In 1981, within the hallowed walls of Conny Plank’s iconic Cologne studio, a young man silently observed as Japanese vocalist Phew embarked on recording her inaugural album. Plucked from Osaka to Germany at a mere 20 years old, propelled by the success of her initial single with Ryuichi Sakamoto, Phew found herself amidst krautrock luminaries Holger Czukay and Jaki Liebezeit of Can—musicians she deeply revered. As they improvised, Phew penned lyrics on the fly, her voice gradually finding its place amid Czukay and Liebezeit’s sonic tapestry.
That spectator, Chrislo Haas of German new wave acts D.A.F. and Liaisons Dangereuses, made no introductions at the time. Yet, nearly a decade later, he reached out to Phew in Tokyo, proposing they collaborate. Haas orchestrated sessions for Phew’s eclectic 1992 record, “Our Likeness,” reuniting with Liebezeit alongside a new wave of German underground talent: Alexander Hacke of Einstürzende Neubauten and Thomas Stern of Crime and the City Solution. Now in her early thirties, Phew returned to Plank’s studio, this time with a preparedness borne of experience.
The interim years between Phew’s eponymous debut and “Our Likeness,” currently being reissued by Mute, were tumultuous yet fecund. The initial recordings in Cologne proved pivotal, with Phew acknowledging that without encountering Plank, she might not have persisted in music. Nevertheless, the encounter triggered a period of uncertainty. The sight of Plank’s pristine studio and his meticulous methods challenged her punk ethos, leading to five years of reconciling her observations in Germany with her own unadorned approach. In the meantime, her reputation grew as the vocalist who collaborated with Sakamoto and Can before disappearing, only to resurface as a more assured artist with 1987’s “View”—a synth-driven affair with relatively subdued, melodic vocal lines.
Though “Our Likeness” marks Phew’s third album, it serves as a spiritual successor to her debut. Across both records, Liebezeit’s percussion serves as the conduit through which Phew’s vocals transcend the language barrier. “Music is a language, and the music a person makes is dictated to a certain degree by their mother tongue,” she elucidated in a 2003 interview with The Wire. Frustrated by the constraints of singing in Japanese, Phew launches her vocals off the taut platform of Liebezeit’s hyper-precise drumming, molding and stretching her words with the assurance of returning to the groove. The German experimentalists transform each track of “Our Likeness” into its own universe, veering from a Liquid Liquid-esque vibe on “Our Element” to the unsettling, heavy-metal riffage of “Being,” all while Phew’s vocals navigate with poise.
Phew complements Haas and company’s avant-garde inclinations seamlessly. On “Smell,” a tapestry of sound effects blends with crashing guitar chords as Phew’s composed recitation juxtaposes with the chaos, evoking an eerie tension. These moments contrast with the euphoric pop sensibility of the title track, where Phew’s vocals dance above twangy guitars and intricate drumming. Like a punk-rock Meredith Monk, Phew has honed her unique singing style for over four decades, from her late-’70s punk outfit Aunt Sally to her recent solo ventures. With the reissue of her 1981 debut hailed as “the great lost Can album,” Phew’s return to Cologne heralded a departure from her collaborators’ shadows, crafting music that is undeniably her own.