you consider the brilliant remixes Depeche Mode, over the decades, presented to their fans, it was always like they tried to educate, that they said, “Look, you might like us, but there’s also Justus Köhncke, alva noto, Uwe Schmidt, and all these other people.”

CB: And before that Underground Resistance, UR did some remix stuff back in the early ’90s. And I think Richie Hawtin was invited to do remixes in the very early days.

MD: Talking about German electronic music, I found it very refreshing to hear obvious audio quotes on Delta Machine. On “Soft Touch”, I hear Kraftwerk’s “Neon Lights” motif, totally obvious. And on “Secret to the End” I clearly hear Deutsche Amerikanische Freundschaft, “Der Mussolini”. It’s so obvious that they put it in as if it was an experiment to see how people would react.

CB: Totally. I felt the DAF element, and maybe Chrislo Haas from Liaisons Dangereuses. With “Secret to the End”, at first hearing, yes you’re right, it is a direct hit on “Der Mussolini”, it’s a total DAF thing. Again, Daniel Miller was introducing them to this music way back in the early days, but I think they’re a little resentful that Daniel always gets the credit for anything odd or innovative in their music. They might have got there anyway. But maybe Daniel, as a conduit, brought them much closer to it. What’s good about it is that you can hear these references to now maybe 30 years of their own loves of music in various ways. But what I really like about this record is that it doesn’t feel forced, it feels very open. It doesn’t feel like they’re worried, or panicky, or controlled. It doesn’t feel honed, like they’ve chiselled this stuff away. It feels like they’ve just pulled this stuff in. It sounds like they’re using a fair amount of analogue…

MD: They definitely are, it’s modular synths. And they’re very proud of it. When they did the Paris press conference, a small promo snippet video—which later turned out to be the song “Angel”—showed Martin Lee Gore putting cables into synthesizers, and he was literally standing in front of a wall of modular synths.

CB: The record runs through quite a series of different styles yet it always feels very much like the work of one group.

MD: It’s cohesive. But for me, the even more interesting reference is, as a British band, they basically combine Delta blues and German electronics and give it a pop touch. It has a pop understanding that I think only a British band can develop. Because pop music is basically a British industry and therefore also a way of life for the people who work in that field, and in Germany it’s a vanguard thing that people do or do not.

But the way they embrace blues, it perfectly fits the tragedies of Dave Gahan. Don’t laugh, but I sometimes feel reminded of Robert Johnson. They embrace blues and quote it heavily on the new album, as well as in the lyrics. They refer to drug addiction and being dependent on a kick that they cannot get anymore, because they’re sober. I mean, replace heroin with turpentine and here we go!

CB: Yes, after 33 years, the drugs don’t do the same thing anymore, do they? So, there’s that taste of it that one is trying to recover, the thrill of the high. But I have to say, in response to what you’re saying, I like what Dave Gahan said in a recent interview in Mojo: “I wouldn’t dare say that this is a blues record, as Fletch has said a couple of times. That’s insulting to blues musicians on so many levels.” That’s Dave talking.

MD: [laughs] No, no, I get the point. Delta Machine, of course, is not blues, but it’s referencing the blues, and it’s referencing the blues in a much more honest way than, say, Eric Clapton is. I interviewed Martin Lee Gore ten years ago—it was at the time of Counterfeit², where he had “In My Time of Dying” on the album or “I Cast a Lonesome Shadow”. So, basically he really tried to incorporate blues melodies, blues structures, blues storytelling—and I’m talking about Martin, not Dave—and when I was talking with him, he showed a deep and profound knowledge about early 1920s and ’30s gramophone records of Delta blues. So I would say that even when they call the album Delta Machine, which is obviously a Mississippi reference, that I think there is an honesty to it, even if you couldn’t call it a blues record.

CB: Do you like the more bluesy rock tracks on it?

MD: Yeah, and there are bluesy grooves on it. But I was wondering, listening to Delta Machine, what I’m most interested in, when Nine Inch Nails released Ghosts, you know that big piece of instrumental music, I’m wondering about all these blues pieces they tried out and didn’t put on the record—what all these instrumental things probably would sound like. Because I think this record is a very richly textured record when it comes to sounds.

CB: I agree. Also, Dave Gahan’s voice has got richer and deeper.

MD: So, would you agree that it’s actually quite a good album?

CB: I would say it’s a very good album. I would always listen with interest to a Depeche Mode album when it’s there, but I missed the last couple.

MD: You haven’t missed that much, since Exciter. Delta Machine is their best achievement in more than a decade.~

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Chris Bohn recommends Scott Walker’s <i>Bish Bosch</i>

The last of the modernists, Scott Walker has been fighting a lone rearguard action to reverse the twentieth century’s vanishing hold on the popular memory since 1995, when he came out of hiding to release Tilt—his first new record in 11 years. It took him just as long again to follow it up with The Drift in 2006. Now on a roll of sorts, Walker wrote and recorded his latest album, Bish Bosch, in just three years. Its release completes a loose trilogy of late-period Walker works, over the course of which he developed and refined a whole new kind of art song, constructed from a discredited modernist blueprint. OK, I know that describing Walker as a modernist—indeed the very last of the modernists—is only so helpful and not a little problematic. Modernism has so many faces, and it’s near impossible to find a perfect match. It’s difficult to imagine Walker answering Ezra Pound’s 1934 call for modernists to “make it new”, as his mind just doesn’t move that fast. Instead, on the jacket of his 1969 album Scott 4, he quoted Albert Camus: “A man’s work is nothing but this slow trek to rediscover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence his heart first opened.” In the four decades since, Walker has journeyed even further back in time to find a meaningful way of addressing the horrors unfolding all around him: specifically, the collapse of communist Eastern Europe, the breakup of Yugoslavia, and still unresolved issues passed down from the Second World War. At last he found in early twentieth century modernism both a philosophical model and an analytical tool for transforming trauma and alienation into song. Walker’s new music is much closer in spirit to James Joyce’s time-stretching stream of consciousness prose, capturing all that unspools before his eyes in everyday life, than Pound’s injunction. As Joyce’s alter ego Stephen Dedalus says in Ulysses: “‘History’ is a nightmare from which I’m trying to wake.”


Walker has firmly stated that there’s nothing at all intentionally avant-garde in his music. The words always come first, and he shapes the music around them, each song according to its own needs. If the contents of a song require a Mantovani theme, he’ll write one for it. Tilt observes a more formal trade-off between word and sound, with electric chamber arrangements fencing Walker’s single-malted baritone, here ranged slightly higher to strangely discomfiting, haughty effect. On The Drift and Bish Bosch, he underlines his narratives with non-musical sonic mimicry, just to be double sure that the music stays true to his words. Especially on Bish Bosch, the music sometimes gets so literal and bleeding obvious, it’s just plain silly. Yet the very silliness of it all serves to open up this difficult music. Walker is far too uptight and controlling to fully take on Joyce’s stream-of-consciousness methods, but Bish Bosch is positively Joycean in its dirty celebration of the body. On “Corps De Blah”, he sings, “Ah, my old /Scabby Sachem / a sphincter’s tooting our tune” just after a chorus of farts breaks the song’s somber tone. Of course, it sounds horribly juvenile, and quite shocking for nice, well brought up types like myself. And it’s the last thing you’d expect to hear on a record by Scott Walker. But such scatological and absurdist humor ameliorates Bish Bosch’s otherwise bleak panorama of hell, with recurring images of decaying flesh, naked bodies, testicles and sphincters exposed.

Of course, it has its purpose. Bish Bosch reflects on the extent to which the twenty-first century is still so informed by the wars and carnage of the twentieth. The album’s closer, “The Day the ‘Conducator’ Died (An Xmas Song)”, is about the execution of Nicolae and Elena Ceausescu on Christmas Day, 1985. Can’t say I was sorry to see them go, but Walker’s evocation of their final moments is immensely poignant. The bare narrative is built up from the multiple-choice answers of a questionnaire and a recurring accusation about the firing squad not waiting for the command to fire. Without endorsing or praising the regime, Walker has stretched the boundaries of empathy, as good art should, taking you inside the minds of great dictators after they have been left looking small, greedy and vain, but also very human.

The album’s standout track is the twenty-one-minute epic “SDSS1416+13B (Zercon, A Flagpole Sitter)”. Here, Walker makes massive leaps across time to interweave overlapping narratives about an astronomical brown dwarf (sub-stellar object which revolves around stars) and Zercon, a historical brown-skinned jester in the court of Attila the Hun. The latter’s embarrassing vaudeville routines are interspersed with mysterious cosmological events in a dream warp of surrealism. Much of the song is given over to the jester’s jokes and one-liners, which are truly terrible, and each is greeted by a deathly silence as they die on the vine. How does Scott Walker make this succession of bad jokes, ugly sonics and baffling narrative leaps all work together? Brilliantly, if you’re prepared to plunge to the depths of his music and find out just how much weight a song can really carry. ~

Chris Bohn is the longtime editor of British avant-garde music magazine The Wire. This recommendation is a preview of the upcoming issue of Electronic Beats Magazine that will be released in mid-December. In the Fall 2012 issue of Electronic Beats Magazine, Bohn recommended Project UNDARK’s Radium Girls 2011.

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For Sale 1

It occurred to me last year when I wrote an article for Spex magazine. I had picked two albums by German free jazz saxophone player and band leader Peter Brötzmann, Ein halber Hund kann nicht pinkeln (1977) and Tschüs (1970), to feature in my reissues column Bessere Zeiten klingt gut. Listening to Brötzmann’s collaboration with improv drummer Han Bennink, I was immediately lost in their powerful vision of sound, and I wanted to know more about them. But well-written articles about Brötzmann (and Bennink) are hard to find. In its November issue, London-based magazine  The Wire publishes a 16-page feature by David Keenan. Writing about Ein halber Hund kann nicht pinkeln Keenan states: “In the sparse vulnerability of the duo setting, we can hear him thinking with his breath, through the pipes and valves of his horns. Here, overblowing ceases to be a route to volume and intensity, but becomes a means to generate new textures: in an instant, the bass clarinet can flick from chocolatey-smooth to sandpaper-rough, with a hint of humming, semi-vocalised song.” That’s quite an accurate description of a sound that’s hard to articulate through words. Whoever sees music as an adventure should check out the new November 2012 issue of The Wire. A single copy costs £4 in the UK. However, the cover price varies outside the UK, so why not subscribe?~ Photo: Max Dax

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Fast Food 5

Fast Food is a new, regular feature on EB.net by Thomas Schoenberger and Max Dax. Every Saturday you can read a new piece of a sophisticated ongoing conversation about cooking, traditions and how to read the menu of any given restaurant. It is a discussion about disappearing spaces and why so many chefs listen to Miles Davis’ so-called ‘electric period’ after an exhausting night in the kitchen.


Read previous episodes of Fast Food here.


Dax: The semi-legal Hafenstraße backdrop was essential for the restaurant’s founding myth. It is in fact only possible to pin down the story of the Restaurant Schönberger—and I know that this might sound redundant at first glance—because there is a story to tell. As opposed to, say, all those franchises of restaurant chains where no real story can ever to be told or written down. You need a story like this to make an inventory of a restaurant. I believe that you can approach a restaurant with a similar methodology and vocabulary as you classify, document and contextualize a piece of art. By talking about the Restaurant Schönberger we save it from oblivion.

Schoenberger: Let’s face it: We are very much aware of the fact that we conduct this dialogue about cooking not only in a public space . . .

Dax: . . . we are sitting in the Osteria al Bacco opposite the Geto Novo in Venice’s Cannaregio quarter. It is now 10 p.m. and we are recording this conversation with my tape recorder, a digital Olympus Dictaphone. There is five other guests in the osteria.

Schoenberger: Not only that. Even more important is the fact that we are fully aware of the fact we are conducting the dialogue in front of a virtual audience. Everything we discuss will be transcribed and published in this blog—before it will eventually be released as a book. Every mental leap and every cross-reference leads somewhere in this stream of consciousness. We chose the story of the Restaurant Schönberger as a starting point for this narration as we knew that we literally needed a heavily charged location. A space that serves as a proxy for the hundreds or thousands of spaces that we could have mentioned instead. Fast Food reports about the enjoyment that can be found in everyday occurrences such as dining, cooking and drinking. It repeats the idea that certain traditions must not be forgotten. As I said before: Every family-run restaurant with a story that has to close because a quarter becomes gentrified is a real loss. We have to defy perdition in the same cadence as the Hafenstraße squatters who couldn’t accept their street becoming an object of real estate speculation—that would have changed the face of St. Pauli forever.

Dax: I remember: At a certain point I had finished cleaning the string beans. You were still on the phone discussing something with someone I didn’t know. You had put on a record called “Pangaea” by Miles Davis—by the way my first introduction to jazz. I was sitting at my table, enjoying my white wine when the kitchen brigade arrived. I had to go then and we didn’t see each other for some time. Even though we had barely said a word, I associate this dizzy fall afternoon with the beginning of our friendship.

Schoenberger: For sure it was a memorable encounter. I still remember what I thought when you started to clean the beans. I thought: Here we have a guy who had no connection to me whatsoever except that he liked what I was doing. But the appreciation was mutual. I knew quite a bit about you because I had done my research. I knew, for example, that you had quit your work at Alfred Hilsberg’s. And I knew that you’d been Jeffrey Lee Pierce’s personal assistant and that you had—when you were still living in Kiel—suggested a caterer friend of yours in Kiel to order large amounts of Trebbiano from my Vertrieb trockener Weine. You had changed sides and become a journalist. I very clearly recall how I became aware of you and why I eventually did this research about you. One day, my maître d’ approached me and insisted that I read an article about the restaurant that he’d found in a newspaper. As usual, I resisted. I hate food journalism. It didn’t even matter if an article had been written about the Schönberger or about another place. I hated them all. The vast majority of journalistic pieces about restaurants or food are crap. They are written without any consciousness of tradition and knowledge of context. These articles usually, first and foremost, display the ignorance of their authors. It becomes even worse if the writers actually do know a bit about cooking. Most of their articles use language as a deadly weapon. They kill or hail chefs and restaurants with their writing as they are pretty class-conscious in the worst sense of the word.

Dax: The role of the critic has dramatically changed with the triumphal procession of the Internet and the availability of information in general. I totally understand your aversion against journalists whose job it is to professionally criticize. Nothing against that job description. Every now and then I read fantastic reviews. The way The New Yorker’s Richard Brody reviews “Shoah” by Claude Lanzmann, for instance, is just state of the art.

Schoenberger: The same goes for food critics like François Simon of Le Figaro fame or Maurice-Edmond Sailland, better known as “Curnonsky”. I don’t know how to put it: They were different.

Dax: . . . or take music critics such as The Wire’s Chris Bohn or, in Germany, Diedrich Diederichsen who successfully invented a brand new way of saying complex things in the German language. To me, these are real writers in a literal sense. But the profession of the critic is at stake today. Yes, we need people who filter for us—and they have to find ways to filter better and even more accurately than the stunning algorithms that Google or Amazon are using. But no, we don’t need point of view journalism anymore if the human being behind this point of view doesn’t have the time to fundamentally look into the complexity of a given topic. For decades now, I doubt the so-called objectivity of the critic. I always preferred the subjective aggregation of information and context that admits that nobody can know everything. It’s like that famous Socrates quote “I know that I know nothing”. I would never predicate anything else than that. As a consequence, an article about the Schönberger or any other place would have to explain contexts such as the tradition of the working man’s canteen, the tavern and the osteria to rightfully carve out the differences and the unique aspects of any given space. If you don’t integrate this knowledge and if you don’t display these rhizomatic connections, you’d run the risk of comparing a telephone book with a novel. Or, to refocus back onto the field of gastronomy: to compare the typical pizzeria in a German provincial town with a Napoletanian place that only sells two types of pizza vera.

Schoenberger: Well, my maître d’ didn’t allow himself to be put off. He insisted that I read your piece about my place. Your article was headlined “Remembrance of Things Past”, just like the novel by Marcel Proust. When I read that line I wanted to read the rest of the review, too.

Read the sixth episode of Fast Food here.

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ICAS Suite Interview with Oliver Baurhenn

From September 5th through the 8th, the second edition of the ICAS Suite is attached to the always-intriguing CTM Festival.

Bringing such fresh soundartists and performers as Mykki Blanco and Nguzunguzu, ICAS Suite plays an important role in Berlin Music Week… but what role is that exactly? And what does ICAS stand for anyway? To find out more, EB Editor-in-Chief Max Dax spoke to CTM organizer Oliver Baurhenn. Photo: Matilde Campodónico


Max Dax: Is the ICAS Suite part of Club Transmediale, or is it a separate entity, a festival in its own right?

Oliver Baurhenn: Actually, I see it more as a co-operation project, or as a small festival of festivals. There are quite a lot of partners from the ICAS Network who are also running their own independent festivals, so we’re all hooking up to make a huge program that’s not based on a single idea of one festival, but consists of approximately 18 ideas from 18 festival organizers.

So basically, it’s an aggregation of ideas?

Exactly. The goal, the ideal situation, is that the sum is greater than the parts. We’re trying to bring our knowledge together, and of course the best of each organization’s local situation and what they like best on an international level.

What I also found remarkable is that the whole thing takes place around Berlin’s Kottbusser Tor, in many bars and spaces close to each other. This is especially interesting for myself, as we had the same idea in 2010 with Spex. We wanted to celebrate the magazine’s 30th birthday in more than one club—in Kottbusser Tor’s West Germany, in La Paloma, the Festsaal and other spaces; we wanted to curate an area rather than a single space. We ended up doing the celebration at Berghain, but originally we wanted to do lectures and concerts and DJ sets and cooking in the Kotbusser Tor area. It’s funny to see how ideas don’t fade away, but are picked up by one individual without knowing about the other.

I think it’s key that these venues are located so closely to each other. It’s a win-win situation for everybody involved, and also for the city. In the ’80s, Kreuzberg was the center of the city, the center of German subculture. Neukölln was supposed to become the next hot spot. Then, with the fall of the Wall Berlin-Mitte suddenly took over that central spot in the middle of the city, and now we are going back to Kreuzberg and small spaces. It’s like a cycle come fully around. Of course, it’s nice to go where the people are, the ones who enjoy the kind of music we are presenting.

London’s The Wire Magazine and Electronic Beats are hosting an evening at Paloma Bar on September 5th, directly after the Pet Shop Boys concert. What’s the idea behind bringing together magazines from different cities?

But you’re one of the DJs spinning records that night! I think it’s an interesting way to meet up on a more joyful level. Electronic Beats is quite important for Germany and abroad, because it’s coming from a perspective that it’s authors and also you have developed out of their history. You also have this Spex background, which means that you’re quite close to the history of German music criticism. The same counts for The Wire, which is of course one of the most amazing magazines about electronic music in the world—or, as they put in the subtitle, adventures in music. I think bringing together two forces that both fancy the style of music that CTM represents is a logical thing to do. This kind of DJing and working together (but not in writing and not in criticism) might pave the way for another level of co-operation and lead to more interesting things than you might expect, on an easier and lower threshold kind of way. Rather than bringing you and, say Chris Bohn together on a stage and delivering a panel discussion. You can present and exchange ideas much better when spinning records.

I agree. It’s more like a sharing thing… you share your interest in music by creating a real club situation.

By providing this good soil, you can put some seeds. Eventually, you have carrots and wonderful white flowers! This is the idea behind the ICAS Suite: presenting sound and music from different corners of the world, curated by different organizations.

… In the bar next door.

We’re also doing a barbecue every day from six pm until nine pm in the backyard of Festsaal Kreuzberg, and this will be a platform to meet and greet artists and other people in a nice environment.

Would you go as far to call it a digital grassroots thing?

Mostly, all of the organizations that are participating are grassroots initiatives. In this sense I think yes, it is a grassroots action.

What does ICAS Suite mean?

It’s the short form for International Cities of Advanced Sound.

I thought it was some form of an abbreviation for Icarus.

Nice one, I’ll have to keep that in mind. Of course we are all trying to fly, and we hope not to burn. You’re quite often hurt and burned with a DIY approach. However, the International Cities of Advanced Sound idea was born out of a project called Networking Tomorrow’s Art For An Unknown Future, as we were searching for a good format where all partners would have an easy opportunity to present themselves in a non-competitive environment, and to foster co-operation. So we started with the ICAS Kitchen. We’re thinking it will grow from the kitchen to the suite… to a city. 

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