Album Review: Can - Future Days

"Future Days" was the last album in Can's celebrated "Damo Trilogy".  Despite Eddy's controversially low placing in his own Can albums rundown, for many fans the album represents not only the peak of Can's output but perhaps one of the greatest "Krautrock" albums ever. Our guest reviewer Kieran Baddeley offers up a new perspective on this landmark album.

Can’s final album with Damo Suzuki is a testament to the admirable ethic the band employed. It’s a cacophony of laid back bliss and ambient washes that cements their altruistic methods, wherein all members have their time in the limelight.

At the bottom of the bed of deep blue that backdrops the cover to Can’s 1973 album Future Days is one of the ancient Chinese ‘I Ching’ symbols. Traditionally used as a way of telling the future, its inclusion is by no means a coincidence. Title aside, the similarities to Can’s discography are prescient. Their three-album run from 1971’s Tago Mago to 1972’s Ege Bamyasi and concluding with Future Days, remains indisputably influential - informing almost every genre and artist. With Tago Mago and Ege Bamyasi, they cemented their legacy; with Future Days, they cemented their deification.

For many fans the album represents Can's peak. Whereas the two preceding albums were built around tense and incessant rhythms as on Ege Bamyasi or inspired freak-outs as on Tago Mago, Future Days takes a left turn into the sublimely spaced-out. It’s almost jarring to hear Can sound this relaxed.

The title track segues in on a wave (literally), slowly introducing the listener to the world of the album and slowly incorporating the central, lilting rhythm that makes up the track for all of its 9 minutes. It’s difficult to describe what the track actually sounds like, much like the whole album for that matter, but so is the nature of Can’s music. Imagine the love child of funk, ambient and prog and you may just come close to the genius that is Future Days. The tension of Ege Bamyasi remains but instead of prevailing, the track builds and builds, teasing a release but never actually fulfilling. This is to its credit.

Damo Suzuki’s vocals are pushed far back into the mix, so as not to disrupt the current of calm that keeps the track moving, but his words are never far from your conscious.

In a verse, Suzuki can go from whispered suggestions to maniacal preaching without so much as a warning. Singing in something resembling English but too impressionistic to be easily defined; his words can be whatever you want them to be.

“Save that money for a rainy day” he sings, imploring like a preacher before climaxing the song with the repeated screaming of “For the sake of future days.”

Even when Suzuki does burst, the actual volume never eclipses the music. Once again, this is proof of Can’s fundamental understanding of ego – while Suzuki’s preaching is utterly compelling, it remains no more so than Michael Karoli’s restrained guitar filigrees or the hazy warmth of Irmin Schmidt's electronic textures.

But arguably it was drummer Jaki Liebezeit who made Can what they were, without him they would have been good, but nowhere near as legendary. On Future Days, like everything, his presence is more muted but just as impactful. On Spray, his roots in jazz come to the fore, constantly expanding and shrinking in time with those around him. He ushers in the track and manages to hold the attention throughout. Liebezeit gets a chance to show off on Moonshake, the albums shortest and most pop-orientated track, prefacing and bookending every one of Suzuki’s choruses with a flurry.

Bel Air ends the album on a gorgeous note. The 20-minute piece is the ultimate showcase of Can’s ability - it never tires on you, it never once overwhelms you and it never feels a minute too long or too short.

The track is purposefully disjointed with each section belonging to a different melody from Suzuki. In some places, you can even hear the tape changing between vignettes. Like much of Can's music the piece was created from extended improvised jams edited down into more palatable offerings by bassist and in house tech-whiz Holger Czukay.

Czukay's genius was in making the  disparate elements of many Can songs, like the found-sound interlude on Moonshake, manage to co-exist with the more precise work of say, Karoli’s spindly scratches, whilst at the same time retaining the rawness and immediacy of the original recordings.

It’s a liberating approach, knowing that no suggestions are off the table, but all suggestions are prone to being cut. It’s this trust in Czukay that allows side-long suites like Bel Air to retain their cohesion. 

The future-predicting symbol on the cover can be seen as startlingly forward-thinking when looking back on the album. Can lay the ground work for ambient and post-rock whilst outdoing Miles Davis at his own brand of jazz-fusion. Artists as diverse as The Fall, Happy Mondays, Radiohead, Stereolab, Spoon, Roxy Music, Brian Eno and LCD Soundsystem can all be seen as being indebted to Can and this album in particular.

Without Can, some of the best music of the 20th and 21st Century wouldn't have existed.

Without Krautrock, Bowie would have never realised his transitional album Station to Station, without which there would be no Low. Without Future Days, it’s doubtful that Talk Talk would have reached the quiet brilliance of their final two LPs. Without Can, some of the best music of the 20th and 21st Century wouldn’t have existed. Enough thanks cannot be extended.

Can, Paris 1973

Suzuki’s leaving left a hole in Can. Despite the retort of 1974’s masterpiece, Soon Over Babaluma, Can never again reached the peak they had done under Suzuki. This is all part of the legend. Can were immediate, compelling and confrontational but on Future Days they became resigned. They took a step back to observe what they had created and in doing so, lifted themselves up higher than they had ever been before.

Whether it was the production, the lilting rhythms or the general airiness to the record, what can’t be disputed is the heavenly quality to the music, a platform for gods to observe their creation. They may not be as recognised as other artists but they’re just as important - here lies their deification. They are legendary in the sense that they are allusive: unknown gods of modern music.

Kieran Baddeley

Thank you to Kieran for this review which is an edited version of the original at Rockhaq. Keiran's hangs out over at the Krautrock Facebook Group and his reviews on Beck, Eno, Bryne, Bjork and New Order amongst others can be found at https://rockhaq.com/author/kieranbad20/