GEWALT – Who are you and what kind of music do you make?
GEWALT currently consists of three people: me, Helen – and a bassist, Sol. Throughout the history of this band, we have always been a trio, always using a drum machine instead of a drummer, because rehearsing is not our favorite pastime. Drummers often have their style, their groove – and then exactly that music gets played automatically. We don’t want that. We’re not particularly interested in rock, even though the outward appearance with two guitars and a bass suggests otherwise. Our influences come from hip-hop, soul, R&B, techno, noise, industrial, experimental music – only tangentially from rock.
Sure, our concerts are also rock concerts. But thematically, we want to go elsewhere. Maybe that’s why the bass always comes from women in our band. Perhaps because women can embody that radical attitude that GEWALT requires more quickly. This “I don’t care about anything,” this consistency, this Kim Gordon feeling. Not “cool,” but completely detached from the thought of wanting to please.
How do your songs come about?
We rehearse little. That was intended from the beginning. Rehearse five times, write five songs, perform – done. When we create something new, it often goes like this: I write a text, build a rudimentary beat, hum something on top. Then we go into the rehearsal room, throw it together, and if it clicks, it’s done – or at least almost.
Songs sometimes evolve. Currently, we’re thinking about reviving an old piece: Guter Junge, Böser Junge. The beat runs through from start to finish, the riff is fat, but it doesn’t groove. Maybe it will get a new beat. Then it’s more fun – even live. Unplanned things often happen anyway. Recently, I had shoulder pain after 5000 kilometers of touring – couldn’t lift the guitar, smoked a Pur cigarette (which I never do), was completely spaced out. Didn’t finish a song. Still somehow worked. We like it when things go wrong. Quite often, I try to intentionally break some things because I jump into the audience or do whatever. Because that’s more exciting for oneself, especially when you play as much as we do.
And that is art?
Absolutely. Recently, I was at MoMA in New York, and suddenly a lot became clear to me. A Mondrian – in my mind, it’s geometric, perfect, well thought out. In reality, it’s wild. Not finished. You can tell: He didn’t want to deliver a form, but an idea. And that’s exactly what music today lacks. Everything is overly formulated, perfectly produced, all feelings predictably timed. But that’s not expression – that’s product. I don’t want a perfect guitar; I want to feel something. I want the idea.
That’s why GEWALT is art. Because we care about content, not format. And when we sell a sweater, it costs 70 euros because the artwork was done by an artist, because it was screened seven times, not digitally printed. Because it looks like that. Because you wonder: Did they make this themselves? Not because it should be as professional as possible. Punk has never worked through “official.”
But still, you’re on Instagram, doing shows, selling merch... How does that fit together?
Not at all. We fail at that every day. And I write about it too. We broadcast what the platform dictates to us. In the past, you got a good review in Spex, and suddenly you were there. Today, no one cares if you’re on the cover of Rolling Stone. You only have the space you create yourself.
That’s why I personally put up posters for our shows in Berlin. Because then I feel again what it means: making music. That these are people who come there. Social media is completely decoupled from that. Numbers, algorithms, performance – that’s a sick game. We only do it when there’s something to say. And if there’s nothing to say, we disappear.
Your lyrics – they are strikingly direct. Why?
Because I can’t stand that pseudo-poetic style in German lyrics anymore. Many are afraid of sounding banal and hide behind images. Someone once told me: “You are strongest when you simply say what you think.” And that’s true. It hits hard. Especially live.
A song like Deutsch is like this: I don’t say “the evil Germans,” but “we evil Germans.” I include myself. I’m part of the problem, not an observer or judge. I’m a perpetrator, not just a victim. That’s important to me. I see the world in black and black; I can’t find myself in the jumble – and I say it just like that.
And when you write something like Felicita – is that autobiographical?
Partly. The scene in the subway happened just like that. That woman without teeth singing Felicita, the child asking what that is, and the mother not answering. That was real. I could have written that I got off and cried – that was true too. But I leave that out. Because the moment speaks for itself. And then I bridge to homelessness, to Berlin, to the madness of this city. Because everything is vacant, because it’s all about money.
“Felicita,” that means “happiness.”
Yes.
The song conveys a feeling of hopelessness,
Because people don’t feel what’s happening with the Others or that they don’t understand each other. Do you believe there is a way to overcome these problems?
For myself, I obviously have to find a way to deal with it. I have to protect myself by, for example, avoiding leaving the house when I’m feeling bad. I have to respect my own boundaries. Our therapists even say that: Avoid public transport, treat yourself to something else.
At the same time, one must say: This feeling has something fundamental. I believe we as a society are heading towards something comparable to just before the French Revolution. The distribution of wealth and resources has become so unbalanced that it has to explode. I think this has something to do with this algorithmization, this solidification of power and wealth in the hands of a few, a new elite. Something has to happen against that. In 1789, the French people reversed the conditions. I fear that nothing else will have any effect now.
But that doesn’t have to be a regression. I believe we are at a decisive point now. Our technical means are there to ensure equality and distribution. A mouse click could redistribute wealth. Therefore, this must be fought for now — but it will most likely not be a non-violent change.
Partly, I got to experience this in Mexico. I came with certain ideas — a city full of crime — and was taught otherwise. I saw parks, vibrant neighborhoods, people creating their own happiness. And at the same time, one must say: climate change will undermine this reality. It will drive people away — because some cities will become uninhabitable at 52°C in summer. This scenario must be prevented, or else distribution conflicts will break out.
But in this seemingly hopeless situation, there is something that creates meaning and happiness for me: art. Writing something together with Helen and Sol, performing, expressing something — that brings relief and experience. This “happiness” that Felicita describes has something utopian for me: the feeling of unlocking something different for a few moments, something truthful, something alive.
Our concerts are not a football stadium, not a mass ritual. They are something else: a small space where something happens — with the people, with us — that can change something. I feel that when I play, when the audience is attentive, feeling something. I sense that something is moving, both in the people and in me. This experience, this contact, this meaning — that is definitely happiness. Sometimes the band also has the power to change things. I notice that one intervenes in life. Sometimes intensely, but mostly really well. So that people have a light bulb moment, they break free from old thoughts. That’s feedback we get, which is really nice. All of this is guidance to happiness.
