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To ask Ralf Hütter why he doesn’t embrace the public in the way he once did is to ask a very long and very complicated question.
He likes to have control over his own thoughts. Once you let someone share your thoughts, you lose control of them. He told an interviewer that he was always working on new material, and two days later said newspaper reliably informed him that he was set to release a new album, despite him being quite sure that he hasn’t been so stoned that he’s forgotten an album since the early seventies. He’d fallen foul of a cleverly masked question or two about his private life too, which seemed to be taken by people all over the world as free reign to speculate. It’s all pushing him closer to “celebrity” - the vile cult that it is.
Occasionally, he thought he should have more fun in interviews. He’d heard stories of bands telling reporters a pack of lies to see what made it to print or sending their lookalikes in their to see whether anyone realised the difference. He’d even heard one story about Joey Ramone conducting an interview while receiving oral sex from a woman - but since he’s always more likely to be giving blow jobs than receiving them, it might make answering questions a little more difficult. Mind you, sending a twenty year old robot to interviews in place of yourself could be considered “fun”, even if the whole point was that he could program it with practiced, considered responses that gave nothing he didn’t want to away.
In the old days, before all the crap, he would share the awkward question and answer sessions with Florian. Florian would wipe all emotion from his face, and give the interviewer a good long stare, while Ralf waxed lyrical about the romanticism of technology. Occasionally, the roles would be reversed - an interviewer would want to know about Ralf. Was he married? Did he have a girlfriend? What’s his ideal woman? Once, to his great surprise, he was asked whether he had been David Bowie’s lover, and offered a great amount of money to say he was. He didn’t exactly teach Florian how to deal with interviews, he just stood beside him, like a crutch - and in turn, Florian did much the same thing for Ralf in real life. Together, they were an immovable object, a force to be reckoned with.
Now there was no Florian, and hardly any interviews. Now the only contact he had with him was through lawyers and the record company, occasionally an e-mail from Lisa to tell Uncle Ralf what was going on in her life - very little news of her father’s and what was going on in his.
Ralf und Florian - that was Kraftwerk. To say they were soulmates would be to imply the romance that they’d never quite had, but to say they were kindred spirits did not describe how deep their partnership was. They were not simply friends - they were, in fact, one and the same. They were Kraftwerk! They were a sound, they were a mood, they were an age, they were a genre, they were a generation!
But beneath the outlandish uniforms, behind the great hulking synths of the 70s and the slim podiums of the last few decades, behind the image that he had perhaps pandered too a little too readily, there was heart in die Mensch-Maschinen. There were tears and laughter and boredom and euphoria. There was Florian, offering a nervous, tight lipped smile at a meticulously groomed yet artfully scruffy teenager, who gladly returned it. Florian who had shared his first LSD trip with Ralf in the back of a friend’s car on the way to some party he didn’t remember. Florian who followed when Ralf was right, and pulled away when Ralf was wrong. Florian who would gladly take a drunk, high, depressed, giggly or sleeping Ralf into his flat in the middle of the night and give up his bed so his “little friend” - a term Ralf detested at the time, but grew to miss as time wore on - could sleep off whatever he had picked up that night in peace. Florian, who would silently join him under the covers and hold him while he slept.
Their relationship was rarely discussed - they’d never had the “getting together” conversation. Ralf would find excuses to find himself at Florian’s flat (“It’s too loud at mine, Emil has the English crowd over.” “I bought a new amp and I can’t fit into my bed.” “The most tragic thing is that he really thinks he can play the saxophone.”). Florian would let him in (much to the chagrin of whoever his girlfriend was that week) and they would sit, side by side for hours talking about anything and everything.
Sometimes they’d talk about love. Florian would talk about the beautiful, enigmatic feminists he chose to share his bed with, telling Ralf all about the stimulating conversations they’d have after they made love for hours and hours. Ralf would talk about his boys and his girls, the prettiest and the filthiest around - how he’d tell them they were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen, but let them leave, shamefaced and guilt ridden, in the morning. Florian asked Ralf if he was lonely.
“Of course not. I have you.”
Their conversations were long. Sometimes they’d end their conversation in a row - like when Ralf wanted the flat to be silent, but Florian wanted music, or when Ralf said that Florian dressed like a politician, and Florian said that Ralf looked like a girl (prompting Ralf to grow the most ridiculous beard ever attempted by man or machine).
Sometimes their conversations would end with Florian falling asleep sitting bolt upright on the sofa. Ralf would drag the quilt from his bed and cover them both, waiting until morning when Florian would complain that Ralf didn’t wake him, and Ralf would just smile.
Later, their conversations took place in cafes, on trains, in tour buses and in hotel rooms. When they began to make substantial sums of money, the record company would book them a room each. No matter how many girls came up to them, Ralf and Florian would always find themselves huddled under expensive sheets in the early hours of the morning, whispering.
Then one day, they had no conversations. Florian, fresh from Ralf’s shower walked across the room towards Ralf, curled up in an armchair watching late night TV. His hand found his friends hair. He raked his fingers through it, watching Ralf melt into his touch. His eyes closed and his mouth opened to produce a long, low groan.
“Flo...”
---
“Flo?” Ralf remembers it vividly, almost too vividly.
“I just think it’s time.”
Ralf is silent for a moment. “What happened?”
“I got old. So did you.” He sighed, and lifted his hand to touch Ralf’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to be standing on stage pushing buttons until I drop dead from exhaustion.”
Ralf says nothing.
---
Ralf sits at his table. The house is silent and all he can hear is the distant hum of traffic from the road that takes him to the market twice a week. His shoes have been kicked off and his glasses are perched on the end of his nose as he reads through the latest request for an interview. An american magazine he’s never heard of and probably won’t google. He tosses it on the pile with the sampling requests and the rest of the junk mail he can’t be bothered shredding.
He thinks that he’d kill for ten more minutes under the covers with Florian, back in the time that seems like memories now. But that was a time before lawyers and lonely interviews and faceless technicians in place of friends.
That’s unfair. Contrary to popular belief, they do not sit in silence producing electronic sounds with expressionless faces. Stefan likes to make awkward jokes about his position within the band. Ralf likes to respond thus:
“You know what they say about late additions to the family - they’re usually mistakes.”
But Ralf has told this joke too many times for them to laugh as hard as they do. He wonders if they are really laughing because they fear his revenge if they do not.
This is funny, Ralf thinks. Little Man, the most feared in all of Kling Klang...
But God he misses them. Even Wolfgang, the bastard.
---
“You bastards! We work twice as hard as you, we always have! You are off in cafes or with journalists and we are at venues, we are fixing up our instruments. What do you do, Ralf? You go cycling. You go to poetry readings in dark sunglasses as if you will be recognised without your machines.”
“Wolgang, calm yourself.” Karl’s tone was warning but without venom.
“I will not! I am not a second class citizen!”
“Wolfgang, you write so little! A contribution to the odd track - a riff here, a percussion line here - it doesn’t make an album.” Ralf shook as he spoke - Florian placed a hand on his back, out of sight.
“ So now we know you think of us. I am a showroom dummy, for God’s sake!”
“He is right, Ralf, you know he is.” Karl says. “We are not your employees, we are band members. We are equals, Ralf. We are not enemies, though.” He adds, shooting Wolgang a look.
“Karl, I don’t wish to offend you.” Florian says pointedly. “We needed technicians, not bandmates.”
“No, you wanted bandmates.” Wolfgang says, almost spitting with anger. “The two of you wouldn’t have lasted without a couple of buffers to distract the magazines.”
“Wolfgang.” Karl said, teeth gritted and eyes closed.
“Oh don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
“Wolgang, shut up.” Karl folds his arms and looks away.
“Noticed what?” Ralf says, raising his eyes defiantly.
“I might be a drone, but I am not stupid, Ralf. You cannot expect us to ignore it forever.”
“Wolfgang, please.” Karl has turned away, his arms curled protectively around himself.
“Ignore what?” Ralf says, though his voice comes more high pitched than intended.
“It’s stupid, it’s nothing.” Karl says, his voice shaking. “Wolfgang, calm down.”
“Not a fucking chance.” They all flinch. “You can’t expect us to sit here as distractions while you two are cavorting behind our backs.”
“Wolgang, you’re talking out of your arse.” Florian speaks, Ralf doesn’t trust his voice. “Go away and think about it. Me and Ralf?” He barks out a rough laugh.
Wolfgang fixes Ralf with a long, hard look. “What about you, Ralf?”
Ralf shakes his head.
“Oh, go on. You’re usually so eager to contribute.”
“Wolfgang, stop, please.” Florian grabs his arm, but Wolfgang shakes free.
“Admit it, Ralf. It’s been you and him since the beginning. We can never compete with that! The thing is, I wouldn’t even mind if you didn’t introduce us to your families. What are they, back up plans? Just in case the world isn’t so happy for you?”
“Wolfgang, that is none of-” Karl manages.
“Wolfgang.” Ralf says, his voice quiet but clear. “You’re right.” He looks him straight in the eye. “Please, don’t. Just don’t.”
Wolfgang gives him one last look, grabs his jacket and makes for the door. Karl mumbles something about traffic or trains and stumbles uncomfortably from the room.
Ralf and Florian sit in silence. Florian’s hand never leaves Ralf’s back.
---
Ralf isn’t the most proficient typist. Considering his otherwise admirable technical prowess, his typing skills are almost comical. At least, they would be comical if Ralf wasn’t currently trying to figure out how to say everything he wanted to say in a way the staff wouldn’t understand. Currently, the blank email (opened after a shocking amount of searching for “outlook”) took up most of the screen, while Ralf wondered if Florian was still proficient in Morse Code.
And the phone rang.
Really, it did.
Like something from a soap opera.
He picks it up, and hears his voice. He can’t help it, his face cracks into the widest smile and he chokes back a sob while Florian explains about how he’s been contemplating writing for a while.
“I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear my voice ever again. I guessed that I was being a little overdramatic.”
“I was just about to email you.” Ralf says, his voice a little rough.
“See? The Man Machines are never wrong!” Florian chuckles.
Ralf gives a strangled giggle. “I missed you so much.”
There is silence.
“I missed some things. I didn’t particularly miss the sleepless nights wondering whether you were going to give yourself another heart attack. I didn’t enjoy the sneaking around. I didn’t particularly enjoy the sofa bed in the studio.”
“Flo-”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He laughs nervously. “I didn’t intend to, I mean I didn’t-”
“But it’s true.” Ralf says. “Although I think we were both to blame.”
Florian is silent for a moment. “I need to see you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Ralf’s breath hitches. “You know where I am.”
---
Ralf Hütter doesn’t do interviews. He didn’t do an interview when he was married, he didn’t do an interview when he nearly died, he tried not to do interviews when he released an album. Somehow, the newspapers always knew regardless.
He certainly didn’t expect the newspapers to find out about this. He certainly didn’t expect a phonecall from EMI from someone who clearly didn’t comprehend time differences asking him whether the picture were genuine.
Pictures? What pictures? Had someone seen him and Florian together and assumed he was rejoining the band? Ralf couldn’t cope with too much English before sunrise, so thankfully, while trying to appease the officious and slightly hysterical man on the other end of the line, he received another incoming call.
“Hallo is that Ralf? Is Dad there?”
“He’s asleep. We were working late on a mix.” He lies smoothly - practice makes perfect. “Do you need him?”
“Oh God, you haven’t seen them yet have you?”
“Seen what?” He groans. “I’ve already had the bloody record company on the phone-”
“Go and google you and Dad. Someones got hold of some pictures from the old days.”
“It’s not the beard is it? Oh God I thought I’d left that in art school.”
“It’s of you and Dad.”
Ralf freezes. “Look-”
“I don’t care and I don’t want to hear it. Just go and look. Talk your way out of it if you must, I just thought I’d better tell you before others do.”
Ralf nearly dropped the phone. “I’ll go now.” He pauses. “I, I’ll tell your dad.”
“OK.” She says. “Give him my love.”
“I will.” He says..
---
The headline is as trashy and as painfully unfunny as you would expect: Can a Robot Love Another? The Secret at the Metal Heart of Kraftwerk! A single black and white photograph taken on a borrowed camera. They’re young, though mercifully clean shaven. Ralf is curled up on Florians lap and Florian’s head is buried in Ralf’s shoulder. There is no doubt as to the nature of their relationship. It can only have been taken before the band took off, as there was no way they would risk that with the press around.
Ralf takes a deep breath. “Lisa called me.”
Florian’s reaction is whip sharp and twice as quick. He gasps, and puts his head in his hands.
“Oh you little shit Florian!” he says to himself. “She must be-”
“Flo, she’s not-”
“Of course she’s not! She’s mine, don’t forget. I just wish I’d had the chance to tell her myself.” He runs a hand through the sparse hair on his chin. “What are we going to do? What are we telling the papers?”
Ralf thinks. It was an era of experimentation - the time of free love and even freer trust. He could put it down to a dare, a laugh between friends. He could laugh it off as a misunderstanding - enough people could vouch for his touchy-feely nature.
Ralf smiled, and picked up the phone and phones the office of EMI.
“Ralf Hütter for Mac Jepherson.” Mac was their point of contact for media - a rookie in an office in the States. He was rarely needed.
“Mr Hütter? Is this about-”
“Yes. We wish to make a statement.” Ralf slips his spare hand into Florian’s.
“OK, I’ve got a pen, run it by me.”
“These words exactly: Robots don’t have hearts. The rest is nobody’s business but ours’.”
The poor boy nearly drops the phone.