Robot fightback
Techno pioneer ‘Magic’ Juan Atkins finally takes his robo-alias to the stage.
Cybotron Barbican, London
DETROIT TECHNO stands threatened with extinction. Submerge Records, the by-appointment-only store and Motor City electronica museum curated by Underground Resistance’s ‘Mad’ Mike Banks which has long been the genre’s spiritual home, shut down last year. In the ’90s, legendary names from the preceding decade like ‘Magic’ Juan Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson – the ‘Belleville Three’ – were whispered reverentially by the key players in Europe’s dance explosion, in the same breath as Kraftwerk and New Order.
Today, in the age of streaming, these enigmatic, staunchly anti-corporate pioneers are obviously struggling to pay the bills. On the positive side for the connoisseur, dire economics have driven them beyond the comfort zone of irregular DJ engagements, into the live arena: in recent years, Jeff Mills (alongside Afrobeat sticksman Tony Allen), Carl
Craig (plus orchestra) and Atkins himself (under his better-known Model 500 nom de guerre) have all debuted blockbuster shows.
The son of a concert promoter, Atkins now diversifies to unveil a reconstituted Cybotron, his very first ‘band’ originally formed with doubly mysterious tech-geek Rik Davis, 10 years his senior, who disappeared after the duo cut 1983’s Enter – a truly ground-breaking LP whose heavily FX’d guitar and plaintive vocals, each attributable to Davis, imagined a curious hybrid of solo George Clinton and Talk Talk.
Outside the hall itself, sundry Friday-night hi-jinks, niche star-spotting (S’Express’s Mark Moore, both of Orbital, Trevor Jackson and Richard Fearless are all milling about) and extraordinary box office queues only heighten the anticipation.
Once the lights dim, however, all human frailty recedes for a masterclass in retro-futurist tech-funk. Beneath a retina-scorching laser-written logo, Cybotron are reborn as a boiler-suited trio, their sleek armoury ranged in a flat line à la Kraftwerk, with Atkins, his bare head gleaming darkly through dry-ice gloom, flanked by two moto-vizor’d henchmen – apparently, Laurens von Oswald (nephew of Basic Channel’s Moritz, a regular ‘Magic’ collaborator), and Detroit’s DJ Maaco.
An overture themed from Industrial Lies discreetly excises Davis’s past contributions, establishing a pure techno template duly built upon by R-9’s thumping electro-disco groove, with Atkins eyeballing the front rows as he voices in his familiar menacing-machine growl. For a while, the recumbent audience bathe in the robotic joys of Alleys Of Your Mind and the snazzy illumination, but soon El Salvador’s irresistibly slinky melody and Cosmic Raindance’s skipping tempo lift them from their seats, until finally a propulsive Techno City – the tune which christened the genre – has them busting Peter Crouch moves in the aisles.
From there, it’s an all-dancing celebration of Atkins’ visionary fusion of Teutonic synth-pop and Detroit funk, ultimately crystallised in a groin-thrusting yet Trans-Europe Express-echoing Clear. With premier league visuals and fresh repertoire sprinkled through – one showcasing piano skills that justify Atkins’ ‘Magic’ tag – this is a show fit to headline boutique festivals around the world, and, who knows, save techno.
“Techno City has people busting Peter Crouch moves in the aisles.”