Tago Mago WB rating out of 100

Shortly after the release of Can’s 1969 debut album, Monster Movie, original lead singer Malcolm Mooney walked out – on advice from his psychiatrist, no less. Not long thereafter, bassist Holger Czukay and drummer Jaki Leibezeit chanced upon a nineteen year old Japanese busker named Kenji ‘Damo’ Suzuki performing in the streets of Munich and asked him to play with them that night. Hours later, one and a half thousand people ran screaming from the auditorium in the wake of Suzuki’s otherworldly vocal histrionics.

And it’s Suzuki’s distinctive voice, alternating between threatening whisper and vicious shriek, which instantly sets Can’s 1971 magnum opus, Tago Mago, apart from other Krautrock contemporaries. His distinctive timbre, muted tones and strange, multinational accent was a driving force for Can’s creative powerhouse that evolved across 1970 and 1971, and his unique cross-pollinating style infused one of the most wildly innovative and experimental examples of sheer wild rock ‘n’ roll to come out of the seventies. But it’s not Suzuki alone that propels this album into the realm of true greatness. Tago Mago is a collaboration of some of the most disparate musical styles ever to blend together on one album.

Leibezeit’s hypnotic drumming, an industrial strength funk workout, hammers the listener at every available juncture, infusing Can’s masterwork with a droning intensity, and lends a startling urgency to Michael Karoli’s chiming, echoing guitars and Irmin Schmidt’s keys. At numerous points across the barely contained insanity of ‘Aumgn’ and ‘Peking O’, two songs that sit comfortable among the more difficult to listen to in the rock canon, when the relentless droning or unintelligible mutterings begin to be too much, a sudden burst of one instrument or other will bring attention back, front and centre.

Of course, it must be made abundantly clear that Tago Mago is unambiguously not easy listening. It is renowned as an album that has caused many an ill informed listener to toss in the headphones at the halfway mark, well before ‘Peking O’ unleashes it’s genuinely crazed machine-gun, primitive computer beats – beats which undoubtedly influenced countrymen Kraftwerk years later – and madman ranting. But to peer beyond the curtains into the dark heart of the masterpiece is to see prog rock’s genesis.

‘Paperhouse’ opens on floating eastern melodies, soaked in primitive effects, gradually building to a five-minute improvisational gear shift into psychedelia. Then, 25 seconds before everything wraps up, Can’s full force is unleashed to devastating effect, leading to, rather than a satisfying denouement, the beginning of the shortest track, the silky smooth, four-minute-funk workout of ‘Mushroom’. But these songs are merely an entrée, softening up anyone brave enough to venture on for the aural assault they’re due to receive.

Then, with a peal of thunder, and Leibezeit’s irresistible rhythms fading back to the forefront of the music, 'Oh Yeah' kicks in, replete with Suzuki's mysterious backwards vocals, a haunting juxtaposition of jazz, funk, and horror movie. Then, nearly 48 minutes later, 'Bring Me Coffee or Tea' provides a welcome come down after the pummeling experimentalism that takes place over 'Halleluhwah', 'Aumgn' and 'Peking O'.

The true magic of the album is Can's ability to merge the unconventional and, frankly, weird, with genuinely funky and eminently stimulating music, as on the truly inspired solo at the midpoint of 'Oh, Yeah', the calamitous breakdown that occurs twice on 'Paperhouse', and, of course, that mesmerising rhythm section across every second of the record's epic 73 minute runtime. Critics may – and have – say whatever they like about the stubborn difficulty of Tago Mago, but no one could conceivably accuse it of being boring. Only Can could possibly produce a 17 minute funk workout like 'Halleluhwah' and keep it so vibrant and interesting.

Prog rock, which found its progenitors in bands like Can, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Captain Beefheart and Miles Davis, in the years surrounding the release of Tago Mago, is unequivocally polarising music. But that is the appeal. And here lies the template. The ability to sit through 18 minutes of Damo Suzuki speaking in tongues over a droning hum and not throw in the towel is an exercise in musical stamina, a challenge to face, a code to decipher. Not merely for the hitherto unheard blend of disparate musical ideas into one potent brew, but the sheer, willful impenetrability of the music.

Tago Mago is certainly not for everyone, but those who bravely venture into the murky waters of Damo Suzuki's vocal gymnastics and Holger Czukay's wild imagination is set for a ride they will not easily forget – a ride that will only grow more dynamically thrilling from repeat attempts. Tago Mago is the exemplar of that most elusive of musical finds: the difficult, yet rewarding, listen.