Those who will climb the stairs to the ancient theatre on this June night will find themselves confronted with a historical paradox: a demolition crew of musical conventions, disguised as a band, will have seized the stage of the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, transforming it into an exquisite industrial playground.
We are speaking, of course, of Einstürzende Neubauten (“Collapsing New Buildings”). Amongst the most vital biological processes that sustain a species, ensuring both its renewal and survival, is the capacity to absorb foreign DNA – even when it may prove hostile. With a wisdom that mirrors this principle, the German ensemble has traversed half a century of musical history, continuing to sound unmistakably like themselves because they sound like nothing else. While they may cast a fleeting glance toward passing sonic avant-gardes, their listening remains steadfastly attuned to a sound that emanates from within.
And what is this sound? Its birth act belongs to a West Berlin that no longer exists, however diligently we might search for it. A city defined by imagery such as this: urban reconstruction, factory units, squats, abandoned buildings, metal, concrete, the pervasive Wall. Within this feral landscape, a burning youth sought answers in the scripture of ruins and the hieroglyphs of sound: how to make art from the very materiality of one’s city. From the ashes of these visions emerged a form of musical guerrilla warfare: Einstürzende Neubauten.
Experimental yet rigorously disciplined, they stubbornly refused to adhere to inherited modes of composition and performance, returning instead to a kind of sacred zero. They already knew, too well, that to attain pure music, one must recalibrate one’s entire mental toolkit. In their case, the term “sonic arsenal” is no journalistic exaggeration: custom-built instruments, air compressors, plastic and metal tubes, canisters, sheets of steel, objets trouvés – even a jet turbine – form part of their musical equipment. With these weapons, they forge restless industrial chants that range from hypnotic nocturnal sonatas to rhapsodies of noise and symphonies of steel.
The days when concert promoters hesitated to invite them – fearful of the damage they might inflict on the buildings in their wake – are long gone. Their presence at the Odeon of Herodes Atticus carries equal portions of poetry and irony: seasoned in bidding farewell to emblematic buildings (one recalls their saga before the demolition of the former East German Parliament), the “Collapsing New Buildings” will stand within the skeleton of this Attic monument and lull it with their metallic timbres, accompanying it into a temporary slumber ahead of its restoration.
A black box recording the history of Europe; a mural from a future not yet deciphered; a living organism that breaches consciousness and plants the seed of unease. On June 18 – now that their musical language has crystallised so gracefully with Rampen (2024) – we are invited to witness, body and soul, an ensemble that anyone who calls themselves a lover of art owes it to themselves to encounter at least once in a lifetime. The consequences may be transformative, reopening us to the awe of sound. After all, where else will you hear a jet turbine sing?