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Go BackHook Up - Paul Brtschitsch's techno primer.

Posted: 13/11/07 10:29

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As a professional commentator on underground dance music it is slightly alarming to realise I've never heard of Germany's Paul "however you pronounce it" Brtschitsch before. The man has been producing for over a decade (under a variety of aliases including Analogue Confusion, Global Vision and Sightdraft) has DJed at the best clubs in Europe, run the Taksi label with Andre Galluzzi (who I have heard of) but still - nothing. Frankly, the name may have something to do with it. It's hard to get good word of mouth when people can't get their mouths around the most important word of all: your name.

Luckily, my ignorance isn't shared by the wider techno community which has remained consistently enamoured both with his productions and his hands-on live sets ("no laptops" is his motto, which is rather refreshing in this era of iMac fetishists and Final Scratch addicts). And it doesn't take much of his latest - Hook Up - to get me hooked too. "Ah, minimal techno" you think as the dry tapping percussion and low, throbbing bassline fade in. But the record doesn't simply sit back and click at you for eight minutes.

Instead, he employs a whole army of fuzzy sound; a man's voice, fattened and distorted, repeating "I hook up" like an incantation to the gods of techno. A wasp's nest worth of buzzing bass sets up a skin-prickling atmosphere. You can't help but get a little lost as the disorienting notes come flying at you. You might catch yourself snatching quick glances over your shoulder to try to find the source of the spiralling electronic rays beaming into your ears.

On the b-side lies Rotate 1976 which could perhaps be best described as psychedelic tribal techno. What or where Route 1976 is remains unclear (there's one in North Wilkesboro, North Carolina; another in San Antonio, Texas. None, so far as I can tell, in Germany) but the sonic journey this takes travels through country populated by flower children armed with synthesisers and sons of the soil dancing with daughters of the dawn while a pair of chromium-plated pan-pipes plays somewhere nearby.

Just the sort of oddball organic techno beloved of sound junkies like Luciano et al, listen out for it on the dancefloor.

Words by Cila Warncke