Puhdys
Die Puhdys

Berlin and the Twentieth Century.

An immense city, initially glorified as the capital of an empire, and subsequently gutted, razed, rebuilt, torn and divided, yet reunited and patched up, the concrete cubes continuing alongside the ancient remains of Prussian splendor.

Months ago, with the cold and snow in my bones, I walked through it for days, explored it, breathed in the air of a past that is history only if one does not want to define it as a chronicle. The masonry corpses and architectural dissonances, and that long ribbon of cubes symbolizing what was once the world's curtain are not monuments like those of Caesar's Rome or emblems of imperial Paris, the ancient traces of a suffering and glorious past; they are, rather, still open wounds, memories of our days—and indeed mine.

Along the banks of the Spree, in the shadow of the cathedral and a stone’s throw from Alexanderplatz, the dramatic and sumptuous heart of what, until twenty years ago, was East Berlin, lies a small, beautiful museum. It is emblematic of a time, a way of being, and of being constrained; but, essentially, constrained in a certain way.

Even if the essence was of suffering (and just a visit to the Lichtenberg prison is enough to realize it minimally), the DDR Museum collects the other side of the coin—the public face of the German Democratic Republic, the one that speaks of a small nation where life could offer small satisfactions and the feeling of a superficial well-being, with many small beautiful things, Ostalgically solid yet gray like the barracks that housed it.

On one wall, some names of local musical glories appear (because music also makes a nation); among them, one title can be read (“Wenn ein Mensch lebt”, if a man lives), and a name: Puhdys.

The most famous group of East Germany was formed in Oranienburg, north of Berlin, in 1969 (but, with different formations, these young men were already talked about in 1965, thanks to the impetus of their first leader Udo Wendel and his combo).

The name, lacking particular meaning, is nothing but an acronym of the initials of the members' first names who, at the time of this decision, were at home in the tumultuous group: keyboardist Peter Meyer, drummer Udo Jacob, bassist Harry Jeske, and guitarist and singer Dieter Hertrampf (who, ready-set-go, immediately replaced the good Wendel). The "y" and the "s," charming and lively, I imagine were adopted to confer a rounded pronouncability to the agreeable name.

When the group, in 1969, was officially recognized through the country's artistic license, Jacob had already been replaced by Gunter Wosylus, and a second guitarist/singer/Dieter—Birr—had joined the ensemble, thus finding itself in a balanced formation for about a decade. That's enough for me, now, and insofar as this topic is concerned, their biography stops here; just add that precisely the two Dieters, with Meyer, are the only ones still in the lineup of the timeless and finally German tout-court current Puhdys.

The first single, “Türen öffnen sich zur Stadt” (Doors open to the city—yes, of course, they sing in German: adorable!), is resoundingly inspired by Uriah-Heep (the year was 1971, and “Gypsy”, after all, wasn't born until the previous one): it's a hard-driving hard rock, filled with choirs, counter-choirs, and countermagics, with a pleasant and piercing organ framing a guitar that truly sounds like Mick Box's.

In 1972, they participated in one of the regime's propaganda films (“The Legend of Paul and Paula”, by Heiner Carow): their music began to gain notoriety.

Three tracks from this work, moreover, were included in the group's first album, “Die Puhdys”, from 1974 (not to be confused with the later “Puhdys”, from the following year): these are “Geh Zu Ihr”, “Zeiten und Weiten”, and indeed the song indicated in the DDR Museum in Berlin.

The first one is a nice piece for a drunken bass, grater-like voice, and a sort of Jew's harp, with an instrumental bridge that reminds me of something by the Beatles. The second, which concludes the album, is a more driving track, halfway between Uriah Heep of “Salisbury” and Led Zeppelin's “Immigrant Song”. “Wenn ein Mensch lebt” is, instead, a disarming ballad for piano and German tongue, as melodic as it is ungainly, certainly irresistible.

So irresistible that it is practically "suggested" by the Bee Gees, who in the pleasant “Spicks and Specks” proposed just a few years earlier that joyful and pulsating bass theme—but in the end, who cares: I love this song.

Having mentioned the tail, let's go back to the beginning: the album, which for the rest contains the singles released by the band up to that moment, is opened by a nice little rocker (if you want, a bit Beach Boys-ish) called “Vorn ist das Licht; and if ahead there is light, with a love song (“Von der Liebe ein Lied”, enhanced by Meyer's saxophone) tender, yet restless, one can even reach the Moon: “Mann in Mond” is sunny in its organ flurries and boasts a decidedly catchy chorus.

More characteristic (and forgive the obvious and sad pun) is the subsequent “Vineta”, which tells the glorious past and sinful end of the legendary Baltic city (Sie nannte sich Vineta; Neid und Hass trieb sie hinab—They called it Vineta; envy and hatred drove it down).

Very driving and hard, the track also stands out for keyboard and saxophone themes that, just to continue the game of references, might remind one of the Van Der Graaf Generator.

The already multiple times highlighted Heep-like influences, finally: aside from the already mentioned (and not by chance, since it was included in the album) “Türen öffnen sich zur Stadt” , are very evident in the beautiful “Ikarus”, among the best tracks of the album, where a nice guitar lace and the inevitable little choirs coil over a granite rhythm that knows no solution. The two songs are separated by the joyful pace of “Sommernicht”, a fresh interlude between two rather dense tracks.

This is therefore a beautiful work, perhaps naive, certainly precious, the debut work of a historic and glorious band that undoubtedly deserves to be discovered; the inspirations of the beginnings, over the years, will become a precise artistic identity, which will lead the Puhdys to cross the wall first, and then the decades, to reach our days.

And yet...

But are you really sure that even if you're sure you don't know them, you really don't?

Isn't it that the Hansa Rostock anthem tells you something, perhaps thanks to the efforts of good Caressa?

Ah, what a fantastic thing.