There is only one true krautrock - if you are a purist.
You find Karl, aged 68, somewhere in a loft in Spandau. Karl smokes endlessly and knocks out four on the floor, unwavering - snare on two and four and high hat eighths.
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There is a photo of Karl in a Neu! promo shot in 1974, another with Kraftwerk in 1979. Karl looked 68 then also, but his cigarette was just a little longer. He looked tired.
Karl still looks tired.
But still… he plays. He would like to stop but he cannot. He is driven. He continues.
All other krautrock is illusion.
Karl is not immortal, as immortality implies the passage of time.
Karl simply is the passage of time.
Karl will not improvise or fill, Karl will not acknowledge a bridge, Karl simply plays and has played since 1972.
You arrive with your synths and you explore seventeen minutes of modal jazz, weimar cabaret inspired hypno trance, perhaps ambient effects.
It matters not. Karl plays, you record and pass through. Karl watches you leave.
Still Karl plays.