To Underground Resistance’s early fans, it wasn’t surprising when the Detroit outfit released club music with vocals. Mike Banks produced the garage house group Members Of The House, which released a 1987 album and a string of acclaimed vocal EPs. The first release on UR’s main label, Your Time Is Up, featured the singer Yolanda and a take on the sound Kevin Saunderson made popular with Inner City, backed with remixes that hinted at what the determinedly underground techno sound would become.
When they released “Living For The Nite” in 1991, again with Yolanda, it was already clear that vocal house was an integral part of UR’s sound. It worked with their rolling, pumping grooves. But the success of their pure techno overshadowed these moments, especially when the European press portrayed UR as a Detroit techno counterpart to hip-hops’s Public Enemy, noting the masked personas of Mike Banks and Jeff Mills, and their unmasked political attitude. Different strands of the UR sound were eventually channeled into separate outlets, and thus Happy Records came into being, serving as the label for house productions from 1992 to 1994. (It was followed by the sister label Happy Soul.)
Happy Records soon established itself with positive releases produced with frequent collaborators like Niko Marks, Yolanda and Bridgett Grace, the latter a former vocalist of the 1989 club hit “Take Me Away” by the UR predecessor True Faith. Her “Love To The Limit” was a fine example of how well Banks’s production worked with an anthemic vocal. And yet those accomplished records, even if they were recognisable as UR productions with a distinctive signature sound, could still be placed in the early vocal house canon of 1992, before house music reached the huge crowds of later years.
In 1992, vocal house was not as punchy as it would become. Most garage records paired their sweet melodies with swinging, elegant grooves. Usually, the “main mix” of a track was that tune in all its glory, while the more daring ideas were kept for the dubs and instrumental versions. But then Davina’s “Don’t You Want It” arrived, produced by Mike Banks. It was a mighty tune that worked within the conventions of vocal house while also shaking its foundations.
First, there was the intro, where dynamic chords were waiting to be teased by the DJ. When I heard the intro for the first time, it reminded me of David Morales’s mix of Black Sheep’s “Strobelite Honey,” albeit on another level. The track unfolds into a hybrid of uplifting, soulful garage and UR’s deeper techno sound (heard in tracks like “Sometimes I Feel Like” and “Jupiter Jazz“), adding layers of bittersweet pads and dramatic starts and stops.
And Davina? Unlike most vocal tracks, she isn’t heard until a heavenly break around three minutes in. The track was already perfect, but the magic really happens when she begins to sing. The lyrics neglect conventional verse-refrain structure, instead choosing a direct, personal conversation with the dancers. At seven minutes, the track certainly isn’t short, but I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s sad when it fades out.
The high point for any producer is to make a track that reaches classic status. It’s even better when that recognition comes from different scenes and styles. “Don’t You Want It” works within almost any context, from small night to a large rave, uniting more crowds in instant happiness than almost any other. As soon as you hear it, you will definitely want it. And more of it, again and again.
There were several reasons for the popularity of minimal techno and
house in the late 90s and early 00s. For one, a lot of electronic
club music of the preceding years was quite boisterous. Its
ingredients and purpose was often not exactly subtle, satisfying
clubbers and listeners that emerged from the acid house and rave days
with direct signals and relentless dancefloor dynamics. And as soon
as a sound becomes too dominant in the club scene, there is a
reaction, and alternatives develop, and as it happened with the
minimal approach they might even take over what was happening before
and become dominant as well. And a freshly initiated influx of
dancers and listeners had also come with different musical
requirements. While the big room and big festival acts like Prodigy
and the Chemical Brothers converted a rock clientele to the dance
floor, a lot of people who earlier preferred less heavier independent
rock music fell in love with the early Detroit minimal techno
prototypes by Robert Hood , Jeff Mills, Richie Hawtin and Daniel
Bell, and its more dubbed out counterparts around the Berlin
conglomerate of Basic Channel and its affiliated labels, or Wolfgang
Voigt with his Profan and Studio 1 imprints in Cologne, or Force Inc.
and later Perlon in Frankfurt or Säkhö in Finland, or Peter Ford‘s
Ifach and Trelik labels. Furthermore the club scene itself went
through changes. Budget airlines stormed the market and made
travelling to parties affordable, new open air venues and festivals
entered the circuit but they had to make concessions to surrounding
areas and embraced a sound that was efficient without significantly
loud and low end sound systems. Also drugs like ketamine or GHB
became popular and their users liked a sound that was more reduced,
hypnotic and subtle. And soon enough minimal techno crossed over to
house as well, and was out to conquer.
Right
in the centre of these developments was the Frankfurt imprint
Playhouse founded by Ata and Heiko M/S/O, which began as the housier
end of parent label Ongaku Musik, along with its fellow sub label
Klang Elektronik. It put artists like Ricardo Villalobos on the map,
as well as Isolée or Roman Flügel with his Roman IV or Soylent
Green aliases, and they reinterpreted house music with a lot of
attention to details, abstraction, reduction and repetition. Peter
Kremaier aka Losoul was arguably the most defining artist in the
label‘s early stages, and his productions had a signature sound
that is still unique. He probably was inspired by the layering
experiments of DJ Pierre‘s wild pitch sound or the immersive deep
house of Ron Trent and Chez Damier, but his own tracks soon took off
into their own creative zone. Beginning with 1996‘s „Open Door“
the following 12“ releases „Mandu“, „Don Disco De Super
Bleep“, and „Synchro“ were masterclasses in dancefloor
mesmerism. Over beats more pumping than those of his label peers,
subliminal percussion and chopped chords, he worked with
deconstructed disco and funk loops and occasional vocal samples that
were so perfectly captivating that he could ride them over extended
tracks that gradually introduced element after element with logical
patience, resulting in trips you felt should never stop. But by the
end of the 90s the structure of his tracks became less strict, and he
also explored different sounds on dark, bass heavy tracks like
„Ex.or.zis.mus“ or „Brother In Love“, to fine effect. It
seemed what was still needed was an album to round up this artistic
phase of his, before he would potentially venture into something new,
or different.
When
said album „Belong“ was then released in 2000, it came as
surprise to many of his followers. The opener „Taste Not Waste“
is deceiving, as it is a brooding punchy excursion that would not
have been out of place on the preceding 12“s, but already the
following track „Late Play“ is a weird off-centre sounding sketch
in comparison, hinting at the fact that the artist would not give
away the chance to represent more of his repertoire than his
trademark club stylings. „Resisting Curare“ takes up on the
quirkiness, albeit speedier, while „Overland“ is an eccentric and
playful take on the ever reliable Billie Jean groove, coming across
like a cross between the original groove and „Kaw-Liga“ by The
Residents, with extra weirdness. Then things take another unexpected
turn with „Sunbeams And The Rain“, which in my humble opinion is
one of the most astonishingly beautiful and sublime tracks ever to
merge deep house and techno. Only slightly erratic, this majectic
masterpiece is followed by the chunky slow groover „Position“,
which dubs down the proceedings before the sparsely tripping yet
funky „Depth Control“, another demonstration how much you can
achieve with just a few thought-out, gripping elements. Next is „You
Can Do“, which contains the sunniest loop Kremeier produced up to
that point, a spiralling, almost balearic melody which does not let
go for most of the track, thus resulting in another track you can
completely lose yourself in, although it achieves that typically
intense Losoul sensation with an untypical joyful mood. The last
track „Trust“ is a warped and chopped hip hop version of Bill
Withers‘ „Use Me“ that would grace any tape of later L.A.
beatmakers, and it makes you wonder what whole other sounds the
artist might have left in the vaults.
Although
Losoul has continued to drop releases of consistent quality, I think
„Belong“ marks the end of a certain era, in which he acted as a
true solitaire, even among likeminded and similarly talented cohorts.
To me it seems that only shortly after the imaginative ideas of the
minimal techno and house of those years time soon were often forsaken
for a sound that was already looming, more eager to please, and less
interesting to listen and dance to, however exceptions might prove
the rule. But it is undeniable that here lies the foundation for
many backlashes and resurgences to come.
Although acid house exports provided the sound blueprints for Second
Summer of Love in the late 80s, the rawness of the US originals often
did not really match the ecstasy fuelled day-glo hedonism that was
sweeping UK clubland. Of course the pioneering tracks from Chicago,
Detroit and New York had the same huge impact in English clubs as
they had in Continental Europe, and the American originators brought
music that was informed by no less aspiring ambitions, but it was
also often produced on the equipment that you could afford in
problematic social environments, and its initial target group was
more local, and on another street level than the almost proverbial
MDMA hugs between football hooligans or other thugs and the dancers
they were previously beating up. But UK pop and club culture had
interpreted outside influences into something more pop before and
sent it back, as it had happened with the British Invasion in the 60s
and lovers rock in the 70s, and house, and particularly acid house,
was no exception. In the UK, some clever people not only heard a
difference, they also understood that it had potential far beyond
that. Just a new, small and dedicated scene at first, but maybe more.
Or even much more.
Baby
Ford seemed to have a very clear vision of what was missing for the
music to really cross over and reach such potential, and with his
first promising releases from 1988 up to his first album „Fordtrax“
he brilliantly merged inspirations from Larry Heard, Derrick May or
Todd Terry with a knowledgeable pop sensibility. But in contrast to
other successful London cohorts of the Rhythm King label like Bomb
The Bass, S‘Express, The Beatmasters, and Coldcut on their label
Ahead Of Our Time, he did not succumb almost entirely to the charms
of the wild days of sampling, instead aiming more for his own
musicianship than a wild collage of references with a beat. And in
contrast to Manchester artists like 808 State and A Guy Called
Gerald, who achieved a similarly distinctive sound, he was ready,
willing and able to sing as well, and he implied his sense of humour.
Be it „Ooochy Koochy“ or „Chikki Chikki Aah Aah“, his music
was catchy and smart, but instrumental gems like „Fordtrax“
already proved that he knew how to arrange and set a mood. He seemed
to make fine use of his influences as much as he made them his own,
and he established a mini-canon of his own work in which his ideas
naturally referred to each other.
Already a year later his second album „’Ooo’ The World Of Baby
Ford“ aimed considerably higher. There are variations of „Fordtrax“
material but in a different, more mellow mood („Milky Tres / Chikki
Chikki Aah Aah“). Which is perfectly ok if your source material is
good enough to be reinterpreted in such a short time. Other tracks
like „Let‘s Talk It Over“ or „The World Is In Love“ have a
similar mood, somehow as urban as pastoral, sublime and full of hope.
„Beach Bump“ or „A Place Of Dreams & Magic“ are more over
the top, reviving the camp fun of „Oochy Koochy“ and other
livelier tracks he made before. And then there are tracks that hint
at the idea of this album as a continuation of gone but yet still
lasting UK youth cultures. In terms of music „Poem For Wigan“ and
„Wigan“ have not much in common with the 70s northern soul haven
Wigan Casino (or the Jazz Funk and later Electro played at Wigan Pier
club by its resident DJ Greg Wilson), but Baby Ford grew up near
Wigan and experienced what happened there, and both tracks have a
sentiment true to the inspiration. You may now flock to other clubs
and dance to other sounds, but the spirit is the same. Else the cover
version of T.Rex‘s „Children Of The Revolution“ is more
obvious, putting the 70s glam rock anthem into the context of the
acid house movement, whose children won‘t be fooled either. It is
time again for the UK youth to rise up against it, and this is how it
sounds. And then the according modern grooves also meet the
modernized version of the hippie era aesthetics that the tabloids and
authorities directly diverted to blame and prosecution. Where there
are loved up messages and melodies, psychedelic colours and a quest
for an alternative way of living, there must be something for society
to fight back, regardless of what you are afraid of in the 60s, 70s,
80s, or the decades to come. Us against them, forever irreconcilable.
This
album captured the revolutionary spirit and joy of that time
perfectly, and it indirectly predicted why it could not last. It was
not widely perceived as a defining statement and Baby Ford did not
become the defining pop star, and he seemed to abandon his bright
ideas soon after. First with the subsequent 1992 album „BFORD9“,
which still had some traces of his prior optimism left, but which
also confrontationally displayed disillusionment, darker topics and
harder sounds, until he reduced his persona and sound more and more,
albeit still with consistently great creative results. Either way,
Baby Ford‘s world may have not been big enough, but you still think
‚Ooo‘ when you think of it.
Doctor Mix And The Remix – Out of the Question (1979)
A lot of the music we’ve picked out to discuss comes from a similar background in terms of time period, style and sound, but I think this one is pretty obscure. How did you find it?
Through a friend of mine. There’s a label in New York called Acute Records maybe eight years ago or so. A few of my friends in California are really obsessed with The Jesus and Mary Chain, and one of the members of the band mentioned once that this was one of their favourite records of all time. The thing I like about it is the extremity of the music. It’s super high-pitched, with distortion and tinny drum machines but then it’s covers of, like, Stooges songs.
This track in particular has this really insane, rhythmic track that’s super metronomic but super heavy at the same time. It’s very aggressive, but not because of the levels of distortion. The first time I heard it I thought I was listening to [The Jesus and Mary Chain’s] Psycho Candy. The more I looked into it, the more I realized how much of an influence it had on them.
It’s funny. The Jesus and Mary Chain were always compared to The Velvet Underground, but apparently there’s much more to it than that.
Sure. There’s not a lot of stuff like this. The guy was in one of the first French punk bands. And, with this, they kind of combined the attitude of the Velvets with these misinterpretations from a different country. I love that because, for me, techno in California was always a misinterpretation of what was happening in Berlin and Detroit and Chicago just because we didn’t really have a big scene. We had a club scene, but not a techno scene. I just really love the weird interpretations of The Stooges and stuff like that.
Are you interested in bands that deconstruct rock tradition in some way?
At the end of the day it’s all about attitude. Willing to push things a lot and not really care. It was the same when I first heard Cabaret Voltaire’s “Messages Received.” I just didn’t know what to say, I was blown away. I thought, “It doesn’t get any more honest than that.” I think that’s the whole thing. There’s an honesty in the music that you can’t remove. There’s a visceral element to it. That’s how myself, Karl [O’Connor], Dave [Sumner] and even Pete [Sutton] interpret music in some way I think.
Cabaret Voltaire – Messages Received (1980)
There was a very heavy art slant on what Cabaret Voltaire did. I think it’s very, very art driven. They’d also have the influence of The Velvet Underground and all that ’60s psych rock, but they’d do all these awesome records and what came through the most was the attitude. “This is what I wanna do, this is how I’m gonna do it.” And they just went for it.
Is that a quality you try to pursue? Not thinking about what you can or can’t do?
Yeah, I talk to Karl every other day on the telephone, we’re in very heavy contact on a weekly basis, same thing with Dave. But it’s funny because when I make music it’s purely to see what he thinks, just for us to discuss… “Oh, I really like this. What do you think?” It’s more a conversation from an art base. I try to work in a very automatic response way. I work in art direction, so I work quite a bit on TV commercials and magazines and stuff like that. So when I work on music it’s usually very late at night and I have to work in headphones, so it’s usually like a weird mantra type state, kinda conscious and unconscious, while I’m working.
It’s nice because there’s a sense that I’m not really thinking about anything particularly. I’m able to work on music in that mindframe where I’m doing it purely just because I want to see what I can come up with. In a more artistic sense, sometimes I will make a visual and we will work to the visual. Like with the artwork for the album. That was made first. Then we made a record that matched that.
For labels like Factory, design labels were incredibly important. They were, in many cases, as important as the music.
When you get that double impact of visual and audio, you’re like, “Wow, this is really intense.” Cabaret Voltaire for me has always done that. All the artwork on their covers. The early ones especially had that handmade element, which I’m sure was some of the guys in the band literally cutting things out by hand and assembling collages. Read the rest of this entry »
You once told me that you were raised on jazz fusion.
I was. That was the kind of music of my early and mid-teenage years. In those days that was grown people’s music, it was very sophisticated. If you wanted to feel cool and grown up and everything, you were into Weather Report and Chick Corea. Lenny White, who drummed for Chick Corea’s band Return to Forever, was one of my all-time favorites. This song, “River People,” was from Mr. Gone and Mojo used to play it every night. He really made a hit out of a track.
Would you say that Mojo kind of planted a seed in some techno heads with this music?
I would say so. Mojo, for the black community, was it. And this was in the pre hip-hop days where black people listened to everything in Detroit when I was growing up. It was that open atmosphere that allowed Detroit techno to form I think. And Mojo was definitely ground zero for the black community. I mean this guy would play The Isley Brothers, Prince, Alice Cooper, Weather Report. He was the first DJ to play B-52s in Detroit. He broke a lot of music to the black community that we would have never heard.
What was the main inspiration of the things that Mojo played for the first wave of techno producers in Detroit?
I would say the real ground zero for this music was Kraftwerk. Which Mojo also used to play. I was in high school—I’m really dating myself [laughs]—and they released “Man Machine” and “Numbers” back-to-back in America. In Europe, there was a gap, but in America they released those two records almost at the same time. That made a really big impact.
I played this because I wondered if there is some kind of connection between a lot of Detroit techno records and jazz. Juan, of course, said “Jazz is the teacher” at one point, and there are a lot of harmonies in Detroit techno that are pretty jazzy, really complex. I was wondering if Weather Report was the source for this connection.
I think it’s a source, but not the source. I think that Detroit techno came from a lot of different influences. You have to remember that, at the same time, Parliament/Funkadelic were big. So you had a lot of futuristic connections with those guys; Mothership Connection was a big thing. Detroit was a huge melting pot. If you look back, it’s pretty incredible. Everything now is just so market-tested.
Nitzer Ebb – Join In The Chant (Mute, 1987)
That was a classic. There used to be a club named Todd’s in Detroit. It was the big new wave punk rock bar in the ’80s. The main DJ was Charles English, and he had the new stuff all the time. When I was in college we used to go every Thursday. He broke that out, and that was it. I was like, “Wow, who are these cats?”
Later, I was hanging out with Derrick May over at his place. Derrick had just gotten back from London, and he was a pop star. I was doing a radio show at the time and he gave me the double pack, saying “Hey man, take this and play it tonight.” He was in with Mute, and they were giving him everything. I still play it out today, the original version.
I don’t know how much influence it had on Detroit techno, but back in those days we were listening to everything. So when Nitzer Ebb came down the pike, it was like, “Oh, that’s really good.” There was a radio show called Brave New Waves out of Canada on the CBC and we used to hear them play Nitzer Ebb.
This track is from 1987, when you began your own radio show, Fast Forward on WDET. That was a really important year for you.
Yes. I had done the artwork for Derrick [May]’s “Nude Photo,” got my radio show. The night of my first broadcast, I went over to Derrick’s place, and he gave me all these records. He said, “Play these.” All of these records are what turned out to be the first techno records, a bunch of white labels. I was playing Detroit techno, what was then industrial and EBM, jazz fusion, a little hip-hop. WBLS, Brave New Waves, Mojo; those guys were my influences. I would go to see Charles play on a Thursday night at Todd’s and buy those records and play them on Friday night on my show.
How did you get the show?
Well, I was an intern at the station the summer before. I was putting the records in order. I started talking to the program director, and told her how much I was into Lenny White. She was like, “You know who Lenny White is?” I was super young compared to her at the time. So I said, “Yeah, one of the greatest fusion drummers to walk the Earth. Lenny White, Tony Williams.” She was impressed, and she asked if I had a demo tape. Fusion jazz got me the job, so that’s why I kept playing it. It was a whole mish-mash of genres, though.
Were the listeners appreciating that, or did you get criticism for being so eclectic?
I was on super late. It was from 3 AM to 6 AM. The graveyard shift. People dug it, they dug it right away. I’ll never forget playing “Acid Tracks” from Phuture, and some guy called me on the phone and was going insane. “What is this called? What kind of music is this?” It was the early days of electronic music, so nobody knew anything.
In those pre-internet days, doing research wasn’t easy.
Luckily, I worked at radio stations. So they had all of these libraries where you could go in and listen to whatever you wanted. Read the rest of this entry »
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