Janosch Troehler

For almost 15 years, Thomas Seidmann, Samuel Birrer, and Simon Pfister have been on their musical journey. But in 2018, they came to a crossroads that would determine their future: A change of sonic style, a new name, followed by initial success.

As Yet No Yokai, hailing from Lucerne, Switzerland, the trio won the prestigious m4music Demotape Clinic category «Rock» with their song Fahrenheit and singed with Hummus Records.

After releasing a first EP, Post Apocalyptic Promenade, PT. 2, in 2018, they followed up with an array of singles like Vagus, Yet No Yokai's first entry into Weekly5 in 2020.

In some ways, the long-awaited debut Wir Sind Da undermines a nostalgia-tainted understanding of how one creates a rock song but simultaneously offers us a way forward for the genre.

At its core, Yet No Yokai's songs originated in a romantic, old-fashioned way: jam sessions. So one would assume that the band ended with final compositions through refinements and clean-ups. But that couldn't be further from the truth.

A couple of weeks ago, «riser» was publicly introduced. It's a non-profit association run by established players of Switzerland's music business that set out to highlight local up-and-coming artists. In two different formats, newcomer bands would get the chance to prove themselves on stage.

On May 25, they held the first event of their «riser.AMP» series in Zurich's Exil Club. The promise of the format sounds intriguing:

«Established artists and bands choose two young up-and-coming artists and create a show together. The rising artists are not overshadowed but are part of a joint performance.»

But, however intriguing the promise, it's also rather vague. And you could define two factors that decide the format's success or failure:

• How many people show up?
• What does the joint performance look like?

Preemptively said: One of these two has significant room for improvement.

Spot-on Selection

There are enough reasons to be sceptical about «riser». The main question floating around my head as I walked in the concrete valleys of Western Zurich was: Will there be enough people?

The established artist of the first «riser.AMP», Jack Stoiker's punk rock band Knöppel, had to nominate two up-and-coming bands. And their selection was spot on: Mamba Bites and Fluffy Machine, both hailing from the French part of Switzerland.

Knöppel, the unlikely phenomenon that found unexpected popularity with their 2016 album Hey Wichsers (Engl: Hey Wankers), are still surfing on that wave despite having released Faszination Glied (Engl: Fascination Penis) in 2019 and working on a new record scheduled for this year.

Their peak might be relatively long ago, but Knöppel still manage to draw crowds in—so «riser.AMP» could deliver on their promise towards the newcomers: The club was packed.

The Rising Stars Deliver

Mamba Bites and Fluffy Machine delivered. Mamba Bites, an all-female trio, immediately generated pressure, playing unapologetically loud. The club's sound system screeched. But beneath their rampant, aggressive noise, you could detect sophistication in refined composition. Just take the climactic final stretch of Temporary Nature.

And just as I thought it was a shame that it still feels quite unusual to see women conjuring such ecstatic punk punches, the bass player lifted the instrument over her head, revealing the message: «More women on stage.»

Later, the surf punkers from Fluffy Machine demonstrated how only a couple of years more experience could add to a performance. So, while Mamba Bites released their first demo in 2020, Fluffy Machine published their debut, It's Funny Cause He's Fat, in 2017 and played quite extensively in the UK.

Fluffy Machine are natural entertainers and jokesters who are as confident as they are self-aware and ironic. They know that they're creating party music—and embrace it fully. Yet, despite their joking attitude, they're professionals, able to play with relaxed cool. With their latest two singles, nah nah nah and i'm always high (when i see you smile), they also demonstrated their potential to craft addictive hymns.

And after these talented musicians riled up the audience and filled the Exil club with a smell of stale beer, sweat and farts, Knöppel took the stage and seemed hilariously amateurish. Yet, their cult hits, driven by simplistic three chords and Jack Stoiker's absolutely amelodic voice, are just a blueprint of punk's spirit.

Not Creative Enough

Usually, I would conclude: It was a perfect punk rock night. Loud music, pogo, beer, exuberance. You can't wish for much more.

However, regarding the vague outline of the format and its promise of a «joint performance», the evening didn't live up to its potential.

Daniel Mittag, aka Jack Stoiker, and his bandmate Marc Jenny on Contrabass introduced each of the rising artists' performances. They played one song and then let the new generation take the stage.

While these interludes are out of the ordinary, it wasn't enough to make the evening feel different from a traditional show. Knöppel still were undoubtedly the headliner catching the spotlight—and Mamba Bites and Fluffy Machine did their best to convince. So in a sense, they were probably overshadowed.

Why not split Knöppel's set: Three songs in the beginning, middle, and end? Or an actual collective performance? Or Knöppel covering a track from both bands? The punk rock theme lends itself perfectly to creative, maybe weird, but lovable ideas.

Admittedly, those suggestions come with many complications and additional effort in preparation and production, especially considering it's a one-off.

Moreover, it's a fine line: How creative can you get without scaring away the audience? How can you manage the fan's expectations regarding the established act—and how much can you subvert them? After all, it's hard to convince people to check out newcomers, as was again made aware when the «Strom & Drang» festival had to cut one whole day because of devastatingly low pre-sales.

However, it's too soon to draw a definitive conclusion after only one event, and the first one at that. While «riser.AMP» might not have delivered fully on all their promises, the most important thing was that Mamba Bites and Fluffy Machine could showcase their talent to Zurich's audience while receiving fair compensation.

After an often miserable and grey week, for once, the evening sky presents itself only tainted by a few clouds. The city is vibrating with anticipation of the weekend this Friday, and a fire crackles in front of Bogen F. The venue, located in one of the arches of a train viaduct in Zurich, is buzzing with people. The trains rattle over the nearby tracks.

A crowd of middle- to older-aged people is sipping beers and the occasional glass of white wine. It's almost your stereotypical classical music audience, but not quite.
Then again, Martin Kohlstedt is also not quite your stereotypical pianist. One could argue, not even close, and some purists might even entirely disapprove of his approach.

The concert on this evening is sold out. In fact, so is even the additional show two days later. Rescheduled two times due to Covid-19, the concert is now happening. And honestly, I'm not here on an official reporting mission, but to finally accept the tickets I got for my 30th birthday almost three years ago.

My first encounter with Martin Kohlstedt was on the 27th of October, 2017. A bit after 7 pm, he took the stage in the church of Kaltern, South-Tirol, at the «Kaltern Pop Festival». And I was baffled by his performance, writing in the festival diary:

Pianist Kohlstedt transports piano sounds into undiscovered dimensions through loops and synthesisers. Imposing like a supernova, lovely like a starry sky and dangerous like an asteroid belt are his pieces. Yet, like outer space, his compositions never lose their fascination despite their vastness.

But the most memorable experience remains the 2019 feature for Negative White—where I talked more profoundly with Kohlstedt about his music and unique process. «I'm a little boy who doesn't want to be defined by anything,» Kohlstedt said back then.

His music, in recorded form, defies the traditional definition of songs. They are fragments, sketches, and ideas. Kohlstedt refers to his songs, each named with three letters, as vocabulary. «There are the old piano pieces, the yearning vocabulary of a time when you didn't know exactly but rather dreamed and shot. At some point, electronics interfered, made it all real, crept in almost like a threat from the side, questioned everything,» he explained in the feature.

This contrasting discourse is the source of energy driving him to keep cultivating his vocabulary.

With his now extensive vocabulary, spanning several albums—or maybe: dictionaries—improvisation is the lubricant of his concerts. There is no set list and no pre-defined programme. Instead, it's pure uncertainty, which is already outrageous for most artists and audiences alike.

But Kohlstedt deals with it openly, and many in Bogen F already know what to expect. However, his transparency always releases the tension and expectation—if only a little.

Almost like an alchemist, Kohlstedt bends over his workstation, but instead of ingredients, he strikes keys, pushes buttons, and turns knobs. The result is breathtaking. Kohlstedt leads us into his labyrinth, and despite knowing it, you still constantly wonder: How far ahead does he plan? Is there even a plan? Or did I just glimpse a brief moment of doubt when his seeking gaze crossed over the instruments?

In those split seconds of uncertainty shared with the audience, the tension is sky-high. But on that evening, Kohlstedt suddenly counters these moments always with inspiration and intuition. «The interaction between this simple sound, which actually wants to be what it is, and all the limits you set yourself all day. This ambivalence is an incredible drive to leave more and more variables loose and to strive for an almost one hundred per cent free concert, where you don't play towards an end,» he said in 2019.

A Profoundly Human Experience

And so we follow deeper into his maze, and Kohlstedt, as our guide, remains as clueless as we are about what may wait behind the next turn. Once, it's an apocalyptic dub-like sound, stomping heavily beneath the stone arch. Or it's some kind of quirky jazz symphony. Yet, there's this all-encompassing tendency to the cinematic—whether the composition resides in intimacy or grows into a soaring, rumbling, gigantic monster.

Kohlstedt's approach is barely a recipe but more a mindset that makes for a captivating experience. But also an exhausting one because it demands your undivided attention. As for the artist himself, there's no security, no recognisable lifeline to hold on to, but only the fragments of vocabulary you know from the recordings.

And so every evening with Martin Kohlstedt becomes a unique exercise in vulnerability, empathy, and liberation from expectations. An experience between artist and audience unlike any other, but it is also profoundly human as risk and failure are not just a danger but an accepted part of that shared moment.