Meeting the robots at Way Out West 2012

Another August, another pilgrimage to Way Out West. By now the festival has settled into its familiar rhythm. The same muddy paths through Slottsskogen, the same overpriced food, the same people pretending they accidentally dressed like they stepped out of an indie fashion catalogue. It’s a comfortable festival. Maybe a little too comfortable.

While wandering between stages, an elderly gentleman stopped me and pointed enthusiastically at my Front 242 cap. “Volvo!” he exclaimed. “I have one of those old classic cars too.” I thanked him. There was no reason to ruin what was probably the highlight of both our afternoons.

The early afternoon slots are always cruel. People drift in slowly, coffee in one hand, existential hangover in the other, forcing excellent artists like Mark Lanegan and Deportees to perform for audiences that haven’t quite decided whether they’re awake yet. Florence + The Machine finally shook everyone into consciousness.

Walking on sunshine.

Feed Me turned the Linné tent into a low-frequency weapon. The bass was so violent I suspect the penguins at the zoo briefly reconsidered evolution when “the drop” hit. Refused attacked the stage with enough fury to make it feel like 1998 again. The wonderful DigiDroid made a fun gig in a small tent. I somehow slept through most of The Black Keys before I accidentally found the festival’s greatest culinary achievement: grilled halloumi with fresh strawberries. Sometimes happiness really is that simple.

Feist was predictable. Bon Iver even more so. Mogwai built their usual towering walls of sound. Blur reminded everyone why Britpop once ruled the planet. But none of it mattered. Everyone knew why they were really there.

Even before entering the festival grounds, volunteers were handing out cardboard 3D glasses like sacred relics. It wasn’t subtle. Kraftwerk had arrived to the forest.

Facing the robots.

The German quartet entered the stage for their hyped 3D-show. The last time I saw them was some years ago in Denmark, where the 3D effects appeared briefly, almost as an afterthought. This time they committed completely. Four silhouettes appeared behind their glowing consoles, the opening notes of We Are The Robots emerged, and suddenly thousands of people became eerily motionless.

Imagine that. Twenty-five thousand festivalgoers. No jumping. No singing along. No phones waving overhead. Just silent faces behind ridiculous white cardboard glasses, staring into an electronic future imagined by four Germans sometime around 1978. It may have been the least physically energetic headline performance I’ve ever witnessed at Way Out West. It was also one of the most mesmerizing.

During Trans-Europe Express, one brave (or spectacularly drunk) fan managed to climb onto the stage and dance happily in front of Ralf Hütter before security removed him like a wet sock. For a few glorious seconds, humanity attempted to improvise inside Kraftwerk’s perfectly calculated machine. But the machine won.

Radioactivity had evolved with history. Fukushima entered the lyrics, a reminder that Kraftwerk’s music has always been less about technology than about our strange relationship with it. Their songs age because the world insists on giving them new material.

The evening ended as suspected with Musique Non Stop. One musician disappeared after another until only Ralf Hütter remained beneath the lights. “Good night. Auf Wiedersehen.” And then he was gone. No encore. Just the robots quietly powering down.