JAPANESE FOLKS, MAX IS HERE
Max Raabe sings popular and cabaret songs from the Berlin of the 20s, such as “My Little Green Cactus”. He’s now even more popular abroad than at home. His greatest fans include Marilyn Manson, Latvia and countlese Japanese. A tour report from Tokyo.
No, Max Raabe says, an ambassador of German culture he certainly is not. This image is too dramatic, too exaggerated. They only began giving concerts abroad because they were looking for something new to do. In the spring, when Berlin’s gray skies become unbearable after an eternal winter, one just travels to Italy. In Rome the tables are already set-up outside on the street. And when one comes home after a short tour abroad, one really has fun once again performing for a German audience. Then one can enjoy that the audience understands every joke, every innuendo, every nuance. Max Raabe, the cultural ambassador. Even if he doesn’t like to hear it: There are not and have not been too many artists of popular culture who have found an audience abroad. A few come to mind: Rammstein, Nena, the Scorpions, Ute Lemper, the Toten Hosen, the Einstürzenden Neubauten, Kraftwerk, one or two techno-DJs. And then Max Raabe and the Palast Orchestra with their ancient hits from the Berlin of the 20s. A strange list. Raabe performed last year at New York’s Carnegie Hall. That is the pinnacle for an artist, there is no other venue as aspired to. It was just the middle-sized of the three halls, Zankel Hall with 600 seats, Raabe played-down it modestly. After all, they have been invited back next year. But then for the largest hall. The Palast Orchestra has also already performed in Moscow. Rolling Stone Magazine, the Rock’n’Roll’s main media voice, launched a Russian version and chose of all people Raabe as the background music for the party. The recording where he revisited the past with contemporary popsongs in the style of the 20’s hit number one in the album charts in Latvia. Last year Raabe sang at the Irish castle Gurteen where Marilyn Manson married the dancer Dita von Teese. The rock musician, who is always dressed as if he just steped out of a horror film, is a fan of the consistenly dapperly dressed Max Raabe. And now a tour through Japan. And then one following through the People’s Republic of China. The Shinkansen glides at 290 kilometers per hour from Tokyo towards Osaka. Outside rice-fields fly by, residential areas, shopping malls. Driving ranges for golfers which look like huge aviaries. “Funny, don’t you think?” Raabe is really interested in this country - for its fine sense of aesthetics, for its quite humor. He takes off his shoes and reveals the socks which were given to him the previous day by a Japanese fan, socks like gloves, each toe with its own covering. “You know, each toe has its own soul.” He’s chuffed about the red-golden cardboard boxes from which the Japanese woman next to him eats her lunch. Asia was of course a challenge.
One can’t travel much further, a culture can’t be more different. And so the eleven male musicians and single female musician were quite stirred up about it. Before the concert there were worries if the audience would understand the music and if they would even clap for it. After all the clichee describes the Japanese as being quite reserved. And then: ovations. Happy faces. An elderly Japanese woman who says to the television cameras: “I felt the music in my whole body. Tomorrow I’m beginning a new life.” A Buddist monk who feels brought back to his youth in hearing Singing in the Rain. The anchorman of a late evening news program discovers parallels in Raabes reserved manner to classical Kabuki and No-Theater. “I think that perhaps no one understands Raabe’s art as we do in Japan.” The musical director of national TV who smiles so delightedly and is thrilled to have cleared an hour of prime broadcast time for an excerpt of the Palast Orchestra’s concert. Raabe has strived for his success abroad. He, a perfectionist who attaches great importance to his commentaries (“I never leave a phrase to chance”), had his remarks translated into Japanese. He succeeds in reciting them so finely attuned and with such little accent that the audience laughs in the right places. In addition the Palast Orchestra also rehearsed a Japanese hit, Shiroi Fune, from the 40’s. The audience is at first very suprised, then deeply-moved and awestruck, as the well-known piece comes to a close. Raabe knows how to sing to people’s hearts. The next day on the high-speed train to Osaka Raabe is relaxed about the fact that the project Japan began with out a hitch. He tells of the anchorman of a Japanese culture program who compares the Palast Orchestra’s stage show to that of Kraftwerk. Despite the discrepancy between the cold electronic sound of the 80’s and the flippant hits from the 20’s the comparison isn’t as far-fetched as one might think: the musicians from Dusseldorf were as restorative about their own work, their concerts have had the same style for years, only a technical process of perfection is noticable. That drive towards perfectionism can also be found in the work of the Palast Orchestra. “I discovered and then cultivated this reduced manner as the style best suited for me,” Raabe says. The audience liked that I act so little on stage. He used to even sit on a chair during the concert - now he leans back slightly on the grand piano. They who expect that he sings straight through the arrangements is pleasantly surprised. He leaves space for the orchestra. Again and again he pulls back and takes a break. Raabe is above all a master at not singing. The once altar boy was inspired from above for the strict, symmetrical show: “No one puts on as good a show as the Catholic church. I learned a lot from them.”
One can’t travel much further, a culture can’t be more different. And so the eleven male musicians and single female musician were quite stirred up about it. Before the concert there were worries if the audience would understand the music and if they would even clap for it. After all the clichee describes the Japanese as being quite reserved. And then: ovations. Happy faces. An elderly Japanese woman who says to the television cameras: “I felt the music in my whole body. Tomorrow I’m beginning a new life.” A Buddist monk who feels brought back to his youth in hearing Singing in the Rain. The anchorman of a late evening news program discovers parallels in Raabes reserved manner to classical Kabuki and No-Theater. “I think that perhaps no one understands Raabe’s art as we do in Japan.” The musical director of national TV who smiles so delightedly and is thrilled to have cleared an hour of prime broadcast time for an excerpt of the Palast Orchestra’s concert. Raabe has strived for his success abroad. He, a perfectionist who attaches great importance to his commentaries (“I never leave a phrase to chance”), had his remarks translated into Japanese. He succeeds in reciting them so finely attuned and with such little accent that the audience laughs in the right places. In addition the Palast Orchestra also rehearsed a Japanese hit, Shiroi Fune, from the 40’s. The audience is at first very suprised, then deeply-moved and awestruck, as the well-known piece comes to a close. Raabe knows how to sing to people’s hearts. The next day on the high-speed train to Osaka Raabe is relaxed about the fact that the project Japan began with out a hitch. He tells of the anchorman of a Japanese culture program who compares the Palast Orchestra’s stage show to that of Kraftwerk. Despite the discrepancy between the cold electronic sound of the 80’s and the flippant hits from the 20’s the comparison isn’t as far-fetched as one might think: the musicians from Dusseldorf were as restorative about their own work, their concerts have had the same style for years, only a technical process of perfection is noticable. That drive towards perfectionism can also be found in the work of the Palast Orchestra. “I discovered and then cultivated this reduced manner as the style best suited for me,” Raabe says. The audience liked that I act so little on stage. He used to even sit on a chair during the concert - now he leans back slightly on the grand piano. They who expect that he sings straight through the arrangements is pleasantly surprised. He leaves space for the orchestra. Again and again he pulls back and takes a break. Raabe is above all a master at not singing. The once altar boy was inspired from above for the strict, symmetrical show: “No one puts on as good a show as the Catholic church. I learned a lot from them.”
And the love for detail: “Other groups are surprised when I open my suitcase,” the sound engineer says proudly. “We have microphones from Neumann. They supply the Stones and even the Pope.” In the development of the vocal microphone they even helped out. It has an integrated popping saftey so that it looks as if its from the stoneages of radio. The outfits of the musicians have become more and more perfect over the years. “In the beginning we bought our tuxedos at C&A” one of the musicians remembers, “but then we realized that the light hit the tuxedos all differently on stage.” Now the orchestra has all their outfits tailor-made at the gentleman’s outfitter Günter Adam in Charlottenburg. Suits in the style of the 20’s. The waistline sits above the belly-button, the shirts are done up with silver buttons, they have detachable cuffs as well as collars and a bib in the front. They live out there individuality only in their patent leather shoes. “If we ever make it to Las Vegas,” someone kids around, “then I’m going to buy patent leather cowboy boots. Guaranteed!” It’s amusing to be on tour with the group. The whole thing reminds one of a jolly wandering circus. It all began as a student joke. Raabe studied voice (baritone) and his musicians economics or space engineering. In the meantime all have become professional musicians. The orchestra is organized as a parternership with Raabe as the Primus inter Pares. The business end of it is handeled by three of the musicians. “What we’re doing is typically German and is really like a clichee. But with self-mockery and humor which isn’t expected,” Raabe says. It’s the music of the late Weimar Republik. At that time Germany was the world leader in popular culture and Berlin was the party capital of the planet. The music is still known the world-over today, which is why it does so well as an export. In addition, it has the undisputed advantage that it can’t age because its already ancient and therefore isn’t subjected to “what’s in.”
On 27 August the Palast Orchestra is celebrating its anniversary with a concert at Berlin’s Waldbühne: The orchestra has existed for twenty years and they have already also begotten the same amount of children. The obsolete music has given a guarantee for the future. Recently Raabe gave an interview for Vogue together with Marilyn Manson. When asked about the similarities between Raabe and Manson, the quick-fire answer is none! Well, at least both have reinterpreted the soul classic Tainted Love as well as the Alabama Song by Kurt Weill and both had their very distinctive styles. Aside from that both men have artistic identities for which the danger exists that the role which they have developed for the stage can’t be shaken off in private life. That is a little bit true, Raabe says then – “or what do you think?” He really does ask; and at that moment the uncertainty that he may no longer be himself, that he has created a character which is no longer under his control shines through. Shortly following Raabe dismisses these misgivings when he tells of friends which he has had since school who attest that he’s really always been this way. Next to his lapel there is always a handkerchief in his breast pocket and he wears his suit pants the telling seven centimeters too short, which lends the 43-old something boyish. Raabe, always like a pupil, as if a part of Rühmann’s Feuerzangenbowle. “I was never really young,” he once said about himself “so I’ll never really be old.” Raabe prefers using antiquated words, is utterly civilized and polite to the extreme. During his childhood, which he spent on a farm in Westphalia, he used to play “highest whistle:” whoever could whistle the highest was the winner. This all seems to lead to the fact that someone may have fallen into a time warp and travelled from the golden 20’s to the present. Even if he vehemently denies it. In getting to know Max Raabe a very private question comes about – he sings so nasally, is a master of the falsetto and seems sensitive and effeminate. Thankfully the colleagues from Bunte were audiacious enough to ask him directly if he shares the beer, which he sometimes buys at the gas station, with a woman. To which he answered, yes he has a girlfriend, no, he doesn’t talk about it because he doesn’t want to pull her into the public arena and no he didn’t court her by singing. Just the opposite: at home he’s not allowed to sing. Raabe leads a life of nuances. The musician is a quiet person, not one who needs to be in the limelight, one who stands in the wings, who is more comfortable in the background. Airs about being a star are alien to him. He doesn’t take a big stretch limousine to the concert in Tokyo, not a Bentley, not even a taxi. No, Raabe takes the subway. Hanne Berger, his lovely first violinist, who looks like Lauren Bacall in color, carries her dress over her arm. Raabe keeps a straight face even when the reporter arrives five minutes late and then they get off at the wrong subway stop, which finally totally messes up their schedule. Totally calm, composed, concentrated. There is a fine line between playing a role or living it. The latter applies to Raabe. One doesn’t have to like the music, one can gag on the corny hits with a clear conscience, yet the fineness, the detail, the musicianship, that impresses. Raabe doesn’t mimic, he perfects. He finds the material for his songs at flea-markets as old shellac-records and sheet music, at the UFA Archives with its old film scores or at the Kurt Weill Archives where one or another gem still hides. An arranger arranges those pieces not written for a dance orchestra for the Palast Orchestra. An impressive discography has amassed. Exactly twenty-one albums and a repertoire of over 400 pieces. Raabe is the record-holder for an entire music genre, a new classic, who’s hundredth birthday he will live to see. One can’t hold his restorative ways against him as one couldn’t be upset with a symphonic orchestra playing Beethoven. Listening to Raabe’s music is like driving in a well-taken care of vintage car. The music should really rumble, crackle, pop or sound tinny. But it doesn’t. The pieces which Raabe has dug up are like yellowed, dog-eared and worn black and white photographs. He irons them out, bleaches the yellow and adds color. Then the music seems suddenly as dazzling as a silent picture which is suddenly in color and with sound. And comes alive. That is the fascination. Raabe loves to sing quietly so that his “voice almost disappears and just stays as a reminder.” The orchestra too can pull back unbelievably. The allure is in the dynamics between loud and soft. “I also sometimes like to sing loudly or very gratingly if it suits the music, when there are silly and funny lyrics, like when Amalie takes her rubber gentleman to the swimming pool. The sound becomes very harmonic that way. Da-bub, da-bup. Its not swing but rather a teetering. We’re not a swing band, but rather a swoop orchestra.”
The twelve musicians and their vocalist are wonderfully well-rehearsed. During the rehearsals Michael Enders, the musical director, takes apart the hit, There is only one, into its different parts in order to modify the dance piece into a concertant arrangement. Two motions to the winds, a directive to the piano and the violinst. A few markings to his score. It all happens so fast that someone watching doesn’t even notice what’s going on. And then the orchestra has enough self-confidence not to even completely rehearse the piece just rearranged. The hit from the film the Congress Dances from 1931 was just added to the program because it evidently is still well-known in Japan. However Raabe has to be careful about which bits of German culture he exports into the world. In the US they were very careful only to play those pieces from the Weimar Era. Nothing in the slightest which could possibly construed as war. Nevertheless sometimes things go astray. For example the hit Kick the Ball In the Goal, which Raabe recorded together with Heino Ferch and Peter Lohmeyer for the football World Cup. In the video of the song the “we once were” feeling of the 20’s mixes in with the “we are once again” attitude of the 50’s. The asthetic which was created was somewhere in between. Not everyone likes it and certainly not everywhere. In Japan the cultural export succeeded. The whole thing somehow sounds like German high class workmanship and leaves behind a mixture of nostalgia, melancholy and bakelite feeling. In China on the otherhand, people were astounded by the unknown German instruments. And so Raabe did experience the feared culture shock. During the concert children were running through the theater, people took pictures and applauded in the middle of the pieces and when the Chinese song of the Little River was performed, hundreds grabbed their mobile phones and had those at home listen-in too. After the concert the audience stormed the stage. The otherwise such controlled Mr Raabe so intent on being carefull, orderly and accurate was amused – and was tossed into madness.
If Max Raabe thinks something is splendid – such as these Japanese ornamental fish -, he raises his left eyebrow.
Max Raabe’s first contact in Asia. Next year he’ll be on tour again in Japan.
Thirteen Germans with a contrabass…Max Raabe’s ancient popular songs are even a hit in China.