GOD interviewed in Vienna, 1994
Originally in Spex magazine, November 1994 by Mark Sikora. Photo by Manfred Mahs.

Olympus has been cleansed. The one true God has survived. "Was it loud?" Lars Brinkmann asks first. It was. Loud and massive. While on the first day of Vienna's Torture Garden festival, you had to search for the duos on stage amidst gaps of empty space, but with God, the stage is completely packed. God as an artists' union. God as a 12-member, towering swarm of locusts, pouring forth with luggage and instruments like a deluge over cozy hotel lobbies, unsuspecting taxi stands, and remote airports. God, the organization.
Martin: "If we were to do all the interviews together, we'd have to rent a large conference room. Each of us would then get a card and a pennant with our nationality."
At lunchtime, the multifaceted God trickles into the breakfast room. Saxophonists, bassists, guitarists, percussionists, electrically charged viola players. No sign yet of the guest drummers from Africa. Between cheese rolls and coffee, information flows freely about the networks and complexities of the newer noise cosmos, with its capital London, mothership God. Broadrick couldn't make it to Vienna. Terminal Cheesecake aren't making Painkiller dub anymore. What was that all about with the remixes of the Head of David EP? Are Zeni Geva playing at Popkomm? Good morning, Mr. Brötzmann. Where's the butter? Let's meet up in the early evening after the soundcheck.
When I arrive, they're still fine-tuning things. The acoustics are eating up the bass. Martin is bringing order to the chaos. God's rehearsals can last for hours; after all, the world wasn't created in a day. And intricate, apocalyptic jazz shouldn't be measured by the means of mortal dust motes anyway. A sentence later, Martin, bassist Cochrane, and I are sitting on a bench in Vienna’s Karlsplatz. Soon the sun will set and beer will be poured in plastic cups. God is in good spirits.
Martin: "Since we tore down the wall in our rehearsal space, rehearsals have been going much better."
Cochrane: "There used to be an East God and a West God, since the fall of the wall, however, there have been some socio-economic problems. <laughter>"
But seriously. Martin's gentle eyes glow fiercely.
Martin: "The biggest problem with a band like God is that you're working with non-commercial music."
4 years ago, roughly before the recording of "Loco," Martin considered calling it quits with the band altogether. Even God can't live on air alone. But ultimately, Martin is an idealist, with the electric Miles Davis noise consensus in the background.
Martin: "For me, God is the realization of a dream. It's very personal music with a dream lineup. I like the idea that God resists the industry and commercialization. I suppose it's somewhat masochistic, but I like this struggle with God. Even now, with the new label that wants to support us, there's this struggle. They say it's impossible to bring us to America. They say it's impossible to put together a tour and negotiate reasonably good fees. You find yourself in a situation where you're fighting with your own label to survive."
Martin stares blankly at the asphalt.
Martin: "It seems telling to me that most decisions in the music business, and in life in general, are increasingly driven by pure profit calculations."
See also Virgin's decision to drop the band from their roster, and God's path to Pavement and Blumfeld:
Cochrane: "We knew that Big Cat were open to progress, they were interested in us and could easily come up with the necessary cash at the time. Other labels were also interested, but didn't want to risk any money. <slight shrug> People generally perceive God as a very chaotic, indefinable thing. They can't imagine what an album will ultimately sound like based on our live sound.”
The Anatomy of Addiction, the result of the latest wrestling match with God, is a particularly compelling plea for bringing forward Judgment Day to Saturday in eight days. Tighter, better, bassier, smoother. Nothing here is done without superlatives. Only the cover, with its tasteful silver bone bend, doesn't devastate as many optic nerves this time as Martin's other Armageddon images. Just recall the powerful sperm cell artwork of ICE's free-flowing banger last year, Under the Skin on Pathological Records. Incidentally, the album from the God camp with the most menacing twilight factor.
But back to the Viennese Götterdämmerung—no long hello, just a broadside of threatening, apocalyptic lava. Soft ceiling light hollows out God's cheeks. The saxophones swirl, the basses grind, the percussion clatters, everything dissolves into hypnotic swirls of sound and cheeky metaphors. Sawtooth pumps, pulsating currents. Please insert the appropriate Bosch imagery here. "Too much! Too far! Too strong!" Martin's screams waver through the reverberating speakers. Sometime after half an eternity or the 2nd song, reality has shifted a few centimeters. White fire foams from the amplifiers. There are no explanations, only feelings. A fine ringing lingers in the ears. "How did you like it?" Hodgkinson asks me afterward. Good. But a little too loud. "Too loud?!" he looks playfully thoughtful through his glasses: "I'll write a letter to your editorial staff."