Faust
Faust

First, the cover. One of the most powerful symbols of all music, an icon of man's greatness and misery.
The first Faust album, self-titled, released in 1971, is one of the most noble testaments of rock, one of the masterpieces of music, without labels, without genres, pure sonic anarchy. Little was known about Faust until the revival of the nineties, their works shrouded in a mysterious aura, due to the way they were conceived, the instruments used, and the absolute secrecy of the band members. Their music, among Dadaism with a clear Zappa influence, progressive rock, Brechtian cabaret, and Berlin vaudeville, is a tribute to post-nuclear culture, imbued with a pitch-black pessimism and sublime poetry. Faust are magnificence and misery, madness and ecstasy, omnipotence and weakness. Perhaps because they were children of a Germany in those years ideologically adrift, divided between the West and East, a terrible past and a bleak present, between neo-Nazi upsurges and workers' autonomy, or perhaps simply because they were geniuses, Faust have been able to create a new, powerful language, placing them among the greatest of all time.

This legendary record opens with a whistle, annoying and unsettling, with the opening bars of "Satisfaction" and "All I Need Is Love," which emerge from the chaos, leaving open to interpretation whether this is a tribute or a slight to the successful groups of the period. An unimportant aspect, because "Why Don't You Eat Carrots" begins to take shape, martial rhythm, obsessive refrain, whistling drones that disturb, until a conversation between a man and a woman, who seem at ease. But nothing in Faust lasts, especially peace, and the piece resumes, even more insistent, terrible and disturbed by that whistle, their trademark. "Meadow Meal" is a majestic requiem to Western man. After a series of noise and vocal games and an epic guitar solo, an organ rises majestically in the rain, a tribute to a civilization that once was. The third and final suite, "Miss Fortune," is the masterpiece within the masterpiece, ingenious, constructed on modulation and counterpoints, noise, minimalism. Madness in power, madness that transcends into an even crazier drunken singing, a fresco of modern man escaping from reality and himself. Alternating silences, deafening noises, humanity, and alienation.

In describing the music, perhaps I have overlooked the poetry, which abounds in this album, I've only mentioned it, but I've never provided you with the evidence. The best proof is to quote the first stanza that closes "Miss Fortune," recited by two voices, alternating with each word. Until next time, and listen to Faust...

"Are we supposed to be or not to be.."