[ad_1]
The name Polo, pronounced in German, refers to the pins of a plug. Behind is Rheinländer musician Stefan Betke, who has lived in Berlin since the 1990s. His electronic crunch has influenced the stars of British Dubstep, especially the London burial. Betke’s dub in Berlin sizzles high above like a firework on a VHS cassette, and it breaks rhythmically. There is slight trepidation, but then an ultra deep bass appears, the effects and echoes reminiscent of reggae and dancehall halls. Sounds like grass and mate, poisoning and concentration. Only to Berlin in the nineties.
Pole invented music 20 years ago that dreams of emptiness. As in all dreams (and on some trips), the question of whether it is pleasant or simply threatening is not decided immediately. Today, this old electronic music is haunted by the emotional state of the new crisis. Fittingly, the first three post albums with the succinct titles “1”, “2” and “3” are now being released. The cases were first published between 1998 and 2000, the cases in dark blue, red and finally yellow.
Musician Stefan Betke aka Pole: “It was also about getting away from business”
Tina Winckhaus
Betke created the soundtrack in an empty city, as shown at the beginning of the contact restrictions in the fight against the crown, but that can arise again at any time if the infection numbers increase after the recent relaxation. That would be terrible, of course, but there is no denying the beauty of emptiness. Pole’s music emphasizes the space that our limited radius now lacks.
In the nineties there was a relaxation room in each club: less volume, almost no rhythm. There is no accountant invited to speak aloud. “These quiet rooms,” says Stefan Betke in a phone interview, “disappeared when my series started with pole.” When the rents or even the financial needs of the operators increased, the rooms with liars and low consumption were not cheap enough. Instead: another dance floor, another bar.
The closing light, as we currently hold it, is reminiscent of a city that was not as deep in late capitalism as the world until shortly before Corona. “We often went to clubs during the week, and not always to dance, but to listen to music, talk about it, understand the new,” says Betke. Over the weekend, it was mainly tourists who played a decisive role in the rise of Berlin at that time. At that time, young tourists were traveling to Berlin by train, there were still no low-cost airlines. A city of the last century: not Easyjet, not Berghain. Even the Reichstag was not ready to move.
“In Berlin everyone was listening to reggae and dubbing.”
But what led to this wave of technology-influenced electronic music in Berlin in the 1990s that rejected the hectic pace and designed break rooms? Pole was not a loner at the time, Berlin Dub was a brand. The labels were called Rhythm and Sound or Maurizio, Moritz von Oswald, Mark Ernestus or the Monolake duo were the musicians. And of course there was Stefan Betke, aka Pole. They all circled around the Hardwax record shop and the Dubplates & Mastering vinyl smithy in Kreuzberg. Betke came to Berlin from Cologne and was surprised: “I already had 2,000 hip-hop records at home and now I was in techno, but everyone in Berlin listened to reggae and dub.”
Reggae and its well-known culture of echo-soaked instrumental remixes often come into play when dealing with a (musical) era change. In London punk in the late 1970s, Dub healed some wounds left by the zeitgeist. But there is also resistance in the dub: against (post) colonialism, the police, the lords of the gangs. Or against the hamster wheel of the techno business, which was gaining speed in Berlin. “Yes, it was also about getting away from business,” says Betke. Dub always withdraws from performance ethics. Replays, unhurried hypnotic drift, enjoyment of individual sounds instead of the whip of technoid euphoria: Dub can’t be optimized.
There is another reason for the generous space in Pole’s music. Berlin was not only emptier because fewer people slept in Airbnb apartments and there was a more affordable living and study space. “In Berlin-Mitte you stumbled off a side street towards the Oranienburger and looked up at the half-dilapidated Kunsthaus Tacheles, next to a huge empty space,” recalls Betke. “I didn’t know that from the Rhineland, the incomplete architecture of the city had a strong influence on my music.”
Post
123 (Ltd.ed.) (3cd)
Label: MUTE RECORDS
Price inquiry time
04/27/2020 09:38 PM
No warranty
Product reviews are purely editorial and independent. With so-called previous affiliate links, we generally receive a commission from the dealer when buying. More information here.
Most of the moors and empty spaces in the city have disappeared or closed today, as have the clubs. It will be a long time before they can start trading again. If physical space is lacking, art will have to represent it differently, that is: more spatially. Despite the excellent digital media available for music consumption today, the space has almost disappeared from music. Spotify is all about volume, not spatial differentiation, and ubiquitous earplugs reinforce this trend. Betke says: “Headphones can’t reproduce spaces well, that’s why the music mixes so hard today: to hide the lost space.”
After this crisis, although the most welcoming forms of the meeting are possible again, we will probably perceive the rooms with greater sensitivity. We are already doing this outdoors when we are circling to perform the distance dance. Is the impression misleading or do you already see fewer people with headphones doing sports in the main arteries of public parks? The ear also measures the space we now step on publicly. Spatial perception can also be retrained with the three old Pole registers. Unlike sports, it doesn’t hurt at all.
