I first met Damo Suzuki in London in March 2004 on an interview assignment for The Wire. And while not starstruck as such, I experienced that frisson of excitement when meeting someone whose music has been important to me. And as vocalist with Can between 1970-73, Damo certainly fitted the bill. He was friendly and funny, but very sharp, and took some persuading to talk about his time in that group. He clearly resisted being defined by such a short period of his musical life, despite, or maybe because of, how well loved it was.

By then he was on his Never Ending Tour, and at each venue he would play a completely improvised set with a different line-up of local musicians – or “sound carriers” as he called them – most of whom he’d never met before. They could be from rock or jazz, but Damo had also sung with a brass ensemble and years later performed with a string quartet. Crucially, he had an unwavering confidence that, by serendipity, they would always make some kind of magic together.

“If I already have a concept for tomorrow, then much better sleep in a bed,” he explained. “I like to only make music when I don’t know what happens.” Or as Don Van Vliet aka Captain Beefheart once said about having to explain the creative process, “If you call it you stop the flow”.

During our conversation I mentioned that I played drums. Damo’s eyes lit up and he immediately invited me to play with him when he was next in town. This was surprising but not totally unprecedented. When I travelled to Fribourg, Switzerland in 1994 to cover Towering Inferno’s premiere of Kaddish, I ended up joining the group as a percussionist for six years. Then again, so many music business promises come to nothing that I thought little more of it.

But two months later, Damo emailed to inform me that I would be the drummer in The Damo Suzuki Network at The Bull & Gate, Kentish Town, North London, on 14 July, and that I could invite some other sound carriers too. I asked Rob Mills (saxophone, electronics) and Giles Perring (guitar), neither of whom knew anything about Damo. Like myself, Ivor Kallin (bass, violin) was a big fan, while Ian Sturgess (bass, percussion) was somewhere in between. As I was keen to avoid assembling some kind of ersatz Can, this gave the ensemble a good yin-yang balance and the gig was a success. I can still vividly recall sitting behind the kit onstage, thinking: Bloody hell, I’m playing with Damo Suzuki!

It could have all been very different. Born in 1950, in Oiso near Yokohama, Japan, Damo always identified as an outsider and in his youth became an itinerant hippy-ish figure, famously meeting Can when he was busking in Munich. After leaving the group, Damo concentrated on working to support his family in Cologne and had a spell as a Jehovah’s Witness. In 1983 he nearly died from cancer and by the mid-80s had been drawn back to playing live, which led onto the Never Ending Tour. He likened it to his travelling lifestyle, saying, “If you think about the end, then better not to start.” It felt almost obsessive, as if it was safer to always keep moving forward and away from the past, and the illness that had almost killed him. But it was also a chance to “get these positive energy together and walk to front, step by step for better world.”

No improvisor – or instant composer, as Damo called himself – can be totally free and he had certain vocal tropes, from a light whisper through rhythmic incantations to a basso profundo growl. But it’s rarely been stated what an empathetic, expressive singer he was. Ian Sturgess recalls playing with him on that night in North London in 2004: “Damo sensed even subtle shifts in the music and adapted his vocal lines to fit. At one point I started playing a tune on the bass with a bottleneck and Damo immediately responded with a great melody that fitted in with it.”

My last meeting with Damo was in 2007 at the party of a mutual friend, where, in a herbally enhanced state, we all danced to a set of disco bangers including “Discotizer” by BT Express. I was due to play with him again in London in 2011, but sadly, I was unwell and had to step down.

Michelle Heighway’s 2022 documentary Energy was a shock. In it, Damo revealed that he had been diagnosed with cancer again in 2014 and was only given a ten per cent chance of survival. He emailed me in October 2016, saying, “‘Never Ending’ is still going, but due to my illness since September 2014, I’ve done only five concerts recently. I’ll back on the road again in May next year after two surgeries in December and February.” At the time I had no idea of the severity of his illness and just assumed it was something routine. He signed the email, “Have a nice day! Energy! Damo@Cologne”. He resumed playing live in 2017 and was often in pain, but he viewed making music as healing, energising.

Although no longer a Jehovah’s Witness, Damo was still religious. His last email to me, in January 2023, ended with a quote from Proverbs. “Her ways are pleasant ways, and all her paths are peace. She is a tree of life to those who take hold of her; those who hold her fast will be blessed.” I replied, asking if he was OK but got no reply. I’ve since heard that his life had become a daily struggle, but he’d become a grandfather and wanted to spend as much time as he could with his family.

Damo reminded me of Daevid Allen, who I interviewed in 2001, in that while they were obliged to operate to an extent within the music business, they were quite unlike most others who did. They both were fiercely individual, uncompromising, and knew what they were about. To use a cliche, they walked it like they talked it.

“There is only one way,” Damo said, “Always forward.” Always looking towards future days.

Read Mike Barnes's 2004 interview with Damo Suzuki in The Wire 245 via the online library of back issues here.