Letzte Tanke Vor Babylon by Lotte Ohm: A Glimpse Into Electro-Abstract Magic
Man, this album. Letzte Tanke Vor Babylon isn’t just another electronic record from the '90s—it’s more like a strange little time capsule that somehow feels both dated and timeless at once. Released in 1997 under Disko Grönland (a label name that already sounds kinda cool), it’s got Vincent Wilkie doing double duty on music and lyrics, which honestly might explain why everything feels so… cohesive? Like, it’s not just random bleeps and bloops slapped together; there’s thought here, even if you can’t always put your finger on what he’s thinking about.
The vibe is hard to pin down—part electro, part abstract, all German weirdness—but trust me when I say it sticks with you. Tracks like “Diskursdisko” and “Ich Wünschte Ich Wäre Thurston Moore” are burned into my brain for different reasons.
“Diskursdisko,” man. It’s like someone took a disco beat, ran it through an old Commodore 64, then fed it LSD. The rhythm hits you first, clunky but hypnotic, pulling you in before layers of warped synths start swirling around your ears. There’s no singing, really, just these chopped-up vocal snippets that feel like ghosts of parties past. You don’t dance to this track—you kind of sway awkwardly while staring off into space, wondering if life itself is just one big glitchy loop. And yeah, maybe that’s overdramatic, but damn if it doesn’t hit differently late at night.
Then there’s “Ich Wünschte Ich Wäre Thurston Moore.” Okay, full disclosure—I didn’t know who Thurston Moore was when I first heard this (oops). But something about the way the song builds up, slow and moody, with this almost melancholic bassline… it gets to you. The lyrics are sparse, delivered in this deadpan tone that makes you feel like Vincent’s sitting right next to you, whispering his existential musings over a cigarette. By the end, you’re not sure whether you want to laugh or cry—or look up Sonic Youth discographies online. Either way, it lingers.
Other tracks float by too—“Komm Rein” has this eerie charm, “Lichterkettenraucher” feels like walking through neon-lit streets after a storm—but those two stuck out to me. Maybe because they’re polar opposites: one chaotic and overwhelming, the other quiet and introspective. Together, they sum up the whole vibe of the album—a mix of confusion, longing, and a dash of absurdity.
Here’s the thing about Letzte Tanke Vor Babylon: it’s not perfect. Some songs drag, others feel unfinished, and yeah, parts of it sound SUPER '90s. But isn’t that kinda beautiful? It’s messy, raw, unpolished—and sometimes, that’s exactly what makes art memorable. Listening to it now feels like finding an old journal entry you wrote as a teenager. You cringe a bit, sure, but you also smile because wow, look how far you’ve come.
And hey, fun fact: turns out Vincent Wilkie also worked on some experimental theater projects back in the day. Suddenly, the whole "weird uncle experimenting in his basement" energy of this album makes total sense. Who knew?
So yeah, give Letzte Tanke Vor Babylon a spin if you’re into stuff that challenges you without taking itself too seriously. Just don’t blame me if you end up humming “Diskursdisko” in the shower for days.
