Kraftwerk
The Man - Machine

A man named Leibniz once said that music is counting without realizing it. Mathematics in the Kraftwerk counts, as does geometry, as does technology.

The soul in Kraftwerk counts as well.

It's as if they have trapped a man in a machine; or perhaps, it's a machine swallowed up; it seems to tick like a clock (this reminds me of the crocodile and Captain Hook). The cover is red, black, and white; all four wear a shirt, tie, and a wax mask; the font of the writing is stimulating, there's some Bauhaus. Here we go, it starts playing. You hear clumsy bouncing sobs between moments of silence, then irresistible bursts of percussion; an overwhelming riff! "We are the robots", the voice was enough. (I want to start moving)

A sickly air blows, ancient harmonies and an electrostatic trombone intersect and overlap. Tum–Tah (for n-times). A synth travels sugary roads and my heart explodes. Oh yes, and a space lab. We go out onto the streets of the “Metropolis” where there seems to be fog between the skyscrapers, because Kraftwerk is a construction company. (obviously!). "The model" is actually a fat man wobbling on a unicycle humming. He says something in a language between English and German, it would be nice to organize a group with four keyboards. An acid and mutilated piano like alternating current, runs through wires (Tum–Tah, continuously); and drags on. You know how neon lights are made. Meanwhile, a music box sounds ever more elongated.

By now I think of nothing else. I am a man–machine. (and purple dominates).