Can Pt III

["No更 and we talk to the music wheel. No dogs in space. No dogs in space. No dogs in space. No dogs in space. Hey Marcus. Hey Carolina. So, I want to show you something that I've been dying to show you. Okay, I can't wait. Okay, so you know we're going to talk about sampling this episode. Huge part of this episode. Yes, can and you know, let's say all of hip-hop. Yeah. Pretty much. Sampling, very important because there is a history to it. I mean I know it starts all the way back from this guy named Pierre and all that stuff. Music concline. Exactly, but we're going to talk about something more important. Okay, the first sampled song, I guess you could say or made of samples. The first song to use samples. That charted in the United States. All right, this is recorded and sampled by a Danish, I would say genius named Carl Wiseman. Also a pioneer in bird song recording, but somehow he found a dog. And no, don't worry, it gets wholesome. And he made that dog, I don't know, the next Elvis or something because I want you to hear the song. It is brilliant. You probably heard it. I love it. It charted in 1955 number 26 with a bullet. 22. Here it is. Jingle Bells. Music Oh shit, first song to ever use samples to chart in the United States and how the guy actually did it. It's incredible. He used to actually have dogs like chase him on the way home from work barking at him. And one day he recorded one of the dogs barking and then he took that dog bark and he changed the speed of the recording to do to create different pitches so he could create jingle bells. Oh, you see the whole time I thought it was a choir of dogs. I'm conducting a choir like. Yes, yes, like a Jimmy Kimmel segment or something. Are you telling me that was one dog? That was one dog. Yeah, and use that one dog for that pat a cake and three blind mice. All on one 45 RPM sing on one seven inch. Anyway, let's just do can let's do can welcome no dogs and space ladies and gentlemen. My name is Marcus Parks. I'm here with Carolina and all go and we're here on can part three. So when we last left can they were working every day in a DIY studio entirely of their own making in an actual German castle. There they endlessly recorded what they called instant compositions basically jams with the purpose, which could then be turned into cohesive tracks for release. Using that method can release their debut album Monster Movie under the Liberty United artists label in 1969. That album featured black American artist Malcolm Mooney as the vocalist. Now, even under a major label can differed from other German bands and frankly, they differed from a lot of American bands in the late 60s. Can had complete control over the entire creative process from what sorts of songs they released to how those songs would be produced. But Ziggy Locke head of Liberty United artists in Germany. He knew that can was on to something with Monster Movie and he quickly commissioned a second album. Their second release was a compilation called soundtrack. I love this. Oh, this is made up of film and TV music can had made on commission to pay their bills. This was released instead of an album because they'd spent so much time with their day job that they didn't have time to record something new. And the songs they were fucking incredible anyway. See, they're very pragmatic. Extremely so. And it makes total sense. It's like, yeah, we already have these songs. They're already made. People like them. Okay, here you go. Yeah, here's your album. By that time, however, Malcolm Mooney had returned to America to take care of his own mental health. But in a moment of serendipity, bassist Holger Chuke and drummer Jackie Leibisite soon stumbled upon Cannes next vocalist outside of a cafe in Munich. This guy was basically doing performance art in the street. His name was Damos Suzuki. I believe he was doing a son incantation, singing or like he was talking to the son. Well, that's what Holger says. What Damos says is that he was standing in the street screaming. But maybe the son hurt or something. Son's a real fucking long ways away. I know, but when he was taken away by Cannes, he was probably like, I will, we will finish this later son. And Damos was a wandering soul from Japan. He'd been traveling all over Europe at this by this point. And after just one confrontational live performance and one awkward recording session. He was in. Yeah. He came to understand the vibe of Cannes and the spontaneous nature of both their performances and their music. In other words, Damos saw the organism that was Cannes and he saw how it could evolve with him in the group. And so with Damos fully committed, Cannes sound further evolved as they recorded more soundtracks together. And by the time Damos had found his footing, the band was ready to record one of the many legendary albums of 1971. Yes. Tago Nag. Fuck yeah. Playback on the act. Michael Corolla, the guitarist, he's so underrated. Michael, I believe that Michael, I truly do believe that Michael Corolla is one of the most underrated guitarists of the 1970s. That's your opinion. Yeah, that is my opinion. He does not, he doesn't get anywhere near as much credit as the rest of the members of Cannes do. Yeah. Now that was Tago Mago's first track, a song called Paper House. With this seven and a half minute long journey that merged Damos avant-garde performance with Michael Corolla's 1971 style guitar licks, Cannes created the perfect opener to the labyrinth that is Tago Mago. Now Paper House sounds a hell of a lot like some of the later songs you heard in part two of this series. Songs like Deadlock, but that's just how Cannes worked. Their most seminal albums flowed together in an unbroken chain of genius that lasted for almost half a decade. And that was also how some of their albums worked. Because the end of Paper House flows perfectly into the following track, the multi-layered Mushroom. Here's a taste of that flavor. Music Music Music Listen to that song a million fucking times and always thought he said, I saw a mushroom head and then that just that time all of a sudden is like, did he say mushroom hair? I don't fucking know. I googled it actually during the break when I saw mushroom head. Head. I was born and I was dead. That's great. I know. What does it mean? Who cares? So yes, mushroom, which you can interpret in many different ways. Like if you listen to Damos lyrics, it might be a nod to magic mushrooms or other psychedelics. Or it could also mean a mushroom cloud like the atomic bomb that fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World War II. Yes. I remember Damos was Japanese and grew up in post-war Japan just like the rest of Kan grew up in post-war Germany. Right. I know. It's an interesting thing. They don't have one Italian conductor there. But anyway. So I think actually, I think the song Mushroom might be about the atomic bomb because someone in Kan had the idea to sample a recording of an explosion right after the mushroom into the next track. But they had no recordings of explosions. So they had to make one themselves. In Germany, they had no recordings of explosions. None existed in their power. In their, yes. In their arsenal, they had none. Okay. Yes. We have explosions. But do you have recordings? So, Ermann and Holger, they brought in a small firework into the studio in their castle, Norvignet. The Linn 80. Yes. And they exploded it in the hallway. You know, that hallway linking to all the doors and rooms where all the other artists are living and working in and sleeping in. I don't think they warned anyone. No, they didn't. Because you remember Kan, like they got there at like five and recorded until like two or something like that. Sometimes the wee hours of the morning. You never know. So this could have been 4 a.m. Anyway, the explosion was only a second. But in the editing, they slowed it down to 1-16th of normal speed. And it worked so well. That and playing Damo's vocals backwards while they played it backwards and forwards. It's a whole thing. It's all very, very cool. And it's one of my favorite Kan songs ever. Me too. Oh, yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I mean, there may not have been a Kine without that song. It's like that song is the skeleton key to Kine. I mean, Johnny Greenwood was going to have that on his epitaph one day. He was like, I would be nothing without Kan. Okay. And I love that explosion, by the way. You see, they just needed us. And remember that famous German sculptor Ulrich Ruckrim? If I said it incorrect, I've been practicing all morning. I'm sorry. I think you did your best and I give you kudos. Thank you. So Ulrich, he was probably running out of the shower in that moment in a towel with shampoo and his hair being like, what the fuck was that? My wall. We share a wall, by the way, with what you're doing right now. But other than that, it was a very chill vibe. And this is what they are doing. What Kan is doing, not Ulrich in the shower. This is what Kan is doing every day, all day, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning, like I said. And the guys in Kan would have laser focus on each song. They don't jump from song to song like, hey, let's work on this thing and then later we'll go back to it. No, no, no. They work on the same song no matter how long it takes until it's done. Remember you do right? Yep. 12 hours until the song became itself. Exactly. And yes, there were tense moments between the guys while recording and composing. But according to music journalist Duncan Falloway, who was there during this recording, the recording of Tagomago, he said for the most part, it was pretty chill. No screechy groupies, no silly drunken episodes, nobody flipping out. And the thing is, the guys in Kan, they're not really a drinking or druggy band. Like sure, they would have red wine and sometimes smoke some hash to loosen up, some psychedelics. Okay, so there were drugs and alcohol? They were banned in 1971. Exactly. You're right. Like here we have Red Bull and that death water. You know, it's what you'd have, right? And Spring Hill Jack Coffee. Yes, don't forget. But no one lost control because remember, recording is serious business. This is our future here and potentially the future of Germany's music culture. That is until Kraftwerk just right past them. And then they define the landscape of future music, but that's not important right now. Not right now, 1971. We're right now, we're in Kan. And of course, this is coming, what I was talking about with the no screechy groupies and stuff. This is coming from a British journalist, Duncan, who didn't understand what they were muttering under their breath. Kan was muttering under their breath to each other. Because they were arguing. Because remember, the guys in Kan are just, they're not just musicians. They are five producers in this band. They're chill and they know how to make their music. They know how to do their job, but they're usually all coming from different perspectives, especially with Damo. As we remember, he just walked into this about six months before and now they're recording a whole studio album together. The key to understanding Damo Suzuki's style of singing is that when he isn't yelling, he's whispering very loudly. I know. I do it too. And there's not a lot in between. This was entirely different from Malcolm Mooney's vocal style that stayed on pretty much an even kill throughout. It pretty much mirrored Jackie Leibeside's strumming. And even more, while Malcolm's lyrics were usually delivered clearly, sometimes even with the point of view, Damo's lyrics were pure dada. You can't go have dada. You can't. That meant that his lyrics made no sense at all ever. And it is a fool's errand to try and decipher meaning from a Kan song, even though many have tried. Mushroom is about the only one where you can be like, yeah, I think I know what that one's about. Yeah, but fucking try going to Peking O and tell me what that song's about. Hell, and that's the thing. In the middle of one song on Tago Mago, he just starts naming the other songs on the album. I know. Someone give him a water bottle. Made in Taiwan. But honestly, I only noticed that after dozens of listens. He just goes paper house, oh yeah, mushroom. Because it's not only impossible to derive meaning from Damo's lyrics, it's also difficult to tell what words Damo is even using most of the time. Yes, he's no Frank Zappa. He is not. See, Damo's grasp on the English language back then was tenuous at best. On top of that, Damo's German was non-existent and very few Kan listeners understood when Damo would suddenly switch to his native Japanese. Yes, but Damo always said that lyrics are not important to him. And I agree with that. He said, there's no message in my lyrics, but sometimes there is. But I might be talking about something else from another time. And maybe you don't understand it and that's okay. And I love that. I love that. Maybe you don't understand it and that's okay. That is exactly to me what avant-garde or any kind of poetry is. And this is cool. It makes sense unless it doesn't and then sometimes it does. But sometimes it's about something else. Let's not really overthink this. Let's not. I think that's what Damo's saying. Don't overthink it. Exactly. He's cool. He has his own original take on language. And I like that. But when Kan had to register the lyrics with the music publishing company, that was a hard one to figure out. I think I remember Duncan Falloway, the British journalist, as well as Herman Schmidt. I know Herman was sitting there with a pen and paper like asking Damo about his, well, I don't know, nonsensical improvisations. He's like, okay, we got to send this in so we can have the record. What do I put down for lyrics? And he's like, I don't know. Words. Okay, Damo, but what are you saying? What am I saying? Oh my God. What do I write down for the freaking publishing company? Just write the words. Who cares if they're not the right ones? Sound it out. I don't know. I don't know why I'm making him sound like Jimmy Capote right there. Just put down the words, honey. Who cares if they're not the right ones? Touche. Touche. Dama 1 publishing company, zero. But perhaps the best song on Tagomago, the entry point, as it were, is also the longest at 18 and a half minutes. It's another journey, one that explores the band's American influences, but we're not talking about Hendrix, the Velvet Underground, or Frank Zappa here. This is Ovent Guard Funk. This is awesome. On Hallelujah, bassist Holger Chuke sideways take on one of the classic American blues riffs, you know, the da-na-na-na-na-t-da-na-na-na-na-na, that locks in with a beat that Jackie may or may not have picked up from legendary funk drummer Clyde Stubblefield. That's this beat from one of the most sampled songs in history, James Brown's Funky Drummer. Now, for comparison, let's listen to Jackie's beat from Hallelujah, recorded almost 20 years before he had a record. Now, for comparison, let's listen to Jackie's beat from Hallelujah, recorded almost 20 years before hip hop artists started sampling funky drummer. Let's say that this is the German take of that type of beat. He's so damn good. He's fucking incredible. Now, when the entirety of can swings into the pocket on this song, it becomes something more than just a ripoff of the black American form. Instead, it's a song that's cool as fuck, but still full of nervous energy. In other words, Hallelujah is a combination of rock and roll, funk, and the Ovent Guard. It's a smoking night, all this I ought to know, it's better than I've always been. It's a smoking night, all this I ought to know, it's better than I've always been. It's a smoking night, all this I ought to know, it's better than I've always been. She was a woman, this is how she was born. You know, Jackie Leaves is like, when they would play live shows, his drumming would be so intense and so amazing that sometimes just for fun, in the middle of a set, he'll point at someone and he'll let Holger and Herman, Michael, whoever know, he's like, I'm going to make that guy vomit. And then he'll start playing and he will direct all his, he will stare at him with those steely cold eyes and just drum and drum and drum. And then eventually that guy would actually start vomiting. I mean, of course it didn't help that there was a lot of hella steen beer and everything, but he could do that. He was a magician. Yeah, the whole legend of the brown note that people say that like there's a note that like the band Son O could play that could make people shit their pants, that's a myth. Jackie Lebesite could actually make people vomit by the power of his drumming. It is documented that this happened. Awesome. Now Jackie's repetitious beat on this song is by design, as Jackie's beats often were. Almost every beat he crafted was unique to each song, and he usually kept that groove consistent throughout, no matter what the rest of the band was doing. As he put it, it's sort of how every Viennese waltz has the same repetitive rhythm. But what Jackie was doing was creating a brand new cyclical rhythmic structure with every can song. But within those structures, Jackie always made room for subtle variations that few drummers are capable of creating. One of the best examples are the jungle toms and train-like I had that come about four minutes into hallelujah. I put that stick inside that hi-hat motherfucker. Man, imagine being in the same room as someone as brilliant as that, and then going, okay, Carolina, your turn. I would turn into Mr. Bean. And then I would turn into Homer Simpson. I got to get something from my car. Exactly, exactly. And that's all they could record. Anyway, so remember when I think I told you, I told the audience in episode one that when Michael Corolli, the guitarist, when he first met Jackie Lebesite, he was scared of him because of Jackie's serious demeanor. And he thought he was a, I guess, if not murderer, at least capable of committing murder. I mean, okay, so it's true. Like, that means not true. He's not a murderer, but Jackie does tend to portray the mannerisms of a serious medieval executioner. That is how intense he is with his drumming, his thousand yards there, everything. That is until they were putting together hallelujah. And that is when Michael finally understood Jackie's greatness. And Michael did say like, sure, all you hear is a drum kit, but behind that drum kit are celestial choirs lined up behind it. And I agree. He's my favorite drummer of all time. It's a kind of genius you don't see every day. My God, it's a kind of genius that barely comes along once in a century, much less once in a decade. This guy is... I mean, there's other amazing drummers. I'm not forgetting them, but for Ken, well, he's the best one. He is. Now, because Jackie's rhythms were so metronomic, because Jackie is more machine than man, Holger Csuké was able to edit together no less than three versions of hallelujah, all with wildly different run times. Yes. We talked about this with Ryan Connor, audio engineer and producer for LPN, right here. He's a very big Ken fan. And we were talking about like there's like there's a single version. There's the album version of hallelujah. And then there's the anthology version, which in my opinion, I think it was all three of us, our opinion is that it is a better one of the three, the five and a half minute version. Exactly. So, but check it out for yourself. You know, decide for yourself that it's all on YouTube. Yeah. And you can hear all the versions and why not? You can't lose the songs. Amazing. Okay. So remember how Holger is also doing double duty with playing and recording the songs. Well, he's also editing the songs afterwards, but he's not doing it alone. Like Ermin and Michael are also super involved in the editing because that's where the piece actually emerges. That's when a song is born. I like to say a song is born right here. Wait, why do you need to say a song is born? Because I don't know. I don't know. This is a weird music documentary. I don't know. And this is where a song is born. I know. Maybe BBC will hire me one day. Okay. So I'm, I, this is where a song gets born. And I'm going to explain this really quick and hopefully a minute and a half. And again, this is my interpretation. So I am no professor of music, anything, but, and I'm of course simplifying this, but from what I can see, they birth a song, okay, in three steps. One, they figure out what the groove is going to sound like and agree on it. Like that's the drums and bass in this case in Hallelujah. Right. Exactly. And now step two, once you have agreed upon the groove, you start recording material based on this groove. That means guitar, organ, then vocals, of course. Some of it is going to be great and some of it is going to suck. That's just how it goes. But the whole time it's under do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do, do. And then just put whatever you want, mandolin, anything you want on top of it. And then there's step three, you get the best takes of the guitar, the organ, the mandolin, anything, vocals, all that material, any of the best stuff that you got going on, and you collage them onto the song. Okay. Because you see, Holger is in the studio with rolls of tape of this material. They still don't have a mixing board yet. They have a record label, but no mixing board. They can't afford one. So they have to get these sounds by cutting these pieces of tape they've recorded. That's step three. Now I forgot about step four. Step four is arguing over the decisions made on step three, because they all have to agree on it. Remember, five producers, but sometimes everyone has a different take on what their favorite take is. But while you're deleting this and maybe adding this, you know, working out the collage on how the song is going to like end up being, you better make damn sure you don't destroy that groove either. Because if you destroy it while editing, meaning you notice an edit, not a seamless groove, then Jackie is going to come after you. That's the thing, because he worked really hard on that groove. And he's a fucking metronome, so it shouldn't be so hard. And here's the crazy part. Jackie never liked taking part in the editing process. Holger, Ermin and Michael, they were all over it for nights on end, but then they had to show it to Jackie. And if it wasn't up to Jackie's standards, then nope, do it again. Do it again. Do it again. That's incredible. Jackie could come in and go like, pfft, nope, you fucked up the groove. At minute seven. Okay, do it again. Yes, do it again. Is there any coffee left? And now today, in today's world, any idiot with a computer can do this. I can do this, you know, but back then it was manual cutting and pasting and hoping to God that Jackie won't visit them in the middle of the night. But the cool thing of this whole... Jackie won't visit them in the middle of the night like he's some sort of fucking medieval beast. I think you have to see his stare. If you fuck up the recording, they'll leave as I told him to. I know, I know. And then the children do go to bed at bedtime. Okay, but the cool thing of this putting together collage of takes to create one Frankenstein song is that they're developing sampling. Remember sampling dogs? I mean, they're not pioneers of sampling. Just ask the dogs. Or all the concrete musicians who's been doing it since the 50s. Yes, and Stockhausen. I mean, we learned it from you. We learned it from watching you, Stockhausen, right? But it goes to show how forward thinking the guys in Cannes really were. Yeah. Now, it's not a controversial opinion to say that Holger Chouquet was the secret sauce of Cannes. Besides his incredible skills at editing, sampling, and collage, Holger knew how to use Cannes to their fullest potential and even recorded their noodling in between songs just to see if something could come of it. Yeah, Holger said when they had to pause to break down the equipment to make a new recording configuration, it would take, let's say, a minute. Actually, Holger's go-to phrase at that time was, Ich hab's Gleik. Meaning, I'll have it in a second. Ich hab's Gleik. But sometimes that would be hours. So when the other guys got bored, they'd start messing around and playing whatever they felt like. And of course, Holger is not going to lose this opportunity for more material, so he records them, let's say, secretly. Yeah, he's a pack rat for recording. Exactly. Yes, he totally is. He's a pack rat for sound. Yes, that's why Holger would always have a microphone and tape recorder on standby for these secret recordings. Now, while a lesser engineer wouldn't know what to do with these disjointed fragments, Holger was able to collage together a full piece that included these in-between recordings. It's kind of like an artist using the marble leftover after a sculpture has been completed to create something entirely new. The mysterious and for... Upcycling. Sorry, in fashion, it's called upcycling. The mysterious and foreboding song he helped create, Ohm, takes up the entirety of Side 3. And while it can certainly be a challenging listen, it's actually, in the German way, it's very funny you see. It's very amusing in its proper context. I know. Okay, I gotta tell the story. The story goes, Michael Corolli and Dama were in the studio working on something, just as a fun thing to experiment. They were trying to play as quietly and softly as they could. A little like, pling, pling, pling, pling. And Michael on his guitar and Dama playing a mandolin, bloop, bloop, bloop. I'm not sure what a mandolin sounds like, we're gonna hear in a second. But Jackie is also there playing his drums. And Holger, he's recording all this weird stuff while also playing a note here and there. And after two hours of this meditative piece, they felt pretty good about it. What great work, they must have said. We shall call it paper house number two or something like that. But at that moment, Herman Schmidt bursts into the recording studio. Hi, which I am. I dropped acid earlier today. What are we working on? Oh, a song? Oh, goodie, goodie, goodie. He like scoots his chair over to them and they're like, oh, shit. And that's when Herman proceeds to ruin the song. Well, okay, that's a strong word. He didn't ruin the song as much as he destroyed something beautiful to create a nightmare, a new meditative nightmare. So, okay, so I'm going to play two clips of Ohm because it's a 17 minute long song, like you said. And it took a whole one side of a record. So we're not going to play the whole thing. It's a song you choose to listen to. This doesn't come up on a playlist. Exactly. So the first clip is from around the beginning of the song. I picked it because you can hear Michael's guitar and Damo playing the mandolin. So we all know what that sounds like. Here you go. Now, this is around the time when you sense something is going wrong. Because when Herman bursts in the studio, he was like, I'm a little hopped up on acid. Can I join? Can I join? So Herman starts by smashing his chair with Jackie's Tom Tom mallets. He just destroys it. Now, Herman has no chair, but that's okay because instead he's going to sing or chant rather. He's going to go into a meditative basso profundo chant of Ohm. But remember, he's tripping balls. Get an oscillator fan. It's really interesting. Okay, so this is a collage of sounds to create what our neighbors, Marcus and I, our neighbors call Halloween music because we do play in the background. We did play in our backyard the other day, but it's not. It's much more than Halloween music. It's impressive for 1971 to make that without a mixing board. They put layers of recorded material on top of what they were doing that day and other days too. And it took two days actually. It took Ohm, took two full days to record and put together. And I know a lot of people say that they can't get into the song and I get it. Skip it if you really don't like it. I didn't like it for a long time. That is until I found out how they made Ohm spelled A-U-M-G-N. And that's when I realized it's kind of funny for these nerdy German guys. It's very funny. And this wasn't even a plan for the record for Tagomago. This is just what they did for fun. Yeah. And when you say like this took two entire days, I think it's more like this only took two days. That's right. They use other recorded material from other days. So it was a whole, it's a quilt. It's incredible that it only took two days. This would take a lesser engineer weeks to put together and Holger just fucking, but these guys just fucking did it. As you said, for fun. Now the occult atmosphere of Ohm is very much a deliberate choice. Also the spelling of Ohm is a deliberate choice A-U-M-G-N. Because Herman Schmidt was reading a lot of Alistair Crowley in 1971. Crowley, for those of you who don't know, was a ritualistic magician and writer who became highly attractive to musicians in the late 60s and early 70s due to the appeal of his most famous quote, Do with Thou wilt is the whole of the law. Now there are a fucking million interpretations for what that phrase means. But to some rock stars, Do with Thou wilt was an excuse for excess instead of a path towards magical study and enlightenment. Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin, for example, bought Alistair Crowley's old house in Loch Ness and threw what I'm sure were disturbingly great parties. But you were never going to find him three months into the Scarlet Woman ritual, eating cakes made out of cum and menstrual blood while a guy was dying of sepsis in the corner of the room. I mean, we don't know that. We haven't investigated fully. Now, Herman Schmidt wasn't eating so-called cum and blood cakes of light either. Again, we are not sure. But he took Crowley's principles of Do with Thou wilt and applied them to can. Because doing whatever you wilt really was the whole of the law in that ban just so long as the organism was kept alive. When you look at their process, can use so many of the principles that one might use in collaborative magic. Patience, study, repetition, communication. Fucking, Herman even claimed at one point that everyone in can was a telepath. Yeah, vomit, go. I mean, yes, they're magicians. Yes, they are. But when it came to the magical word that Herman Schmidt intoned over and over again in Ohm, he wasn't doing it with any magical intention. Rather, he was doing with magic what can had done with music. He was recontextualizing it for his own purposes to push the band's evolution even further. Plus, he was super fucking high. As balls, man. So Michael Crowley, who is, as you remember, he's about 22 years old and everyone else except Domo is 10 years old. They're said Holger, Herman, they're all about 32, 33 at this point. And Michael's the one who actually introduced the magic stuff to Herman at this time. And like you said, Mark, it's nothing like serious rituals, bathing in blood, wearing robes. It's really just like, hey, check out this book. Isn't this really cool? It's not like we're going to join the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. No, but then it became, what are you doing with that book, Herman? You really shouldn't be saying those magic spells out loud, Herman. Okay, Herman, that's enough. Give me back the book. Herman, this is Black Magic, Herman. You can't be reckless or black magic like that. But of course, that's not going to stop Herman. Michael said he had an arrogant grin on his face while reading out the magic spells louder and louder. While Michael, practically in a fetal position, is like, we're fucked. Well, not good, Bob. That's where they are. But even though Herman didn't believe in the true occult power of Ohm, Tagomago still sounds like magic feels. It's both personal and universal, unnerving and comforting. And most of all, it's extraordinarily satisfying when you finally get it. And if you don't, that's okay. Yeah, that's totally okay. Now, it's been said that the magical nature of Tagomago extends even to the album's title, because Mago means wizard in Spanish, and the island of Tago in Spain was rumored to once be a second home to Alistair Crowley. But the real origins came from arguably the least magical-minded member of the group, the ever-practical Jackie Leibesite. As he told it, Tagomago was just a street sign he saw in Barcelona, and he suggested it because it sounded good. Yeah, actually, that does sound good. All right, all in favor? Cool. All right. But no matter the origins, it's certainly better than Herman's idea for the album title. He wanted to call it witchy surprisinglys, which admittedly does sound better in the original German. Hexen Uba Raschungen. Well, actually, that sounds like shit, too. Okay. Tagomago it is. Tagomago it is. But in the middle of recording Tagomago, perhaps to counterpoint the somewhat serious vibe of the album, can release a single that is so incredibly happy, a very, very slight variation, was used for the second level of the old PlayStation game, Parappa the Rapper. Marcus had to show me this. And you know what? I love it. Some of y'all out there of a certain age are about to blow your fucking mind. You may know this song as Instructor Mussolini, but Cannes' attempt at a novelty song is one of my personal favorites in their catalog. I think it's one of both of our personal favorites. Yes. And that's if only for how innovative this band still is when they're at their goofiest. It proves that they're capable of doing damn near anything. Step on the gas now. Turn to the right for Turtles Have Short Legs. Tagomago, Short Legs Tagomago, Short Legs Not for walking Tagomago, Short Legs Not for walking What the hell was the allaide Just came the side What the hell was the allaide Just came the side But we can find it out, but we can find it out, but we can find it out, but we can find it out. I love that they do whatever they're in the mood to do. And I mean, that is the magic of Ken, and that song sounds a lot like Modest Mouse. It really does! Think about influential, like it's going to blow your mind throughout the rest of the series. I never even thought about that. And by the way, that song is low-key one of Jackie Leibeside's most impressive drum performances. Wow. And it's just a goofy novelty song, and it's like, you guys want to try to write a song like The Beatles? Sure! Easy! Easy! Now, Tagomango was originally supposed to be one long-play record, presumably with Halalua taking up the entirety of Side B. But that was before Hildegard Schmidt, Irmin's wife, heard Ohm. After hearing what was basically something the band did in their spare time, Hildegard insisted that it be included on Tagomango. But in order to do that, it had to be a double LP. So, Hildegard took care of it, because she believed that Ohm was truly going to elevate this record. Yes, Hildegard insisted. This is Ken. This is the weird shit you guys do at shows, in concerts, in the studio. All day long, you do weird shit because you're weird, and people should know that. And you should hear it. So what if Ohm is 17 minutes long? It needs to be on the new record. So once Hildegard Schmidt convinced the band that it had to be on the record, and it therefore needed to be a double LP, like you said, she then had to go to the record label to convince them of the same thing. And she even told the record executives, you're not going to get the first LP unless you take this weird shit second LP. And as fate would have it, this is according to Irmin Schmidt, Tagomango became Ken's best-selling album ever as a result. And I think it's because there was some magic in there. Because not a lot of people like that song. But I do like that it's there. Magic spells. I mean, honestly, my personal opinion is that I think that Tagomango would be a stronger record if it ended with Ohm, but they had to put something on the fourth side. Because remember, this is just LPs. They should have just done the instrumental side. That's what a lot of records done. They put these two very strange songs, Peking-O and Bring Me Coffee or Tea, which are the two weakest songs on the album. In your opinion. Yeah, in my opinion, the two weakest songs on the album. But they had to fill it with something, so that's what happened. And I think you could listen to Tagomango and it at Ohm and have a hell of a time with it. But again, it's up to you to decide. Always. Now, I personally adore the album art for Tagomango, but Ken fucking hated it. It is almost offensively orange. And the cover art depicts a crude, near-cave art quality figure of what the band called Dekotzkopf, the Peking head. I made him vomit. Because it is indeed a head-puking. Yeah, it's great. It's an organism. Or as I accidentally typed here on my notes, orgasm. But I like it. And it could also be like an amoeba type thing and it's nuclear eye coming out and stuff. I mean, it really is up for interpretation. Well, as is everything in Ken. Yes. Yes. But within that puking head, there's an exposed brain, a mess of swirls and mazes that I think perfectly captures Tagomango's overall feel. The person who absolutely hated everything about the record, though, was Cannes manager Abbey Ofram. Yes. Remember, Abbey was the guy who had hijacked Cannes record label contract, pocketed some extra cash in the deal, and somehow became Cannes manager? Abbey was a sweet talker and he told them, hey, I'll run the business and you just work on the creative end. And by the way, your creative stuff is ugly, but it'll probably make me money. Abbey also hated the Ohm song. Like, a lot. But it turns out Abbey Ofram was not a very good band manager. He constantly pissed off Cannes with mistakes like printing posters for live gigs that had higher prices than they should, or booking them for gigs that paid a thousand marks, but had expenses that ran up to 800 marks. They were barely making any money split five ways. The last straw was when Abbey booked them for a gig in Berlin and didn't bother or just forgot to book them a hotel for the night. So when the band called about where they're going to sleep that night, Abbey's team told them to just drive back home to Cologne. All 700 kilometers. Fuck. Or 434 miles. Fuck that. That night after a three hour gig, and they probably drove that distance earlier that day. Yeah. So they fired Abbey immediately after that and quickly hired Hildegard, Erman's wife to be their band manager, because it makes perfect sense. Hildegard, she worked at a property firm for a long time. She was a financial manager and she knew all about contracts. For her selling family homes or dealing with promoters, venues, record deals, that was all the same. A contract is a contract and she knew how to deal with the business end of things. And she loved Ohm. She got them. She got Cannes, which is why she is still Cannes manager to this day. But now it's, at this point now it's mostly reissues and legacy stuff and other business end of stuff. I emailed her not too long ago because I wanted to tell her, I'm not only a fan of Cannes, but I'm also a fan of Hugh Hildegard. Yeah. Waiting for a response. Yeah. And Hildegard, they're still putting out reissues to this day. One came out I think like a month ago from a show from 1974 and it sounds incredible. I listened to it last week and I highly fucking recommend it. Now it was a damn good thing that Hildegard was in the driver's seat at this crucial point in Cannes' career. Because the residents of the castle where they'd recorded Tagomago, which was extraordinarily important to the album's overall sound, they'd had just about their fill of Cannes. Yes. Because Cannes had recorded a lot in that medieval stairway that provided the reverb that you hear on Cannes' first three albums. But you're right, the band had to leave the castle with all the recording equipment because I believe the official reason was excessive use of this incredible space. Meaning they're too loud and annoying. And it didn't help that the famous sculptor guy Ulrich, his bedroom shared that wall with the end of the stairway and as we know Cannes would record all day at night and sometimes in the stairway. So Cannes slowly drove Ulrich insane while he tried to sleep and work on his monolith sculptures. And not to mention Ulrich's five-year-old daughter is heard towards the end of that song, bursting and yelling, is there a party going on? What is it? Ulrich had enough. So Cannes was out. Take your foosball and your four pillows and get the hell out of here. Now Cannes soon landed in another location that was just as spacious as Castle Norvignage. But in the two seminal albums to come, the new studio's acoustic signature would become even more of an instrument than the medieval staircase had been for Tagomago. While looking for a replacement for the castle, Hildegard Schmitt saw an ad in a local newspaper for a space to rent in the working-class town of Weyleschwist, 30 minutes west of Cologne. There, she found a space that was both physically and metaphorically perfect for a band who made most of their money doing soundtracks and scores. The space, soon to be a legendary studio, was in 1971 an old abandoned movie theater that had shut down just like so many movie theaters in small towns across Germany did when television took off. The theater was 60 feet long and 30 feet wide with a ceiling 26 feet high. It sounded absolutely incredible and as Herman put it, this massive room was where Cannes would spend the next eight years of their lives. That's true and it was interesting in that town, in the town of Weyleschwist? Weyleschwist. Oh, not bad. Not bad. They were pretty suspicious. Like the townspeople, they were pretty suspicious when Cannes rolled into town and moved into their old local theater. Because remember, this is a time when a lot of people in Germany were pretty suspicious of anyone with long hair. Remember Amanduul 2? That kind of thing. Michael Corolli in particular, he was frequently stopped by police because he and his girlfriend looked like the leaders of the Bader-Meinhof terrorist group. Remember? Everyone looked like the leader of the Bader-Meinhof terrorist group. Andress Bader and Ulrika Meinhof, mid-20s something. Plus, Michael drove the same kind of car that they frequently used. So, yes, everyone's looking out their windows and like, did you see that? Did you see that? But for the time being, the villagers in Weyleschwist were not hostile. But they definitely kept an eye on the weirdos moving in downtown. And I don't even want to know what their town hall meetings were like. Now for some proofing the new studio, Hildegard negotiated the purchase of 1,500 thin used mattresses from the local army barracks. We don't need them anymore. And the band affixed these to the walls with the help of a local carpenter. And you know the funny thing is the townsfolk from that town, the W town, right? Oh, sorry. Weyleschwist. Yes. They were taking bets that the carpenter would never get paid back for his work, but can gave him the money the very next day. And they were shocked, I tell you. Shocked. But to prevent the studio from looking like a dingy mental asylum rubber room, Jackie's girlfriend at the time painted psychedelic paratroopers, jet fighters, clouds, flags, and Egyptian magical symbols on curtains and draped them on the walls to cover the stained mattresses. Stained with what? Well, that's for another man. As Marco Corolli put it, he's like, we very much like the idea of recording in a room full of FOMO vet dreams. These are used mattresses. Used, used, used mattresses. And once the, you know how something, how used something has to be for the army to get rid of it? Okay, let's continue. Once the soundproofing was done, each member of Cannes was able to choose their own territory. Drummer Jackie Liebeszeit took up the far left corner of the theater with a minimal setup. Here he would come up with some of his most inventive rhythms, proving that imagination is far more important than how many symbols you can fit around your kit. Similarly, Michael Corolli only needed a small area in the center of the room because he only used two, three guitars at most. And Damo Suzuki roamed around the studio as he pleased, settling into whatever space felt right at that moment. Like, like Georgie and Frankie. Our dogs? Yes. He's not a dog. But I'm just saying like, yes, he's a free spirit. He roams around. And what Erman said, he called it misfitting together. Kind of like a clubhouse where you get, let's say, just a bunch of weirdos who just, you know, start a podcast network and, you know, just kind of go into their own rooms and they put stuff together and a lot of times they collaborate. It's fantastic. Holger calls it dilettanting. Dilettanting. I don't even know what that means. You know what? I have no fucking clue what he's talking about either. No dogs in space at gmail.com. Well, opposite Jackie in the far right corner was Erman, who had plenty of room for the two Electrica farfasa organs used on Cannes best albums. Next to those organs, however, was his secret weapon, the Alpha 77. Yes. See, Erman didn't use any synthesizers until later on in his career, but he was interested in the sounds created by bands like Popel Voo, who were using early Moog synthesizers during their recording sessions. Popel Voo owned the first Moog synthesizer in Germany, but the problem with a Moog is that while I fucking, I love Moogs, I own a couple of them. There's so much fun to play, but it takes a long time to find the exact sound you want because you got to shape every sound by turning knobs, flipping switches, and patching chords. That's what a Moog synthesizer is. It's a sound shaping machine. In other words, there were no presets back then. It's not like a keyboard now where you can just press organ and it sounds exactly like an organ. This was particularly problematic for a band like Cannes because as soon as you find the sound that you want, the groove is already somewhere else. It's like telling a joke after the moment has already passed. It's very funny though. It's very funny when we do it. Yes. So, Erman had a swede named Hermie Hogg custom make a d- Sorry, continue. We're very serious. I'm sorry, just Hermie Hogg is just the... He's a swede named Hermie Hogg. Got it. He custom made Erman a device called the Alpha 77. Okay, are we reading a supermarket sci-fi novel? Okay, I'm sorry. Continue. Hermie Hogg, very serious man who custom makes devices in Saturn. Well, the Alpha 77 could change Erman's organ sound with a simple switch so he could keep up with Cannes' instant compositions and change his sound on the fly. Now, staying in the realm of the studio, Hogg or Chuke positioned himself in the upper end of the room with a mixing board that he'd built himself. Because just like Erman, Hogg had to create what he needed to fit Cannes' unique needs. But what this meant was that Hogg could now stand in one place, both recording the other band members and playing bass, which, as we'll see with their next album, allowed for Hogg to blossom even further as a bassist. Now, the size of the room, which came to be known as inner space studios, it produced a dry ambient sound that changed the overall feel of Cannes' music. But while they lost the warmth of Tagomago, the band gained a stark clarity. Cannes was still an organism, but it no longer appeared as an amoeba that moved as a single cell like it had on Tagomago. Recording in the theater was like putting Cannes under a microscope and discovering that the organism had arms and legs, separate parts moving on their own accord. In other words, you could now clearly hear the genius of each member, both as the total sum and their separate parts. As a result, the first song Cannes recorded at inner space studios was also their first hit. I know! Finally! Oh God! That unlikely success was Spook. In the afternoon, ideas bloom, she will be soon. We therefore wait tonight, Spook said, Joe, she stops the ad-lib. In the afternoon, ideas bloom, she will be soon. We therefore wait tonight, Spook said, Joe, she stops the ad-lib. Oh, sit down, sit down when nobody wants to care. Oh, sit down, sit down when nobody wants to care. Now, I mean, if it sounds weird that like that song was Cannes hit, like remember More Human Than Human by White Zombie was like top 10 in America in like 1996. Like sometimes weird shit just breaks through and it's fucking awesome. Yes, and Domwell's lyrics never cease to amaze me. Who are you? Songs, Ohia. Like, his lyrics are like hiding a spoon, she will be soon. Waiting fork brings a knife. And the reason it's called Spoon is because the TV movie Cannes was commissioned to write for the music for was called The Knife or Das Messer. Das Messer. Yes, exactly. So Domwell said, OK, spoon it is. So now the cool thing about this song is that they used a rhythm box and a drum machine along with Jackie's own drumming. Like they were just having fun with it. There was no pressure. It was nice and relaxed. And this time it wasn't collage so much as it was mostly played and recorded live together and in real time. And it's a great song. But when the director of the movie, The Knife, when he heard the song, he hated it. He said, this is not what I wanted. It's fucking avant-garde shit. And I don't want it in my film. In fact, if it stays, take my name off this movie. But then one of the producers piped up and said, actually, I love it. And everyone else in the room was like, yeah, yeah, yeah, I love it too. This is fantastic. And the director was overruled and it stayed in the film. And by the way, the producer who stood up for that song later produced Das Boot. No shit. So shut up, Rolf. It stays in the picture. And guess fucking what? What? 30 million Germans tuned in to see The Knife and heard the song Spoon and loved it. The single spent two weeks at number six on the German charts, eventually selling 350,000 copies and making Cannes a famous rock group in their own home country. This is great. And because of that success, they were able to expand their studio, get newer equipment. No more dumpster diving, Holger. And they were also able to buy a van and a PA for touring. They're taking this money and they're investing it right back into the band. They made it. The evolution has paid off. They're now walking on the ground out of the ocean and into the wild beyond, baby. And what's better, the townsfolk of Weidlis fist. Weidlis fist. That's right. Where the band had their studio. They were extremely proud of their adopted hometown boys. They were hailed as heroes. Germans loving German rock bands. You love to see it. So now that Spoon is charting in early 1972, Tagomago, which was released last summer in 1971. It's finally getting recognition in the UK six months later. Melody maker in the January 1972 issue said German rock seems to be the most accomplished in Europe in the experimental area. No shit. That's what they've been doing for three years. But I'm glad you noticed. Yeah. And then enemy new musical express said of can out of all the heavy German bands can are the most interesting and could prove the most influential. And then the British reviewer goes on to say can are coming to the UK soon. And I look forward to their visit with guarded interest. Guarded interest. He also called them weird geezers. They are weird geezers. Now the UK press was excited if a little reserved in their expectations of can as a live band. But when can finally arrived on British shores, the reaction of the audience ran the gamut from confusion to pure inspiration. Yes, the Germans are coming again to a show near you. Anyway, let's just move on. Let's move on. The Germans are coming again. In fact, let's never play this again. But yeah, thanks to Hildegard Schmidt's diligent band management skills. She booked the first of many UK and European tours. And can we stop for a second and say how freaking awesome Hildegard is. This is a woman who has a two year old child with Herman. She's a mother. She's a band manager full time now and she's doing it illegally. Yes. Yes, because at the time managing and booking bands in Germany was illegal or what they would call forbidden. Abby Offerham, I think he got to operate his shenanigans under a music publishing company in a certain way. Laws are kind of lax in that sense. Sure. And that's because the government was in charge of talent booking. They wanted to be in charge of all that. But all the talent booking. So that means dance bands, magicians, children's hospital clowns and DJs. Most of these being booked in town halls, weddings or nursing homes for the elderly. You know, this is a federal employment office. Ken was just not about that. So not only is Hildegard doing this on the slide, but she's booking international tours, which in the UK was great. They were totally open to the idea of a woman band manager. Not so much in America then. She got a lot of shit. It was very difficult for her. And that's why I commend her. She's just badass. She's badass. She was able to pull Ken into making them into a incredibly successful band business wise as while Irman worked on the creative. It's very impressive. And thanks to her, Ken stepped on their first British stage at the Imperial College in London on April 28, 1972. And guess who was in the audience? Who? Who was holding their monster movie records for them to sign? Ken's number one fans? Seriously, Hawkwyn. Hawkwyn fucking loved Ken. And guess what? That show, they took much inspiration from that show. And they took a lot of inspiration from Tagomago and a lot of Ken's records. And my God, can you hear it in the song, Opaloka? Opaloka. I mean, there's a lot of Krautrock in there. There's Noi, there's Kraftwerk, there's Ken, but it started with Ken. With a lot of these guys in the UK, like Ken was their introduction to Krautrock. Dave Brock said it was their first album, Monster Movie, and he was hooked ever since. And he's hooked now. Wow. Okay, so Ken, remember, they finally made it to the British shores. And I'm not going to make another German joke. They finally made it. They even got to tour. Operation Sea Lion finally worked out. Operation United Artists records, okay? Because Ken, they went into the offices of the London office of United Artists. They were visiting their record label. Holger said that while they were getting to tour the place, he looked at their dustbins or trash cans. And he saw it was full of copies of Tagomago. But it's okay. Andrew Lautner, read his book. He definitely champions them a lot. So like I said, Ken played at University College and then several other colleges, because that's their demographic, especially with how weird Ken can be when they're live in concert. You know, there was no set list and no real idea of what they were going to do. All right, remember, we talked about this in part two of Damo and Munich and David Niven in a bag of cake. There are many bags of cake. And every show was always what they call an uncalculated risk. Because Ken would go on stage and take in the atmosphere, the crowd, the whole ambience, the whole scene, and react to it by playing whatever, just whatever they wanted to. And then they were on a song, whatever that was. Nothing needed to take shape. Sometimes it would take an hour or 10 minutes or whatever. One music journalist who reviewed the performance said, the audience never seems to have much choice in the matter at a Ken concert. Because one person would ask for a song like, hey, Spoon! And they're like, OK, we'll play Spoon! And no one would recognize it. And they're like, Spoon! And they're like, we already played it. OK. And then other reviewers would say, you guys are better in the studio when you're editing yourselves. And of course, there would be unexpected things in this tour, like when this hilarious musical duo opened for Ken at the University of Essex on May 8th, 1972. I love these guys. My godfathers. Yeah. My daddy heathed this song because I wear my sister's clothes. He called me in the bathroom with a pair of pantyhose. Yes, my musical godfathers, Cheech and Chong. You raised me well. That's unironically one of my favorite songs ever. I fucking love Earek My Eye. Fucking Atlas Bowie, the battle of the band scene. And up at the end of Up and Smoke. It's fucking, it's incredible. It's a legitimately good song. And yeah, I still love the corn version too. And my favorite scene, my favorite scene in the car when they're like, pass me a joint and this is really skinny. Oh no, it's a toothpick. Spooky dog shit, man. OK, OK. All right, so imagine the audience's surprise when Ken showed up to play right after Cheech and Chong without props or jokes. Yeah, no, there's no Dave's not here, man. No, no, no, exactly. I think that the audience, the college kids were expecting some sort of comedy review operetta or something. Because like when Ken was playing, one guy in the audience even yelled, play some fucking music. To which I'm sure the Ken members were like, what do you think we were doing these past 12 minutes? Yeah. I know like a lot of their music is very strange. It sounds like maybe tuning at some point, but they're working their way up to a crescendo. They really are. And they just, it was the wrong kind of show to go into. But anyway, it doesn't matter because that's Ken. Ken does what Ken does. Exactly. And if you want to hear like some of their live performances, I definitely recommend the re-releases that I mentioned earlier, the ones that Ken had been putting out in the last, I think the last year or two, they're fucking incredible. The sound quality is out of this world. The bootlegs that are on, like there is actually a bootleg of the show on YouTube. We couldn't play it. It sounds fucking terrible. So we figured why don't you just listen to Cheech and Chong instead. You're welcome. Now, even though Tagomago wasn't a favorite around the United Artists' offices, the single after the album's release, Spoon, that had undoubtedly been a surprise hit. And the reason why Ken had been touring in the first place was to promote the single that came immediately after Spoon so they could capitalize on Spoon's success. Once again, drawing off their television soundtrack work, Ken formulated a three-minute version of what they'd already recorded for a movie called Dito to Taube in the Beethoven Strasse. That means dead pigeon on Beethoven Street. Okay. Later released as the dead pigeon suite on the Lost Tapes, this snippet may sound familiar. That's right. If you guessed it, the single Ken was promoting was Vitamin C. And it's with that song, plus Future Days, plus Igabam Yassi, and their baffling disco phase, which I love, that we'll explore our final chapter on Ken next week with the conclusion. Yes. Yes, we did it. We did it. And I want to give a lot of thank yous, big thank you to Patrick Fisher, our assistant researcher and associate producer of the Ken series. Oh, the whole Krat Rock Jamasa series, really. And thank you to Rob Oakey for editing our Ken series and this episode as well. Kelsey Netzer for all her help. And I will read our sources that we used for the series at the end of the next episode. Yeah, episode four. And we'll also post those sources on our Instagram at NoDogsPod. So go check that out for like just cool music shit and updates for when the episodes come out. And just, you know, just see what we're up to. Yeah. Yeah. If you're in there, why not? Yeah. And don't forget to go watch our stream the first Monday of every month at twitch.tv slash LPN TV. That starts at 6 p.m. PST, 9 p.m. EST. And you can also watch it after the fact if you can't watch it live, you can watch it on the Last Podcast Network YouTube channel. We've done what? Like 10, 15 of them so far? Yeah. Our next one is August 5th. Yeah. And everything that we've done so far is all available on YouTube. So if you haven't heard of it yet and you want to go check it out, go to our YouTube channel and catch up. Absolutely. It's also on our playlist is also on Spotify, I believe, under your name, Marcus Parks. Yep. Just search Spotify for my name, Marcus Parks, and you'll find a playlist for every single episode we've ever done. And if you don't like Spotify, we also have the playlist on YouTube. On YouTube, of course. And we also have t-shirts, all three kinds of NoDogs t-shirts on LastPodcastMerch.com in men's and women's sizes. That's right. Thank you. You're welcome. Yes. And also, NoDogsAndSpace at gmail.com. If you want to make a comment or a question or whatever you'd like to do, we got a ton, a ton of responses that Marcus spent all day, like responding to as many people as he possibly could yesterday. So thank you so much for that. Yeah, it's Elastica. The answer is Elastica. Yes. Of course. If you're wondering. And so, and also, that is also a good place, NoDogsAndSpace at gmail.com, to send in your music. If you make any noise, any sound at all, yourself, or with friends, or with whoever, with your dogs, you know, if you have a choir of dogs, and you sit in the bathtub and you record all this and you put it on an mp3, or you put it on Spotify, or YouTube, or whatever, we would be honored to play it at the end of every single episode. In the band of the week, this week, they're actually named after a canned song. They're called You Do Right. And who's the spelling? Y-O-O-D-O-O, right. I do remember them, because every time I tried to Google You Do Right, the band would show up. And I'm like, guys, guys, I need to find out more about You Do Right. And they're fucking incredible. They are actually very good. It was a very good find. Yeah, they're out of Montreal. Here's a track off their 2021 album called March de Vivon. You can stream them on Spotify or better yet, you can buy their music at YouDoRight.Bankamp.com. You can also follow them on Insta at YouDoWrong, spelled the same way. Thank you. It's so cool that this band actually listens to our show. They said they'd listen to it on tour. It's very fucking cool. Thank you so much. You're going to love this fucking band. Go see them live if you can. And if you've got music, of course, nodogsandspaceshpacetgmail.com is where to send it to. Thank you so much for listening to the first three parts of Can We Can't Wait to see you next week for the conclusion. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.