Doc Wenz is back: His New Chapter with The Melancholics and Reflections on Mardi Gras.bb

(c) Damian Irzik

Doc Wenz is back.

With Doc Wenz & The Melancholics, the former frontman of the legendary Mardi Gras.bb is set to release the debut album of his new project on March 28, 2025. On „The EPs Vol. I–III“ (off label records, dist.: Broken Silence), the Doc is in top form – a singer-songwriter somewhere between Americana, the desert and Memphis. It sounds refreshingly different, yet unmistakably like Doc Wenz.

In this in-depth conversation with Markus Brandstetter, the musician and medical doctor talks about his musical journey, the rise and fall of Mardi Gras.bb, his short-lived project The Neon Brothers – and his passion for collecting guitar amps. He also shares his thoughts on the role of dopamine in the way we listen to music.

Before you start reading: You can also watch the full interview in German here:

Doc Wenz about the new record

Markus: Doc, your new LP, which consists of three previously released EPs, has just come out. Could you give us some context around the project?

Doc Wenz: This is basically the debut, and the fact that there were these step-by-step digital releases beforehand in the form of three EPs was kind of a nod to the zeitgeist. LPs, traditional albums, aren’t really a thing anymore in the daily music business. There are only a few people left who release full albums. But it was important to me, so I’m really happy that we managed this balancing act by using that little trick of releasing it digitally in slices and then finally putting it out as the album it was always meant to be – on vinyl. And it feels good. It’s a beautiful product. Tactilely as well. I really like the matte slipcase. Everything I loved about LPs as a kid looking at my brother’s record shelf is there. That makes me very happy. Huge thanks to Jonny Hanke from Off Label Records. There aren’t many vinyl labels left in Germany, especially in the independent or alternative genres. It’s a tough scene. You often have to be happy with sales of just 25 copies. But he was back in the boat. It’s the third release he’s done with me across different projects, and I’m grateful. The story of the album is really just the story of the new band. I used to play until 2013 with the large ensemble, the anarchistic brass orchestra Mardi Gras bb. That’s how we know each other. And after many years away from the stage, I asked myself: if you want to get back into this totally changed musical landscape, what form could that even take? And it became clear to me that a big band like back in the 2000s isn’t viable anymore. Especially not in a niche genre where you can’t count on major success from the start. That would be suicide. Plus, I’m twenty years older now. So the second big consideration was: what kind of concept is dignified for someone nearing 60 to make a musical comeback, assuming you're not running around the stage in spandex for 90 minutes like some colleagues do even at much older ages? I always found that somewhat desperate. I feel like you have to age with dignity as a musician. And so it became clear the concept would have to be in the singer-songwriter realm. That allows a small lineup – three or four people – which fits today’s reality. And that style fits thoughtful, mature material. So we quickly landed on the idea for this band. And the LP, which combines those three EPs, basically tells the story of that founding idea.

(c) Doc Wenz & The Melancholics Presspic

The stage persona of Doc Wenz has always been more than just you as a singer-songwriter. Even back in the Mardi Gras.bb days, it was a strong character – a mix of charm, nonchalance, and a bit of mystique. Did you think about the coherence of that persona for the new project, or did you just let it evolve?

I pretty much just let it evolve. You can, of course, approach it like an actor and say depending on the life phase and the project, you could develop a different persona. But there were already so many fixed parameters in the concept – the small lineup, the singer-songwriter approach, the chanson feel – that I felt I didn’t need to reinvent myself as a stage persona. Also, a lot of it was determined by the fact that I now play a much more essential role in this band as a guitarist. That’s quite different from Mardi Gras.bb, where I could be pretty hedonistic about my guitar parts. In a big, fully arranged orchestra, if you didn’t feel like playing a verse or forgot the chords to a bridge, you just didn’t play it – and nobody noticed. That was a great luxury, being able to float on top of all that polyphony and throw in little accents when you felt like it. But now, in a four-piece singer-songwriter setup, I’m the guitarist. That means I have a defined role. That alone kind of took care of the need to shape a stage persona. I simply don’t have the freedom I had with Mardi Gras.bb. Back then I could put down the guitar and grab the maracas or just dance around if I felt like it. Those freedoms are gone. Everything is much tighter in terms of roles. We’ve played live quite a bit now, and I have to say, I’m increasingly comfortable with the tougher demands placed on me as a guitarist in this setup. It’s fun. It’s different. I think I’m more disciplined on stage now, more song-serving, yeah.

Did you miss playing live?

That was a really complicated process. When Mardi Gras.bb ended in 2013, it was actually a huge relief for me. The 20 years before that had been incredibly intense. I think we played nearly 1000 shows across Europe, even across the Atlantic—from Moscow to Montreal, and so on. And trying to maintain a private life while doing all that was no easy task. I only realized how heavy it all was once it stopped, when this huge weight was lifted. At first, I thoroughly enjoyed no longer having that responsibility—reinventing the band every year, putting out an album annually, and seeing how the band's trajectory went steadily downhill. Sales dropped, streaming completely upended our earnings, especially from publishing rights, which had been our clever way to cross-finance fun gigs or experimental projects. But in the last five years of Mardi Gras.bb, that whole structure collapsed. Eventually, the label folded too—right after releasing our last album. That was the final nail in the coffin. So when I ended the band, I felt a big sense of relief. It took a while before I felt the urge again. Around 2017 or 2018 maybe—I’m bad with dates—I wanted to start playing music again. I had continued practicing guitar and felt like I’d made real progress. That’s when the Neon Brothers project came about. It was kind of sad, though. Conceptually, I’d made a big mistake. It was power pop with Beach Boys-style three- or four-part harmonies. But I underestimated how hard that would be to pull off live. The guys weren’t trained singers, though they really gave it their all. In the studio, with good headphones and overdubs, the harmonies sounded great. But live, replicating that? It would’ve taken an insane amount of work. And I realized too late that we wouldn’t be able to match the quality of the album in a live setting. So we let that project quietly fade away. That bummed me out but also taught me a lesson: if I ever do something again, I’ll make sure I’m the only one singing. I know I can do that. And that’s what led to this new band, where I carry the vocal load myself.

The new band is called Doc Wenz & The Melancholics – which is the first time the "Doc Wenz" moniker is officially part of the band name. Was that a deliberate branding decision?

In a way, yes. It was one of those long, drawn-out deliberations that every band goes through – brainstorming lists, democratic votes, the usual. I actually didn’t want to include "Doc Wenz" in the name at all. If there’s one thing I’d change in my life, I’d probably go back and pick a better pseudonym. I never thought "Doc Wenz" was particularly sexy. But everyone I talked to was unanimous: they said if you’re doing something new, it has to be under that name. If you don’t include "Doc Wenz," you’re basically throwing away everything you’ve built up. So I eventually surrendered and agreed it ma

Life after Mardi Gras.bb

The last time we spoke in person was back in 2013, I think — in Berlin, at Lido. I interviewed you for Rolling Stone. That was one of the last Mardi Gras.bb concerts. Back then, you hinted that you were somewhat relieved that the live chapter was coming to an end. What did you actually do in the time right after that?

I really enjoyed just having more time to drift, to take life as it came. To live like normal people do, I guess. But it wasn’t a crash into the void or anything — I had a solid structure in place. I’ve been in a long-term relationship with my wife for over 30 years, and we’ve maintained a kind of commuter relationship between Zürich and Mannheim all that time. That continued as before — the only difference was that my weekends were no longer blocked off by gigs and travel.

And I also kept working in my original profession, as a doctor — at least 40 to 50 percent. So it wasn't like I suddenly had nothing. I had a well-functioning routine. Just with more free time, really. And that was actually quite nice.

Did you ever take a proper break — even from your medical work — when the band stopped? Or did you just slide back into your usual day-to-day life?

I just kept going. The only thing that dropped away was the intensity of the music. But otherwise, I kept everything else the same — and I think that was a good thing. Making a clean break and suddenly standing in front of a void… that wouldn’t have been healthy for me. Still, I felt it as a huge transition.

Twenty years is a hell of a long time to spend in a band.

Absolutely. And it was a really good time. I wouldn’t want to miss it for anything — even if the last five or six years weren’t all that enjoyable anymore. I had this growing sense that I could already see what was coming. This feeling of watching a downward spiral, and knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it. That was hard at times — within the band, I mean.

And honestly, if I hadn’t been constantly persuaded to keep going — mostly by Uli Krug, the bandleader, who co-ran Mardi Gras with me (or 

maybe it’s more accurate to say I co-ran it with him — he really was the mother of the company) — and also by the label, which kept pushing us to make another record… If it hadn’t been for all that, I probably would’ve stepped back sooner. The motivation just wasn’t always there anymore. You get to a point where you think: How are we supposed to turn this ship around? And of course, we didn’t manage to.

So there was a sense of duty — to keep the whole thing going for as long as possible.

Exactly. But the captain being the last one to leave the sinking ship, that would have felt too overly heroic (laughs)

The first time I saw you live was at a festival in Wiesen. I’m not even sure anymore — maybe ’98 or ’99? You were playing alongside B.B. King, Jeff Beck, Captain Mo, and Bill Wyman and the Rhythm Kings. I’ll never forget that day. I think I’ve only ever kept a diary for maybe four days in my entire life — but that night I wrote an entry. It was probably gone the next day, but I still remember what I wrote: “Discovered a band today. Came here for B.B. King, but I’ve just seen the most awesome frontman ever.” That was 17-year-old me, pouring out my teenage admiration. And from that moment on, I was a huge fan. You’ve always been one of my absolute favorite frontmen. So — and this is not just a compliment, even though it definitely is one — here’s the actual question: how did you develop that presence? Which bands shaped you early on? What’s your musical background?

It all started when I was about fourteen and a half, in Kaiserslautern. That was 1979. I formed my first schoolyard band — it was a punk band. Punk had completely swept me away. It was the first youth culture that really hit me, and it felt incredibly empowering. The whole DIY mentality, the energy, the attitude — it wasn’t about technical skill in the traditional sense. You didn’t need to be a virtuoso on your instrument or have perfect vocal technique. It was about expression. About raw energy. That was hugely liberating for me, and honestly, it shaped the rest of my life.

We started out in the basement underneath my teenage bedroom in Kaiserslautern. Later on, around 1983, I was in another band called Akopatz. They were kind of in the style of hybrid post-punk bands, like Family 5 from Düsseldorf, who were seen as heirs to Fehlfarben. That was the moment when post-punk started to mix with other genres, and Akopatz were right there — we had a four-piece horn section, which was a big deal.

That horn section would turn out to be a link to what I did later. As we moved away from our punk roots, musically speaking, we formed a new band — part of a movement at the time called Nu Soul. That band was Soul Bazaar, and it was incredibly important for me. That’s where I really learned the craft, in an autodidactic way. Working with horns, understanding arrangements, phrasing, energy. Soul Bazaar had a three- or sometimes four-piece horn section too, but the music was funkier, more danceable, more soulful — and that required a different vocal approach, a different attitude.

So Soul Bazaar was a crucial step toward what would later become Mardi Gras. Funny enough, it was after a Soul Bazaar show at the Feuerwache in Mannheim that Uli Krug and Erwin Ditzner — who would later become part of Mardi Gras — approached me. You could say I got “recruited,” even though the band didn’t start right away. Uli and Erwin were older, and I really admired them. They had a band back then called Sanfte Liebe, a kind of avant-garde German new wave group. Uli played bass, and later sousaphone in Mardi Gras. Erwin was on drums.

So when these guys came to our show and talked to me afterward, I felt truly honored. That meeting led to what eventually became the infamous “Tanz in den Mai” gig in 1993. It was originally just meant as a one-night project — a sort of Mannheim goes New Orleans celebration. We put together a two-hour program with a super eclectic lineup featuring some of the best musicians from the Mannheim scene. That show turned out to be the birthplace of Mardi Gras. That was the seed.

What I  found interesting — especially in comparison to your current band, where you carry a lot more of the musical weight — is how you said with Mardi Gras, you were able to lean back a bit more. But at the same time, with Mardi Gras, the band would come marching in before you even stepped on stage — and it was already a party. Massive energy. And then you would come out, and you’d have to top that. You’d have to say, “Okay, now I’m here — and this is the center of everything.” That takes SERIOUS frontman skills. To hold the spotlight when the show is already on fire.

Yes— and looking back, it really is kind of amazing. Thankfully, I never overthought it too much. It was more of a natural flow. Probably for two reasons. First, conceptually, Mardi Gras was kind of my invention — at least the core idea and the staging. So the whole thing — band marching in, then the shift when I entered — that was always part of the plan. Kind of a now for something completely different moment. Or as you said: it wasn’t necessarily “more,” it was just... different. And to me, that felt like a very logical element of the performance.

The second reason is that I already had some solid experience as a frontman — especially with Akrobat and later with Soul Bazaar, the New Soul band. I learned pretty quickly that being on stage only works if you bring intensity and some kind of magnetism. That was a really valuable training ground. So when the time came to bring that extra presence on top of Mardi Gras’s high-energy entrance — it didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like a natural step.

(c) Doc Wenz & The Melancholics Presspic

Yeah, “different” really hits it. It didn’t feel like escalation — it shifted into a different narrative, a new kind of theatrical arc.And now, of course, your current band is a completely different setup: guitar, bass, drums, and lap steel. Florian Schlechtriemen on drums, Javier de la Poza on bass, and Simon Seeleuther. Did you know these guys beforehand? You mentioned that two of them were longtime friends?

Exactly. Javier — now on bass, actually used to play drums for the Neon Brothers. In the last Mardi Gras lineup, he even played bass drum, so we already had a history together musically and personally. We’d been friends for a long time.

Then it all started to feel like a classic schoolyard moment. I’d told myself, if I ever start another band, Javi has to be the drummer again. That seemed logical. But then I got a call from Flo — Florian Schlechtriemen — who had also played with Mardi Gras at one point. We’d never really lost touch; we had a great personal connection, and even when we weren’t playing, we’d still meet up.

So Flo said, I’d really love to do something with you again, and after that phone call, I was sitting in my kitchen — the same place where we’re doing the recordings now — thinking: Okay, now I’ve got two drummers. But then I quickly realized: why not treat it like back in the punk days? You just point at someone and say, You’re the bass player now.

And that’s exactly what happened. I knew Flo would be on drums, and I saw Javi as a multi-instrumentalist anyway — even though he’d never played bass before. I just pointed at him and said, You’re playing bass. He didn’t even flinch — he was immediately on board. That’s just how he is. So now we had drums, bass, and a singer-songwriter.

And then came Simon — and that was something special. Here in Mannheim, we’ve got this massive pool of seriously talented and ambitious musicians, especially guitarists. Part of that comes from the Popakademie, sure, but there’s more to it. Great guitarists are everywhere here — it’s almost too much. But stylistically, I couldn’t really connect with most of them. Except for one: Simon. I always admired him from a distance. He’s quite a bit younger than me, and I first noticed him through his work with The Nautics — a surf instrumental band. He recorded an album with them, with Flo on drums.

What I really wanted for the new band was someone with a kind of libero role — someone who could float around musically and add texture and atmosphere on top of the foundation the rest of us were laying down. I didn’t want a second guitar. I wanted something that evoked other moods — something dustier, more desert-like. That’s the direction I saw the new material heading.

Then I found out Simon plays pedal steel. And not just plays — he’s world-class. That was a total revelation for me. So I called him and explained what I had in mind. I told him, I heard you play pedal steel. I want you to play that in this band. He was a bit taken aback at first, said something like, I’m not as good on that as I am on guitar. But I could tell he was intrigued. I didn’t need to do much convincing.

He agreed, and that decision still makes me happy to this day.

You mentioned “the dust of the desert” earlier, and I’d love to circle back to that for a second. There’s definitely a stronger American influence in your current sound. Could you maybe pinpoint that a bit more — geographically or stylistically?

As with all Doc Wenz stories, it’s really more of a wide-ranging blend. A melange, if you will. There are just too many musical styles that have shaped me or that I still love, and they all feed into it.

But yes, there’s definitely a strong singer-songwriter component — which is, of course, a core element of what people call Americana these days. Think of people like Howe Gelb, Lambchop, Calexico... all of them kind of operating within that Townes Van Zandt tradition. And then you’ve got bands like Camper Van Beethoven and others from the ‘80s and ‘90s that bridged a lot of styles. That’s part of the English-language songwriting heritage I’ve always gravitated toward.

And the pedal steel sound naturally brings you straight to the American South and Southwest. It just does. That opens the door to all these influences — country blending into indie rock, but also, if you go back far enough, bands like the Sir Douglas Quintet or Doug Sahm, where you’ve got elements of Mexican music, New Orleans grooves, Caribbean flavors... all of that flowing in.

That’s what makes this musical space so rich. And while those influences may not be fully charted yet on the first album — as you nicely put it, “mapped out” — I think with the next record you’ll hear more of those left-field influences. They’re not foreign bodies, they fit — they expand the sound without compromising it.

There’s also a bit of a soul flavor in some of the tracks — a certain blue soul feel, if you will. That brings me back to the days of Soul Bazaar, which I mentioned earlier. It’s a nice thing, actually — I’m kind of combing through my entire back catalog, from the punk days to now, and checking everything for Melancholics compatibility. And sometimes I stumble across songs I originally did in completely different contexts — in earlier bands or with totally different arrangements — and I suddenly realize: with just a small tweak, they could absolutely work in the sound world of the current band.

(c) Damian Irzik - Doc Wenz & The Melancholics Presspic

Guitars, guitars, guitars!

In the press photos, you’re holding what looks like a Gibson Flying V?

It isn’t!  I’m a total nerd when it comes to cheap guitars. That’s one of my many eccentric collecting obsessions, actually. My place kind of reflects that — people who visit often say it feels somewhere between a museum and a thrift store.

It’s a quirk I’ve carried with me since the punk days: I’ve always told myself I’d never buy an expensive guitar. That’s just not my style. The absolute height of luxury for me is something from Squier — Fender’s budget line. Beyond that, I’ve spent decades hunting down oddball guitars with a certain mojo, buying them on eBay for maybe 150 euros just to see if they’ve got any hidden potential.

If they do, I’ll invest a bit in upgrades — new pickups, new bridge, stuff like that. That Flying V you’re talking about actually has a pretty funny backstory. It’s a super flashy guitar — especially in that Jimi Hendrix-style finish. I bought it during the pandemic, when a friend in Nuremberg had invited me to join a shoegaze project. We were supposed to play the Bardentreffen festival, but it got canceled because of COVID.

Still, I’d already been thinking ahead. I told myself: If I’m going to be on stage with this band and that kind of aesthetic, I need a guitar that makes a statement. So I went looking for something a little psychedelic, and found this hand-painted, super cheap Flying V knockoff on eBay. I won the auction for next to nothing.

When it arrived, it was totally unplayable. I’m not sure what was going on with the quality control in whatever factory made it, but the bridge was mounted two centimeters off. Literally unusable. So I got out my power drill — did my first so-called “star job” — drilled new holes, sweat like hell, and re-mounted the bridge. And suddenly: it played well. It sounded good. It intonated properly. I threw in 200 or 300 euros for better pickups, and boom — suddenly I had a great-sounding Flying V.

The shoegaze band never happened — the gig was canceled, the project fizzled — but the guitar stuck around. And when we were planning the band photo shoot, I thought: this is perfect. It adds a touch of absurdity, because it really doesn’t fit the genre. It’s a visual mismatch. But that tension works. And, surprisingly, the guitar actually sounds great with the band, too. I’ve played it live a couple of times. But I used a different guitar on the album. I won’t say which one.

(c) Damian Irzik - Doc Wenz & The Melancholics Presspic -

A mystery! I love that. But honestly, I think Flying Vs — when you recontextualize them — are brilliant. If Michael Schenker plays one, well, it’s a Michael Schenker Flying V. But a Flying V in a non–Flying V context? Love it. I thought it looked fantastic — especially with the boxing gloves. The whole look was just… great.

I’m glad you think so! That was really the idea. Given the somewhat more traditional look that comes with the singer-songwriter genre, I wanted to break that up visually — bring in something unexpected. I had a few other bizarre guitars I was considering from my collection, but I ended up going with the Flying V. And I think it was the right call.

But doesn’t it just go to show — with electric guitars, it’s mostly about the pickups, right? I mean, whether it’s a cheap knockoff or a pricey Gibson, if the pickups are good… sure, the guitar has to be playable, but sound-wise? It’s all about the amp and the pickups.

Yes and no. I’ve spent a lot of time experimenting with that question, and I’ve come to mixed conclusions. For pickups, I’m fairly conservative — I’ve got a pretty tight portfolio of ones I like: specific humbuckers, Tele single-coils, Jaguar pickups, Jazzmaster pickups… I know what I like, and I usually stick with those.

But I’ve had guitars where, even after installing my favorite pickups, the result was disappointing. That’s when you realize: it’s not just the pickups. The resonance of the guitar matters, too. And in my experience, the neck is way more important than the body.

The whole “one-piece, two-piece, three-piece, sandwich-body” debate — I think people sometimes overrate the role of the body in shaping tone. Sure, some guitars benefit from being made from a single block of wood, especially in terms of sustain. But if you ask me, the neck plays a much bigger role in how the instrument actually sounds.

So yeah: pickups are crucial. But neck and hardware matter too. I’ve even had situations where changing the bridge — putting in a heavier, more solid bridge — made a noticeable difference in tone and sustain. So it’s really a multi-component thing.

t’s such an interesting debate. You know, like that whole discussion around Paul Smith at Equitana — the way he talks about “tone,” almost religiously. Totally controversial. Some people say he’s a genius, others think he’s just a snake-oil salesman. I always find it fascinating.

Yeah, and if you talk to a thousand guitarists, you’ll get a thousand different answers. That’s just how it is.

Right! I was really surprised recently — I have talked to the Swedish guitar player Matthias Eklundh. He just released a signature guitar line, and he left out inlays because he told me they affect the tone. I’d never even considered that. No inlays.

(laughs) Yeah… I mean, I like to see where I’m putting my fingers.

That makes total sense.

I’ve had some pretty hairy moments on stage because of that. Especially when you don’t pay enough attention to the lighting during soundcheck — that can really mess you up. You get up there in the middle of the chaos, and suddenly you can’t see your frets. If your guitar doesn’t have decent markers, you’re in trouble.

For sure.

Back in the day, I used to carry those little adhesive dots — you know, the ones from Zweckform or whatever that brand is. I’d use them especially on my old vintage guitars — like my Höfners — where the fret markers were barely visible. In some stage situations, I was totally lost. So I started adding high-contrast stickers along the neck, just to give myself a visual anchor. Honestly, a guitar without any markers? I don't know… not for me.

Maybe on the side of the neck, like with violas or something — but yeah, I get it.

Exactly. Just like some classical players do.

I’ve got a couple of Strandbergs — those headless guitars. They’ve got these Luminlays — glow-in-the-dark side dots. Took me two years to realize they actually glow on stage. Pretty handy when you're in total darkness. Suddenly you do know where you're landing. But here’s what I really want to ask: when you go hunting for obscure guitar models — whether it’s on eBay or wherever — what are you actually looking for? What are your criteria? Like, say you sit down one afternoon and feel like browsing — what catches your eye?

That’s always been a bit of a thrill for me. Although I’ve got to say: eBay has changed a lot over the past twenty years — the whole climate around buying and selling has really deteriorated. It’s getting harder and harder to find anything interesting there.

People have become what I’d call pseudo price-conscious. Meaning, they base their prices not on what an instrument is worth, or even what someone actually paid — but simply on what someone asked for once. And that sets a false precedent.

The result? You see some idiot list a mediocre instrument for a completely inflated price — and that becomes the new reference. Someone else sees it and thinks, Oh, I guess that’s what this model goes for now. So they copy the price, not realizing no one ever actually bought it at that price.

And that ruins everything — because now the market is saturated with overpriced junk, and the overall price level gets pulled way up, even for total crap. But that’s just a side note...

Totally agree, yeah.

You know, what I found inspiring for a while was this whole idea of working with bad instruments — especially those old Japanese department store guitars. The kind you’d find at Hertie or Karstadt back in the day. I used to collect a lot of them, but I’ve since sold off most — only kept a few special ones. The original idea, my philosophy if you will, came from this notion of turning sickness into a weapon. Like: if you’ve got an instrument that’s not great, it kind of forces you to fight harder — and in doing so, maybe it gives you some kind of superpower. That was my thinking for a long time.

So I was always on the lookout for oddball guitars that had something — some kind of mojo. They had to be visually unique, quirky, or just plain strange. And ideally, they had to be one-trick ponies — guitars that could do something no other guitar could.

That’s what I was hunting for back then. I experimented a lot with those guitars. But once I improved as a player, they started to frustrate me. I began to want instruments that, at the very least, offered a basic level of playability and comfort.

That’s when I shifted focus — and started to appreciate certain models like the Squier Classic Vibe series. From a price-performance standpoint, they’re amazing. Especially the early runs from China — some of those are just shockingly good. I’ve held original Fenders in my hands that cost €1,200, and honestly, the Squier for €350 played and sounded just as good. It’s wild.

But like you said, your question was more about the hunt. That led to what I’d call the third phase of my collecting obsession: project guitars. If you go on eBay and search for “project” or add terms like “broken” or “defective” — that’s where it gets really interesting.  When you enter a search like “musical instruments > guitar > project,” or “damaged,” or “partially working,” you end up finding all the weird stuff — things that people have butchered, sometimes with the best intentions. And visually — oh man, there’s some incredible stuff.

Hand-painted guitars, sanded-down finishes, covered in rivets or even woodburned designs. I’ve come across Tele and Strat copies from the late ’70s with these wild floral patterns literally burned into the lacquer. And then sometimes, you’ll come across a guitar where you can tell: this person knew what they were doing — they just made a small mistake.

So you buy it, fix that one thing, and suddenly: boom, you’ve got a great instrument. That’s the ultimate reward. And that’s kind of what happened with the Flying V I told you about — that guitar originally came from a company called J, which is basically the cheapest OEM guitar manufacturer in the world. They produce more guitars per day than Gibson and Fender combined — many with no headstock logo at all. They operate out of Malaysia, the Philippines, all over Southeast Asia. They crank out entry-level instruments in the €100–€250 range.

That Flying V — before it got its Hendrix-style paint job — was just one of those. And the guy who painted it clearly put a lot of love into it. He just didn’t realize the bridge was mounted in the wrong spot.

Yeah — it’s exactly what you said. I still dream of those stories, you know? The ones where you walk into a pawn shop and find a guitar for $250 that turns out to be a gem. Every time I pass a pawn shop in London, I hope it’ll happen. That mythical find.

But those days are long gone. That era is over. The same thing has happened to secondhand prices — it’s not about realistic value anymore, just inflated expectations. And that’s true in pawn shops, secondhand stores, flea markets... you’ll find total junk — cheap Chinese or Thai guitars that probably cost the original owner €100 — and now someone’s asking absurd prices for them. Because they think someone might be dumb enough to pay it.

I remember that hit me hard years ago in New York. I was in the Village, checking out all the used record stores — Baker Street Records and the usual spots — and popped into some secondhand guitar shops. And even back then, it pissed me off. You’d see a junky old guitar in the window for $800, and it was obvious: they were just hoping some Japanese tourist would eventually walk in and drop the money — just to have a cool piece of wall decor.

It’s exactly what you read about in those old rock’n’roll memoirs — finding the hidden treasure in a dusty corner. But today? That’s pure fairy tale stuff. Grimm’s for guitar nerds.

So we’ve talked quite a bit about guitars already — but what about amps? What do you use in the studio or on stage?

Ah yes — that’s a whole other obsession. Honestly, it takes up even more space than the guitars. I counted recently — I currently own 26 amps.

Wow!

Yeah… thankfully, I tend to go for small amps. So we’re not talking about 26 Marshall stacks or anything — otherwise, I’d need a whole different house. But I’m definitely into Fender-style tones. That’s really my thing.

My ideal sound lives somewhere close to the silverface Fenders of the ’70s. That’s my world — I always come back to it. I actually only have three original vintage Fenders in my collection: two Champs and a Vibrolux. Everything else is from later periods and not really considered collectible.

Right now, what I really love — and what I think is one of the most reliable and underrated workhorse amps Fender ever built — is the Blues Junior series. Absolutely amazing. For the new album, I spent a long time deciding which amp to use. And in the end, I went with something totally unpretentious: the very same Blues Junior I keep in the rehearsal space. That exact amp.

I didn’t pull out some rare piece from the collection. I recorded everything on that same old Blues Junior — one of the early ones, from before they started numbering them as versions 1, 2, etc. And I’ve got to say: the sound just blew me away. It sounds way more expensive and vintage than it actually is. That amp has the so-called “Dream Board” version, and it just works.

And it’s not as heavy to carry as a Twin or a Deluxe Reverb, right?

Exactly. That’s the point. When you reach a certain age as a guitarist, there comes a time when you just say: the era of Twins and big Reverbs is over.

I used to own a Twin — part of me regrets selling it, purely for nostalgic reasons. But eventually, I had to admit: I’m just not in the Twin phase anymore. They’re not practical in most playing situations. Most gigs nowadays don’t require big stage volume, and even if you’re playing on a larger stage, you can still get your signature sound from a smaller amp — as long as the monitoring’s good. That’s really all it takes.

So yeah, I’m firmly in the small amp camp — though when I say small, I mean something in the 8 to 12 watt range. That’s where the tonal sweet spot lives, in my opinion. You get great dynamics, reasonable volume — you won’t blow your ears out or piss off your bandmates — and it’s friendly on your spine, too. Plus, it just sounds good. And if you want to go beyond that, you just build it out on your pedalboard.

I’m pretty old-school in that way. I could easily see myself doing an entire gig with just the Blues Junior. In fact, I own several of them — and they all sound different, which is the fun part. I honestly can’t recommend them enough, especially for people coming from a more traditional, purist background. You can do everything with that amp: blues, jazz, rock, Americana. It always sounds very American, very Fender-y, with that nice chime and sparkle — not nasal, not harsh. I love those things.

But modeling amps — those are a no-go for you, right? Never in the house?

Yeah, not really my thing. I did experiment a bit back in the day — mostly out of necessity. During the big Mardi Gras setup, I actually had a red Pod on stage for a while — you know, that kidney-shaped Line 6 thing?

Oh yeah — the Pod!

Right. I mounted it into the chassis of an old 1950s suitcase record player — added two input jacks, and that was it. The signal went straight to the front-of-house engineer. It worked, but what I always missed was the feel. The dynamic response. The headroom. That “living” quality you get from a real tube amp.

Granted, modeling has come a long way since then — lightyears, really. But even now, I still feel like I can tell whether a tube is actually glowing or not. That warmth, that sag, that unpredictability… it’s hard to replicate. And for me, it still makes all the difference.

The direct feel.

Yes, absolutely — you can feel it directly when you're playing.

Yeah, I always notice it too. I use both — I’ve got two really good amps: a Soldano and a Tone King Imperial MK2, which is based on those classic Fender sounds. And honestly, I still think modelers really struggle with clean tones. Like, having that Tone King in front of me — nothing quite compares. Heavy distortion? Sure, modelers can do that convincingly. But with clean sounds — especially those Fender-esque cleans — it always feels a bit off. I don’t know what it is, but something’s missing.

Yeah, I’ve spent quite a bit of time digging into that stuff too — and I’ve pretty much sworn off modeling altogether by now. I live in a house where my landlord just so happens to be the former guitarist and producer for Grönemeyer — and he’s got an insane collection of amps, including a bunch of modeling stuff. So every time a new generation of gear comes out, I get to try it out first-hand. Sometimes I’ll open the door in the morning and almost trip over some amp he’s dropped off for me to test. Then, 24 hours later, he’ll ask for my verdict.

So yeah, I’ve had the chance to keep up with all the latest developments, and I’ve been exposed to a lot — but still, what we just talked about... that feeling you get from a real amp? I haven’t found anything that replaces it. And I doubt I ever will — at least not in this lifetime. That said, there are some vintage sounds that are amazing — like the old Magnatone amps you hear on early Chet Atkins recordings. The vibrato on those is unreal — so deep, so rich. And their reverb, too — just beautiful. Back in the day, especially in studios around Nashville, those Magnatones were standard, right alongside the Fenders.

There are some pretty nice reissues out now, but again — they’re big, heavy, awkward, and crazy expensive. And the originals? You can pretty much forget it. Nearly impossible to get hold of. So yeah, that would be a “nice to have,” but not something I need.

Which brings us to a funny story — I remember when Mark Knopfler’s tech said that Knopfler was touring with nothing but a Kemper. Just gave up hauling around amps entirely. And sure, he still sounded amazing — no doubt — but I thought that was such a wild shift. So who were your guitar influences? What players inspired you?

That’s actually a tough one, because my musical upbringing went through a lot of phases — as I’ve hinted at before. But what always stuck with me were the guitarists who weren’t necessarily about technical brilliance or virtuosity. That was never my thing.

I always gravitated toward riff guitarists — players with a strong, recognizable sound. One of the most formative for me, and someone I still find incredibly inspiring in his minimalism and emotional weight, is John Fogerty from CCR.

His style just has this beautiful logic to it. It’s like: Why make something difficult when it can be simple and perfect? And as a guitarist, there’s a lot to learn from that.

Like — why play a lick somewhere else on the neck when it sounds better and plays more naturally where it belongs? Especially with open strings and all that. When you try transposing those parts to different positions, they always sound off. Just take that open E7 in the middle of the neck — it gives you that whole swampy vibe right out of the gate. It’s all there.

And once you hit that opening slide on the E string — bending up a whole tone while letting the low string ring underneath — you know where the solo is going. That’s what’s so powerful about Fogerty: his parts are suggestive. They lead somewhere.

That’s always been a bit of a guiding principle for me. When I’m writing, I’m looking for that place on the guitar where the part just feels natural — and I care less about whether that makes it easier or harder to sing over. Because yeah, sometimes you want the melody to go somewhere else, but the guitar has its own logic. And Fogerty really showed me that. He taught me that some things belong in a specific position — and trying to force them elsewhere just doesn’t work.

Another player like that is Steve Cropper — same kind of thing. I also really love Telecaster tones. The Tele might be my favorite of all the classic guitar types, actually. There’s something incredibly pure about it — so stripped-down and monolithic. And at the same time, it’s unbelievably versatile. Just look at how differently great Tele players have approached the instrument — Roy Buchanan, for instance. The things he did with a Tele were extraordinary.

And of course, in the country world, there’s a whole league of incredible players — total twang kings — all wringing out the most insane licks from a Tele. That’s where it gets really technical again — faster, higher, more precise. Which is great, but not really my world.

Still, there are a few players in that realm who really stand out. One who’s incredibly underrated is Amos Garrett. Hardly anyone talks about him, but he was phenomenal — mostly a session guy, never much in the spotlight with his own band. I don’t even know if he’s still alive — he must be pretty old by now. But he left a mark, for sure. And when I think about today’s great Tele players, one of the first names that comes to mind is Bill Frisell of course…

And Julian Lage…

And Julian Lage — for me, those two go together. That’s the duo. And you can really hear everything I love about the Tele in their playing — that clarity, that punch, that demand. But at the same time, if you know how to play it, and where on the neck, there’s also warmth, woodiness, fullness. The Tele works particularly well in ambient spaces, I think — it interacts with the room in a beautiful way.

 I love that story about Julian Lage — did you hear about this challenge he gave himself? He played an entire tour using only the bridge pickup on his Tele. He thought, “That thing sounds so trebly — I want to see if I can make it work in a jazz context.” So he forced himself to stick with it. Self-imposed discipline. And by the end of the tour, he didn’t want to play without it anymore. Wild, right?

Yeah, totally. That’s the thing about the Tele — it pushes you into extremes. And because of that, it draws something out of you. That’s what I feel, anyway. It challenges you, but in a good way.

Changing topics for a second — you recorded parts of the new album in home studio, right?

Kind of. To be precise: I did some early demos at home — mainly as rough sketches to give the band an idea of the songs. But the actual album was recorded in our rehearsal room at the Alte Feuerwache in Mannheim — the same space where the Mardi Gras story began back in 1993. That exact room.

We recorded the album there over three days. The only “professional” thing we borrowed was an acoustic partition from Mark Born — who later mixed the album beautifully, by the way. We used the partition to keep my guide vocals from bleeding too much into the room mics. We played live — all of us together — and that was the only thing we set up: just this wall to isolate the vocals a bit.

We used our own mic collection — nothing fancy. No Neumanns or boutique gear. It was all very lean and DIY. But we managed to record twelve songs in three sessions — eleven of them ended up on the album. No song took more than four takes. And I have to say — I’m really, really happy with the result. Especially what Mark did with the mix. We kept saying things like, “Yeah, sorry, we know this is just a rough rehearsal room recording,” and he kept reassuring us: No, no — these are some of the best raw signals I’ve had in ages. He worked with it so well and turned it into something proper. No one would guess that this is basically a half DIY album.

Was it recorded digitally or to tape?

Digitally. Straight into a Mac.

And when you bring a song to the band — how finished is it? Do you already have it fully arranged in your head, or is there still space for things to happen in the studio or rehearsal?

That’s definitely a quirk of mine — I’m a bit of a control freak when it comes to that. So the margins for improvisation are relatively small. I rarely bring in something super rough or half-baked — unless I’m still unsure whether the song even deserves to be finished.

Sometimes I’ll have an idea that I just can’t shape into something satisfying. And then I’ll bring it in, almost like a trial — to see if maybe I’ve just been approaching it from the wrong angle. In those cases, I won’t say anything — I’ll just start playing it. Then the drums come in, then the bass. And when Simon joins in — that’s when it gets really interesting. He’s got such a wide musical vocabulary, and a very tasteful instinct. Sometimes what he plays gives me the missing puzzle piece, and that’s when I know: Okay, now I know how to finish this song.

But then I do go off and finish it. Properly.

I always feel a little exposed — like standing around in my underwear — when I bring in something unfinished. So usually, the structure, the guitar parts, the bass idea, the groove — all that is already in place when I show it to the others. Lyrics are a different story. Often I’ll just have a dummy vocal — a guide melody with placeholder lyrics or mumbled syllables. The real lyrics usually come later.

 And is it any different when it comes to covers? The album — and the first EP — both open with Sugar Sugar, which is a cover. Does that change your approach when bringing it to the band?

With „Sugar Sugar“, what drew me to the song was actually the contrast — it’s such a ridiculous title, right? It’s pure bubblegum pop. That whole era, especially on the U.S. West Coast, was full of teenager-oriented, largely prefab bands — most of them one-hit wonders. They had a single massive hit that everyone still remembers if they’ve ever listened to any oldies station.

And sure, some of those songs were actually great — but the overall aesthetic is very specific. Especially lyrically. It's aimed squarely at a teenage audience — let’s say somewhere between bananas and bubblegum, intellectually speaking. Earworms, yes. But the lyrics are usually the weakest part.

What was special for me in reinterpreting it was realizing how much the song gains from slowing it down — and from translating that silly-sounding organ melody into a floating, open guitar texture. Suddenly, it took on a completely different sentiment.

It became a different world. That was the moment it clicked. I was just noodling on the guitar in the bedroom — sitting on the bed, screen on, Telecaster in hand — and suddenly I played that intro: gang gang gang gang. And I realized: this is actually a beautiful melody. Especially in this key, on this guitar, with that slightly warbly Fender tone… it’s basically meant to be a ballad.

From that point, everything fell into place. I brought it to rehearsal, and Flo started playing this very relaxed, understated beat. That set the tone. Then Simon came in and doubled what I was playing — with a kind of soft, sliding feel that blurred the melody in just the right way. I’m really happy with how it turned out. And at the shows, of course, people always want to hear it.

Totally understandable. You had a similar approach back in '95/'96 with Kung Fu Fighting — the way you recontextualized what many would consider a cheesy novelty hit. I mean, it’s a great song, but you know what I mean. You turned it into something else entirely. And that vocal line was incredible. How long do you usually work on something like that? Those subtle touches — like in Kung Fu Fighting, that heavy pause before you slowly ease in and start pushing the phrase forward. How do those ideas come to you?

Honestly, a lot of that is automatic. It’s not always planned — sometimes it just comes from messing around, or even joking around, while trying out a song. A lot of what people now consider “tricky” about my vocal performance on some of the Hazelwood records with Mardi Gras actually came out of studio experimentation — or just being pushed.

Back then, our producer Gordon Friedrich — who was honestly a genius — really pushed me hard in the studio. He constantly challenged my delivery. He’d say things like, You sound like you already know exactly where this vocal line ends. And that’s boring.

Or he’d notice subtle shifts in the band’s timing and say, You hear that? The tape’s pulling a bit right there — it’s not perfect, but I love that. It changes the mood. What if you adjusted your vocal to ride that same wave? He’d speak in these very visual terms — almost cinematic — and that helped me a lot.

He’d say things like, Picture this: it’s 4 a.m. You’ve been talking shit at the bar for hours. You’re hoarse, you're done, you’re spent. You’re not fresh anymore. And I’d try to sing from that mindset.

That was Gordon’s strength — he questioned everything about the vocal performance until something real came through. So a lot of those touches — the deliberate hesitations, the strange timing choices — they came from that process.

I remember with Kung Fu Fighting, I initially hated the tempo. I thought it was too slow — it felt awkward, especially for the phrasing. The syllables didn’t sit right, and it wasn’t fun to sing. We always played it faster live, and that worked fine. But the studio take had a certain magic. It wasn’t singer-friendly, but there was something there.

So I thought: Okay, if this track is tired — then I’ll sing it tired. That’s where that strange, heavy entrance came from. The stumbles, the dragging phrasing — it all came from surrendering to that fatigue and letting the groove pull me around. I had to abandon the idea of counting and just go with my gut. We used to call it the “drunken approach.”

The drunken approach! Love it. But that’s what gave it such a unique character — especially because it was so slow. It made it hyper badass. We were obsessed with it — all my friends, we passed it around like a secret. I didn’t even have the vinyl yet, so I played the CD version to everyone. It was that vocal performance — in Kung Fu Fighting and Hop Sing Song. Absolutely unforgettable. And those are the kinds of performances that stick with you for decades.Even if they seem spontaneous or minor to you — it’s like when Liam Gallagher sings “San-shiine” instead of “Sunshine”. Twenty years later, it’s still burned into people’s brains.

Yeah, it’s just there. We imprint those things in a way that’s almost fascistic. Our brains are incredible at doing this.I notice it in myself too — I’m the kind of listener who can feel when something’s different. Even subtle things — just a hunch, a gut feeling. You can play me two takes of the same song — even if they’re from the same session — and I’ll immediately sense if it’s even slightly off from what I’ve internalized.

Once I’ve formed that “engram” — that deep imprint — I instantly know when something doesn’t match it 100%. It’s wild how our brains work. There’s one story that really stuck with me: it’s about the difference between analog and digital, and how it can affect that visceral reaction we have to music. We were in Dortmund, after a Mardi Gras gig, and two young DJs were spinning records — well, actually, they were using digital consoles. Playing old soul tracks, great stuff — and the right versions too, the proper original takes.

Then they played a certain James Brown song — I don’t remember which one — but there’s a specific raspy scream in it that always gives me goosebumps when I hear it on vinyl. Always. I feel it in the top of my spine. A physical reaction. But this time — nothing. That moment came, and… nothing. That’s when I realized: it wasn’t just about the song, or the performance, or the take. It was the medium. My brain had imprinted on the analog distortion of that scream — the way it peaks in the red zone on vinyl and produces this harmonic distortion that sounds different from the same peak in a digital file.

That scream triggered something in me because of how it was distorted on vinyl — and in the digital version, that same scream just didn’t do it. Same take, same recording — but different impact. Because my brain didn’t recognize it the same way. That’s how powerful the imprint can be. And I’m not even saying that to pit analog against digital — although, sure, I do lean conservative in that sense — but it works the other way too.

There was a fascinating neuroscience study where they took kids who grew up in the MP3 era — who’d only ever experienced music through compressed digital files — and they played them analog versions of their favorite songs. And almost unanimously, the kids said: What is this? This sounds awful.

Because it didn’t match what their brains had memorized. That’s the key: we don’t necessarily prefer what’s better — we prefer what we’re used to. Once the engram is there, that’s the version. And anything that deviates from it — even slightly — just feels… wrong.

That’s so fascinating. But it also implies something kind of wild — that your emotional reaction to a specific musical moment is inseparable from the version you’ve internalized. So in my case — I’m thinking of the Hop Sing Song, or others I’ve loved for years — I have them on vinyl, on CD, and now I can stream them too. But I’m not sure how much difference it makes to me anymore. Maybe a little — maybe I do like the vinyl better, because my stereo’s better — but what does that really mean?

It’s the anticipation  that releases dopamine.

Exactly. It’s incredible how we’re essentially programmed — and how we program ourselves. Through all sorts of experiences, of course, but also — and this is the crazy part — through seemingly trivial listening experiences.

It’s like triggering a reflex with a single keystroke. And honestly, that is the reason we don’t really have albums anymore.Why not? Because we have playlists. And playlists are directly tied to this kind of neurobiological programming.

Like — “I know these twelve songs. I don’t care what genre they come from, each one of them means something to me.” They’ve all, in their own way — even if they’re stylistically all over the place — become part of the soundtrack of my life.

Helene Fischer. Mardi Gras. AC/DC. The Rolling Stones. DJ Ötzi.

Yeah, that’ll do it.

It’s a wild mix, but they’re all in there. Because I’ve built a personal history around each of those songs. And that history — those positive associations — they light up my reward system. Doesn’t matter if they belong together musically. When I play them, I get that optimized dopamine spike. And that’s why playlists work so well — and why conceptual albums are on the losing end of this cultural shift.

Because we’ve been dopaminized to death, right? Like, we’ve been overfed with dopamine for so long, we can’t even maintain a stable level of attention anymore. We just chase the next spike.

Basically — yes. It’s an addiction. A craving for reward.

And the biggest promise of reward comes when you string together a sequence of songs that your brain already knows and loves — songs that are pre-coded with positivity from your past. That’s when the dopamine hit is strongest.

But what’s really wild is what you said earlier — that just the expectation of a song can trigger dopamine release.That means you don’t even need to hear the song — just thinking about it is enough. And yeah, that makes sense in an evolutionary way. Dopamine is supposed to motivate us — to help us chase the bear or find food or survive. But now it’s like... the promise alone is enough?

Yes — and just to clarify what I said earlier: it’s not the same level of dopamine release as when you hear the full song.But it does register — already in the moment when someone says, “Now we’re going to play Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” your brain starts reacting. There’s already a spike in the reward centers. It’s not the same as when the track actually kicks in — that lasts longer and goes deeper — but the reaction starts in anticipation. That’s what’s so crazy. And I think that realization — that anticipation alone is rewarding — is one of the key drivers behind the whole playlist model.

That’s so interesting. Especially in the context of this quick-fix culture — everything’s about speed and consumption. Grab it, move on, next.

Exactly. And it also creates a completely different mindset when it comes to music in general.

Take albums, for instance — you’ve surely experienced this too. There are so many records where, at first, you immediately connect with two 

tracks. You love them instantly. And then you keep going back to those two. You might even start skipping the rest.And eventually — let’s be honest — you “sin.”You start dropping the needle straight onto track four instead of letting the album grow naturally from the beginning. You skip the journey. That’s human. Totally understandable.

But here’s the thing: I’ve learned, and I’d really recommend this to anyone who hasn’t tried it — there’s something deeply rewarding about listening to an album in full. Especially when it contains songs that don’t make it easy for you. Sometimes you encounter discomfort — even a bit of resistance — in certain tracks. But when you commit to listening to the full LP as it was meant to be heard, in the order the artist intended, something can happen. I’ve had it multiple times — where I initially disliked a song, or just didn’t “get” it — and then, on the second or third listen, it bloomed. Suddenly it becomes the hidden gem. The secret heart of the record.

And I find that incredibly rewarding — whether it’s in music, literature, or film. There’s something special about stepping off the well-worn path of familiar favorites — even if it takes some work at first. And then, suddenly, that unfamiliar thing opens up like a bud — and turns into a new love.

That’s so interesting. I’ve actually just been reading Dopamine Nation by Dr. Anna Lembke, and it really made me think — I’m trying to slow things down a bit in terms of my own dopamine regulation. She talks a lot about the idea of resetting your baseline — relearning how to find pleasure in things that don’t give you instant gratification. Like taking a long walk without music, not constantly stacking dopamine hits one after the other — pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.

Yeah, exactly. Because ultimately, that leads to emptiness. That’s the problem with all forms of addiction — when you constantly keep the level high, it eventually becomes your normal. And then there’s no “kick” anymore. You’re just trying to maintain. That’s the trap.

And you can really feel it in things like TikTok now — where music keeps getting shorter. Songs are reduced to sugar coating on a candy stick. There’s no room for anything else. It’s actually poisonous for our receptive brains, in a way.

 I think so too. That kind of socialization robs us of certain abilities — at least temporarily. I really believe that. Of course, that debate has been going on since the early days of television.

True. Every generation thinks things were better before.

 Or at least slower. And maybe dopamine was just handed out in smaller chunks — with bigger pauses in between.

I mean, you’re the doctor here — but I honestly think our brains just aren’t designed for this. For YouTube, Facebook, TikTok, and five other apps running at once. And I can feel it in myself. Totally.

Yes, it’s definitely real.

Okay — so to wrap things up, let’s come back to you: what’s next for you?

Like I mentioned earlier, I think we’re getting to the point where we’ll start rehearsing for a new record. Even though the current album was only just released in these staggered digital “slices,” the recordings themselves are already two years old for me.

So I’m in a different headspace now — we already have quite a bit of new material. We’re already playing five or six new songs regularly in our live sets, and they’re going over really well. The band’s into it. So yeah, that feels like the next step — getting serious about a new album.

What I hope is that the live scene picks up again a bit. That’s always tough these days — it’s such a saturated market. But now that the record is out, and there’s a bit of buzz around the band, it’d be great to get a few more gig offers.

And the thing is — this band isn’t loud. But it’s intense. So we love playing in intimate settings. That’s where we really shine.If we can find more opportunities to do that — that’d be wonderful.

You used to play quite a bit in France, right? With Mardi Gras back in the day? You must still have a solid fan base there.

The thing is — even back then, it was tough to keep those connections alive. The French market was always much more competitive, and way more short-lived. You had to constantly feed it, feed it, feed it — or you’d disappear from the conversation.

Toward the end with Mardi Gras, we lost that thread. And I think France is just structured differently than Germany.It’s much harder to get back in. As much as I’d love to, it’s almost impossible to do without some kind of serious professional backing — like a proper agency or a label that really champions you. That kind of infrastructure still exists in France — whereas in Germany, honestly, that’s mostly gone. The French system feels more formalized — more proportioned, if you will. Access to those channels of promotion and booking is divided up more clearly between established players. And if you don’t have someone powerful in your corner — a company, a label, a promoter — it’s just incredibly hard to get back in.

And they have another thing, too — this unique system of cultural subsidies. Which, of course, is under pressure now — like everything in tough times, the first thing they cut is culture.

A lot of French artists have built their careers around that support structure, and I get it. So naturally there’s now a tendency to prioritize domestic acts. Fewer foreign artists get booked — and I do understand that as a gesture of solidarity. Still, it’s a shame.

But just to circle back one more time to the idea that “everything has to be shorter” — there’s a bit of good news lately: podcasts are getting longer! I’m really glad you took the time today, because we’re seeing four-hour episodes now. I just watched one with that neuroscientist Andrew Huberman — all about dopamine — and it was four hours and fifty minutes! I didn’t even watch it all at once — I split it into three parts. So apparently, long-form is still alive.

But that’s a different audience, for sure. Not the same people watching 20-second TikToks.

Definitely. And thankfully, your audience — your music listeners — are still the kind of people who can sit down and listen to something longer than two minutes and fifty seconds. Always, Doc: Thanks so much for taking the time to talk so extensively.

We could go on for another two hours — but that might push the limits.

Happily! Anytime. Really. And it’s great to have you back musically — especially with such a strong record.

Thank you — that’s a really kind compliment. Much appreciated.