In our ever-advancing internet age, the relationship between environment and output is supposedly diminishing. Byte-sized files flash along wires and points of view are exchanged between likeminds, the artist's requisite separation and individualism now tempered by the welcomed embrace of virtual society. This circumstance and its logical conclusion has led many to denounce the future prospects of 'scenes'; gluts of talent converging to produce something new and particular, movements that could only occur at that place, at that time.

 

Maybe we can look to Cologne and confound the doubters. Along with Bochum, Essen and the southernmost tip of Bonn, Cologne forms part of the Ruhrpott region — the industrial heartbeat of the German midlands. It still houses traditional industries like coal and steel, but over the last fifteen years a new city has emerged, one that maintains a rich historical past with new media companies and a reinvigorated cultural responsibility. The bulk of the commercial music industry knows Cologne as home to trade show PopKomm, whilst the new six-storey Music Tower in 'Media Park' recently opened with MTV, Sony, V2, Universal, WEA/Eastwest and BMG all housed within. But perhaps the most pronounced evidence of progression comes from a set of people largely removed from the city's wooing of corporate media, who fittingly beaver away in basement studios as the industry rattles along high above them. People like Mike Ink, Jorg Burger, Reinhardt Voigt, Triple R and Max-Ernst label owner Thomas Brinkmann.

Brinkmann grew up in nearby city Dusseldorf. A student of philosophy and visual cultures he was drawn to Cologne, and he is keen to separate the kinship of other producers from the increasing number of claims towards a unified 'Cologne sound'. "That idea is a fairytale, there is not one big movement. We have electro from the Formic collective, minimal stuff from Kompact and Groove Attack doing breakbeat and hip hop. The community is strange and in some ways one does not even exist." As the city brims full with production talent though, its club scene has floundered and receded.

 

Thankfully, this was not always the case. Just as Electrifyin' Mojo had enticed Detroit's youth into gazing starwards, Cologne had the nightclubs Creamcheese and Soulcentre, exposing kids like Thomas to music they could not have found elsewhere. "I generally couldn't get into Creamcheese because I was too young, but sometimes I managed to. The Kraftwerk guys were usually there — that was where they used to hang out and drink beer. Soulcentre was a GI's club, full of soldiers from all over the country, wherever they had been posted. They played 100% black music, with only one exception — Kraftwerk. When people in Detroit talk about the inspiration for techno, they are right; black music colliding with European exploration."

Despite following techno through its development, Thomas Brinkmann has never been a DJ, and is not even a record collector. He finds little enjoyment in searching the racks of record stores or keeping abreast of the latest releases. "I love DJs like Shake and Theo Parrish. I once saw Shake in Detroit and he only played records that were older than him. He couldn't do this in Europe as people would expect different things. He knows so much, he's grown up with a history that is not really put down in letters, or shown in many movies, but is a really strong culture that has bred a different way of thinking. Theo plays the records of his parents. He's not only playing music, he's telling stories and it's not only techno, it's gospel, soul, blues and jazz. In Germany, we don't have the need to show our history, or display our roots in this way."

 

Brinkmann has concentrated instead on nurturing his live show, taking it virtually everywhere apart from the UK, which he describes as "the last black spot". Though he has yet to make an appearance here, his records and techniques have gently stirred interest, with acclaim increasing in proportion to his ever-deepening fall into music theory and machine manipulation. The now-defunct Ernst imprint consisted of twelve releases, each named after popular female names of the forties and fifties, with the still-active Max label that ran in tandem using male names of the same era. To generalise, Max has taken a more straightforward dancefloor-aimed direction, whilst Ernst was regarded more as a vehicle for technological experimentation. "My technique came from listening to music late at night. I would fall asleep and then wake up a couple of hours later, with the needle still running around the record making that 'tok, tok' noise. I realised quickly that this had the same possibilities as a sequencer, and I took a knife and made another scratch into the groove. It took on another rhythm, and in time I developed the sounds using effects. Right now I am working on tracks that are entirely made from record manipulation. They are done without computers, just a pair of Technics, a mixer and a delay effect. You can't believe the sounds — it is not possible to make them on computers. It' s done in a very simple way, just scratching out grooves on the record with a knife, working away from or with the groove. It's just not interesting for me to reproduce from digital machines, or classic vinyl." The end result is a mass of complimenting, simple sounds. Glitches, pulses, scratches and chimes reside between alternating bass-drum patterns and recurring rhythmic clicks. His work on the Suppose label has probed even further, with the sounds structured precisely enough to be 'visible' underneath the target light of a record deck. In his youth, he was regarded by some as unhinged and stunted, a confused kid too poor to buy 'real' equipment. Now, his innovations have led some reviewers to compare his work to that of Steve Reich.

There has never been a masterplan for Thomas Brinkmann and he is in no doubt that his advancements are due more to mistake than method. His appreciation of form however, has encouraged him not to fear simple processes and unconventional approaches. "Look at people like Thelonious Monk. He had a very special defect; his fingers were too big. His special style was partly due to this, as he was always touching the key next to the one he wanted to touch on the piano – it created his sound. If you listen to his recordings, everyone else in the band is playing quite traditional be-bop, conventional styles, but Monk is playing something entirely different. Most of the piano players at that time then attempted to play like him, which is ridiculous."

 

Despite creating new techniques and further possibilities for the music that inspired him, Brinkmann insists that if he has concluded anything, it is to encourage simplicity. "People are scared of what is simple, they feel that they are not doing enough. There is a fear of craft and people always try to be complicated. What really excites me about techno is its structure, especially when it is kept simple. People often make things complicated just for the sake of complexity. Music is always functional, it's either working on your body or it's working your mind. If you take music by John Cage it's related to intellectual ideas and if you take music from Jeff Mills it is making the hair stand up on your arms and encouraging you to dance. Even rejecting music is functional and I can totally understand why people leave dancefloors!"