Holger Czukay, Jah Wobble & Jaki Liebezeit
Full Circle

PART ONE: 360°
I take the opportunity to review the aforementioned and then, in the second part, slip in an elegy to Jaki, and in the "nostalgia" of the monstrous, Czukay also enters, the man from Gdańsk, who from these origins earns the medal of the unexpected. Goodbye Holger!

Full Circle is so immediate that it defies classification; there’s the cultured indifference of people who checkmate you even before starting to move the pieces. Why compete when one is already Victory? Crystal clear, a sublime pleasure overwhelms us, making us finally understand the difference between fecal matter and chocolate. And like true alchemists of the absurd, the three "unfortunates" do not forgo keeping the line and embrace the challenge of transformation par excellence... and how many ingots emerge, without even using Majorana's machine.

Here the three are fierce, ruthless, cruel against nothingness. First place is eternally awarded precisely for their "not playing". Music suspended between a stop to refuel the flying carpet and a comforting sandwich to avoid convincing oneself of having achieved levitation. Finally, a (esoteric) record for everyone, which anticipates the shared unveiling of the 21st-century secrets that gain breath, free from monotheistic inquisitions. They joke, pissing elixirs of long life into the comrade's shoes, but the micturition is as yellow as the Sun!

Sick with CAN as I am... and this record was nowhere to be found. In the early 2000s, I was testing relocation to Prague (then a definitive move) and, as I operated in every place I had been, I went to a phone booth and took from the paper phone book (seems absurd today, doesn't it?) the addresses of record stores. I roamed the city based on that and wandered all over as an obsessed collector. Addicted! I repeat to myself... I consumed the streets like a prostitute in the grimmest brothel in withdrawal, in "recherche" of any musical dust. The addiction was through the roof, the adrenaline of the hunt transported me, I telekinetically moved myself from one store to another. At I.P. Pavlova (red C metro), there's a club, disco, bar, record store, all together, called Radost FX. I pull it from the tray, or rather the CD lifts itself to my hand, paralyzed by the apparition. "So you exist..." I said aloud and caressed it, cuddling it like a newborn.

It is out of time, it is out of time... Obscure in its readiness, estranging in its fluidity. There’s no point in describing the pieces; the music is there, take advantage of it. There's an aggregating mentality that doesn't demand offerings. Does the guitar pluck deserted islands within us that we don’t know about? We readily agree to a swim in shark-infested waters. Does that keyboard make fun of us? Yes, it makes fun, but how... Is the bass perfect? Yes, it is perfect. And the drums? Even more so. And Holger Czukay with his trifles among varied pianos, French horns, and radio knobs? He plays and bestows invisibility. Do the trumpets give us a raspberry? But it's a fragrant one... Does the voice tell us we haven’t understood a damn thing? The impersonal tone doesn’t offend us but urges us to transcendental laziness.

Here, the infected thought of money, now ingrained, makes it so that if we were to go to a hermit who retired from the world, the first question we'd ask would be, "Where's the Money?" The surprise is that the money is there, and plenty of it, but it’s invisible, the key to paying for mystical entrances without the cheap spiritual haughtiness. You go around with large denomination notes that purify materiality while still keeping feet on the ground. And all of it seasoned with glows of aftertastes in (Karl)Heinz ketchup-flavored sauce. Basically, from a Stockhausen-‘screw it’ to a Me cojoni! electroDUBtomato. And you call that nothing...

PART TWO: "Time of Love"

Drummers play the drums. Don’t ask me how Jaki evolves invisibly, no longer striking. I don’t know what he does but he doesn’t strike, he heavily transcends tangible reality. He disappears to avoid a ranking by alien connotations, only so can the miracle we witness be justified. The uniqueness of the appearance excludes encounters, clashes, frictions, and situates itself in a suspension of thought, rhythms that halt thoughts and allow you to grasp the immediate.

Upon hearing of Jaki Liebezeit's death, my reaction was as if a friend had died, a friend who was always close to me and gave me so much to whom I send a greeting, a "see you again".

How can a man never stop? Because that is the unsettling realization: this one doesn’t stop! How can a man be monstrously to the third power? His fellow sound plunderers were monstrous, and they said he was monstrous... How does one convey rhythm to the ear when the eye cannot see it in movement? Like those few soccer players who dribble, and you see only that a moment before they were in front of the defender, and then you see them and the ball beyond the defender, and you didn’t manage to see the transition from before to after, not even in slow motion... It’s like an act performed at an unusual speed but that seems to you to occur in invisible stillness: percussive translations.

Here we are in the presence of higher states of drummer consciousness.

From childhood, the explosion of bombs is transformed into a revisitation of primordial sounds of creation: mystical and hypnotic is the result. Jaki’s moderate lifestyle shines with the magnificence of a perfect heartbeat in sync with the Universe knocking at the gates of Paradise and opening them. And the monotonous perfection lingers forever, transporting each of us to our intimate rarefied and impersonal places, in contact with our inner beat. Can? He Can! Thanks for the journey Jaki, thanks for everything.

Objective truths are the pillars of the soul that support our real life even if we are inevitably not ready to accept them, continuing to cling to our decaying illusions. Having returned from the Liber Mundi encounter and learned the confirmation of what I always thought, I interpret with all my impersonal vanity that: Jaki Liebezeit is the greatest drummer of all time! AND THAT'S IT!