Growing up in the north of England I fully appreciated the metallic lure of Kraftwerk – they are the perfect soundtrack to a town of prefabricated 1970’s tower blocks, abandoned mills, broken telephone boxes and gothic factories cutting into the grey skies. I remember thinking that they were undoubtedly the funkiest white men on the planet – and among the coolest. Ride the train from Euston to Preston or Manchester Piccadilly and listen to Trans Europe Express as the countryside gives way to the sights and sounds of an industrial past now degenerating into obsolescence and you start to get a whole new understanding for the music. It was in these conditions that I started to really FEEL Kraftwerk, and really started to love Kraftwerk.

Couple that with the image – the studied, calculated cool, the hair slicked back, pale faces wearing severe expressions... They are that rare thing, a band that is the personification of the music they create. I never thought I’d get a chance to see Kraftwerk in the flesh, but I did just that on June 1st at the Hammerstein Ballroom, New York.

There was a time when going to shows was a truly outlaw experience... usually wasted on speed, booze or pills you’d be thrown into the melee with hundreds of other chemically altered maniacs, and a fight for survival with the greatest soundtrack ever would ensue. Times have changed now, and in an era of concerts sponsored by the drinks companies (who “encourage you to drink responsibly”) and doormen who check for drugs, booze, even water bottles on the way in, that kinds of free flowing exuberance is solely in the hands of the smaller clubs, playing the newest most unknown bands. When you go to see your heroes these days, the experience is likely to be safe – the worst thing any experience can ever be.

They hit the stage at 8 o’clock sharp, while the missus I were still around the back of the venue smoking grass. When I heard the opening strains of Tour De France blaring through the bricks we high tailed it into the venue, past the Nazi guards frisking us and onto the floor...

We followed a tall, drunk guy pushing his way to the front, making the most of the way people jumped out of his path to get close to the stage. Nobody danced. On stage the band were exactly how I remembered them from my imaginings while listening to the albums on headphones... still as statues, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping at laptop computers like 4 men operating the security system at a nuclear power plant. Around us the crowd stood still also, watching the stage for any signs of movement, finding none, and a strange kind of Mexican stand off ensued. In New York, people think they are too cool to dance, it seems. I started to bob to the music. I felt a frantic tap on my shoulder.

“Do you mind?” asked a stiff looking young guy behind me.

“Screw this” I said, “Let’s get some beers.”

After opening with some newer numbers, the classic hits elicited a cheer but still no movement of any kind from the audience. We drank beers and watched the crowd, fascinated by the mix of older fans, and puzzled kids who obviously heard that Kraftwerk were a big influence on hipper-than-thou-bands like The Bravery, but couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. It was like watching your younger brother turn down filet mignon in favor of a Big Mac. ‘Trans Europe Express’ sounded majestic live and I was seized by the notion that it was possibly the most evocative song ever written. At the back the crowd seemed looser, more into the music. We danced again, along with a couple from Detroit who obviously loved Kraftwerk the first time around...

The highlights were a frantic live version of ‘Numbers’ and ‘The Model’ which sounded exactly as it does on record – why fuck with perfection, right?

After the initial set climaxed the band returned as their robot alter egos for a clanging, dizzying run through ‘We Are Robots’. The lowlight of the night came during the second encore when the band returned in their neon suits and performed a version of ‘Pocket Calculator’, pretty much ruined by the inclusion of a four on the floor dance beat which – for me – robbed the song of all its quirky beauty. The final song, a triumphant take on ‘Muzik Non-Stop’ ended the show on a celebratory high. I didn’t know whether to blame the venue or the crowd itself for the audiences’ lousy performance, but even under these conditions Kraftwerk triumphed with an hour and a half set which really showed off their live muscle.

By the bar, I turned and realized that we had been standing next to the boys from Franz Ferdinand for most of the encores. This being New York, everyone was too cool to acknowledge their presence and walked by them blankly. Well, goddamnit, we introduced ourselves anyway and chatted for a while and there I was between two poles of music – one of the greatest bands of the 70’s and one of the greatest bands of right now...

We hit the streets, cars honking, people selling bootleg T-shirts... Saw a kid leaving the venue wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the legend “I Am Not The Father Of Britney Spears Baby.”

“What the fuck are they thinking?” I wondered aloud as we hit the trains.

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Tony O'Neill is 26 years old. In a previous life he played keyboards for bands and artists such as Kenickie, Marc Almond and The Brian Jonestown Massacre. After moving to Los Angeles he also became a heroin addict, crack fiend and a speedfreak. He started writing about his experiences on the periphery of the Hollywood Dream and has been writing ever since. His autiobiographical novel 'Out Of Body' is due to be published in the US and Canada by Contemporary Press in December 2005. He lives in New York where he works as a labourer and writes.

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© 2005 Laura Hird All rights reserved.