Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, an germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man!
Yesterday, Rolling Stone and other sources reported the death of musician Holger Czukay.
Czukay is probably most famous as the throbbing heart of Can, but he also recorded many solo albums and was a frequent collaborator with other artists across many genres.
It’s hard to find another run of albums as perfect as Can’s output in the early 1970s—Tago Mago, Ege Bamyasi, and Future Days are flawless in my book.
These albums have brought me good times and good grooves for decades now. I’ll always be especially thankful to Czukay for one particular moment in my life—I was 19, relaxing in a bathtub, blaring Monster Movie on my stereo—a particular bass frequency rumbled a bar of soap and sent it smoothly sliding into the water. The moment was somehow epiphanic for me, illustrating a relationship between time, space, and matter. And music.