Surprises: we claim to love them, perhaps to project a ‘just go with it’ posture and free spirit spontaneity, and they are truly cherished when they’re either incredibly beneficial – winning the lottery — or incredibly banal — oh my, that bouquet of flowers she received sure was unforeseen. Those scripts aside, we tend to dip in the tedium of gray rather than the stochasticity arising out of the blue. Surprises can be terrifying, because to submit to them is to submit control of one’s environment. Routine, the rigid everyday we’ve toiled to erect and safeguard, becomes irrelevant in the cruel wake of chance.
Faust was always the black sheep of krautrock, histrionic, hysterical, and at times, unparalleled. Submitting to these fellas was to submit to one hell of a jarring ride, the sort that would in all likelihood traverse a dizzying sea of temperaments and textures, mercilessly flinging audiences from side to side, only sparing those entranced and eccentric enough to dust themselves off and follow these incantatory trails into the darkness. The Hamburg outfit was never particularly abrasive on the musical plane, but their trajectory was endlessly serpentine and flighty.