This past weekend, Jaki Liebezeitdied at the age of 78. As one of the founding members of Can, Liebezeit powered the German experimental rockers with an astonishing blend of intensity, grace, and indefatigability from behind his drum kit. But what else can you expect—in the words of Pitchfork contributor Eric Harvey—from a man whose surname translates as “love time”?
A drummer on the German music scene still under the pall of the post-WWII generation, Liebezeit was already in demand throughout jazz circles as a member of such large free-jazz ensembles helmed by the likes of trumpeter Manfred Schoof and pianist Alexander von Schlippenbach. But as he recalled in the BBC documentary Krautrock: The Rebirth of Germany, Liebezeit encountered a strange audience member at a gig one night who put it in his head that he play “monotonous.”
Increasingly disenchanted with jazz music, Liebezeit started playing with a new group helmed by two former students of influential composer Karlheinz Stockhausen, Holger Czukay and Irmin Schmidt, and a student of Czukay’s, Michael Karoli. Together with an American sculptor friend, Malcolm Mooney, serving as vocalist they began playing as The Can, crafting a kind of music that drew on the avant-garde compositions of Stockhausen, the nihilism of the Velvet Underground’s rock, the on-the-one funk practiced by James Brown and Sly Stone, and the incessant minimalism of American composers like La Monte Young and Terry Riley. Underpinning it all were the polyrhythms of Liebezeit and his “monotonous” style, which presented a simple driving beat that as you drew nearer soon became evident that it was anything but.
Writing about Liebezeit recently, Oneida drummer Kid Millions recalled first hearing Can: “[I] could not for the life of me understand how it was possible for one drummer to create all that music.” As Los Angeles Free Music Society co-founder and drummer Tom Recchion posted recently to Facebook:
“What appears simple is profoundly complex because it side steps all conventional rhythms and patterns and plays with the basics of the beat in ways that take incredible concentration, dexterity, and imagination. I am a drummer and there has never been one pattern of Jaki's that I've been able to mimic without tremendous study and effort. And even then I failed miserably. He plays right on the beat but what he surrounds it with is so much symmetry [so] elegantly laid out and designed that it boggles my mind.”
Liebezeit not only exerted a powerful influence on future generations of rock drummers, but electronic and hip-hop producers as well. Can’s—and specifically, Liebezeit’s—influence on dance music was made evident with 1997’s remix compilation, Sacrilege, wherein one could realize that Liebezeit’s beats pulsed through the productions of Carl Craig, the Orb, A Guy Called Gerald, François Kevorkian, and more. He could be as infinite as a tape loop, as precise as a programmed 808, yet as fluid and ever-shifting as a river. With his deceptively simple patterns, Liebezeit’s rhythms in Can became the hooks of songs themselves.
For those not familiar with Can and their back catalog (their run from 1971’s Tago Mago through 1974’s Soon Over Babaluma is without fault), it’s a fool’s errand to try and highlight Liebezeit’s most formidable beats, as almost any song from Can contains a flash of percussive enlightenment courtesy of the man. Far lesser known but every bit as illuminating is Liebezeit’s work outside of the group, from his free jazz days to working with Eno (alongside Phil Collins) to that one time he jammed on an Arthur Russell song with a member of U2.
Alexander von Schlippenbach, “Globe Unity” (1967)
This 14-piece ensemble was stocked with firebrands of the European free music scene, from saxophonist Peter Brötzmann and bassist Peter Kowald to Liebezeit sharing percussion duties with another future Krautrock drumming dynamo, Mani Neumeier. It’s a dense, cacophonic sound the group conjures, but underneath it all, Liebezeit and Neumeier give the massive ensemble a sense of propulsion.
Richard Schneider Jr., “Samba Trip” (1977)
Not too much info turns up on Richard Schneider Jr., though his two albums from the late ’70s and early ’80s are revered on the cosmic disco tip, and for good reason. While Schneider himself is credited with glockenspiel, 12-string, synthesizer, tubular bells, tambourine, cowbell, and schlager vocals, his secret weapon is having Liebezeit on drums. For this swinging ditty, Liebezeit lays back and puts down a shuffling samba so inconspicuous, it’s hard to believe that’s him. For those looking for a more Can-like track, try this sidelong epic from Schneider’s follow-up album.
Brian Eno, “Backwater” (1977)
Brian Eno’s love of German kosmische is well-documented, from copping the textures of Neu!’s ’75 for his work on Bowie’s Berlin trilogy to collaborating with Cluster. But for his fourth solo album, Eno has Liebezeit himself behind the drum kit, (splitting time with the album’s other drummer, Phil Collins). Here, Liebezeit lays heavily on the hi-hats for this amiable little ditty from Before and After Science.
Eurythmics, “Take Me to Your Heart” (1981)
Well before they were one of the ’80s most dynamic synth-pop duos, Eurythmics traveled to Conny Plank’s studio to cut their first album, In the Garden. Soon after, the band would resort to drum machines for their biggest hits, but on this album cut, they ride Liebezeit’s understated pulse and intermittent crash cymbal to fine effect.
Phew, “Closed” (1981)
Japanese avant-garde punk Phew has been making uncompromising music since 1980, working with a wide array of iconoclasts, from Ryuichi Sakamoto and Bill Laswell to members of Einstürzende Neubauten. For her debut album, Phew enlisted a backing band of Conny Plank, Holger Czukay, and Liebezeit. The trio maintains a spare backdrop for the woman often deemed “the Japanese Nico,” giving her deep, guttural voice plenty of room in which to operate. Liebezeit’s stripped-down beat makes the perfect foil.
Jah Wobble, Jaki Liebezeit, and Holger Czukay, “How Much Are They?” (1981)
By the end of the ’70s, Can’s Holger Czukay had traded the bass guitar for the shortwave radio and the production side of the band. Can reached its end with 1978’s Out of Reach, but the members still maintained a fruitful partnership well into the next decade. On this furious collaboration with former PiL bassist Jah Wobble, Czukay sends his rhythm boxes and French horn in to spar with Liebezeit’s relentless thump as dub echoes and phantom radio transmissions bandy about the longtime bandmates. This leftfield cut became a dance hit of sorts, often played at David Mancuso’s Loft.
Michael Rother, “Erlkönig” (1982)
Rother’s six-string work in an early incarnation of Kraftwerk, as one-half of Neu!, and as a third of Harmonia makes him a German kosmische legend. But all that work tends to overshadow his more refined but still gorgeous solo work. With his fourth solo album, he enlisted Liebezeit as a sparring partner, and together the duo rekindled that Neu!-style of motorik. On this stunning centerpiece from Fernwärme, Liebezeit’s drums enter some two minutes after the theme is stated. Ever so judiciously, Liebezeit builds up the pace, making Rother’s incandescent guitar leads soar ever higher into the stratosphere.
Snake Charmer, “Hold Onto Your Dreams” (1983)
Liebezeit’s post-Can collaboration with Czukay continued with this culture clash of an EP, again featuring Jah Wobble as well as two newcomers to the group, U2’s the Edge and downtown disco remix master François Kevorkian. It’s an inspired supergroup, especially considering they decided to record this song from Arthur Russell, still primarily known as a producer and not a songwriter. A lovely slice of disco dreaminess that’s criminally still out of print.
Phantom Band, “Loading Zone” (1984)
Inspired by Can, new generations of young German musicians and art collectives began to spring up in Cologne. In the band’s wake, Liebezeit threw in with a pool of players responsible for groups like Dunkelziffer, the Unknown Cases, Club Off Chaos, and Trance Groove. From these players, Jaki formed his own group, Phantom Band. This new project boasted more Jamaican and African rhythms, revealing a new side of Liebezeit's percussive skills. This track, from the group’s third and final album, is both spacey and hyperactive in equal measure.