Konrad Meyer. Episode 1: The Mechanic.
Two cylinders, one impulse, infinite drive.
It seemed we had found our strength. With Hans joining us, the rhythm section became a monolith capable of breaking walls. We played loud, hard, in the finest traditions of Neue Deutsche Härte.
Clara had grown tired of heavy sounds, and the endless marching rhythm we were following at the time pressed down on her. The wildness of the “The Final Flame” period was behind us, and the military tone of our songs had become suffocating.
— “There’s no air here, ” she said, as if struggling to breathe, “only iron, sweat, and negative energy.”
Metallherz lived on uncontrolled rage that demanded release. It was a language of pressure, not form.
— “Understand, my synthesizer is too soft for this music.”
Clara was invited to the conservatory orchestra, and she returned to the world of scores, discipline, and precision. She immersed herself in work — time grew scarce. And the synthesizer was put on a shelf.
All that remained for me, Jürgen, and Hans was the “meat” — guitars and drums. The sound became flat.
Motorcycle tuning.
To fill my free time, I decided to overhaul my bike. My Harley-Davidson Heritage Classic needed maintenance — maybe even customization — and I found a workshop on the outskirts known as “Volt’s Garage.”
The garage turned out to be more than a workshop — it was a kind of enclave of engineering thought. In such places, sound is not born — it is anticipated.
And you don’t understand it with your ears — but with your body. The old industrial hangar breathed history: soot-blackened beams, brick soaked in oil and gasoline, and a high ceiling where metallic echoes wandered.
There was no sterility here. Every surface carried traces of experimentation — as if the space itself demanded intervention. This was a place where machines were not simply serviced, but reinterpreted.
In the far corner of the hangar stood a car that looked as if it had been forgotten in time. A GAZ-21 Volga — massive, heavy, chrome-polished. Despite the thin layer of dust suggesting it hadn’t moved in a long time, it looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line and was ready to start at any moment. In that metal already existed what we were searching for in music — not noise, but vibration of form. It was not abandoned, but patiently waiting for its moment.
This relic said a lot about the owner of the workshop. He did not choose easy solutions, but he respected eras — he respected mass. It was important to him that a thing had weight, history, and the right to a new life.
Konrad “Volt” Meyer did not give the impression of a man who rushes. He moved slowly, conserving gestures, as if each one cost effort — like old diesel engines that think for a long time before working for decades. There was no chaos in his workshop, although at first glance it seemed otherwise. Every tool lay where it had last been left, because that was exactly where it belonged.
He treated machines the way others treat pets — with affection. Konrad did not stroke metal; he seemed to talk to machines. He simply knew where they hurt. And that was enough.
He spoke little, but when he did — it was to the point. His sentences resembled short instructions from old manuals: no extra words, but full of meaning. At times it felt as if he thought not in sentences, but in engine revolutions. I caught myself thinking that Konrad hears the world differently — not with ears, but through vibration. He does not listen to sound. He feels it.
The nickname “Volt” did not come from electricity, as many assumed. It was simply that around him there was always a sense of tension — calm, focused, ready to turn into action at any moment. Like a fully charged battery that does not boast about its power.
Watching Konrad, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
His profile — sharp, carved out of shadow and focus — seemed painfully familiar.
There was
in him that fanatical, almost ascetic seriousness of a man
fighting an invisible enemy.
The kind of gaze belonging to those who are certain: beneath the
familiar surface, something greater is hidden — and one day,
it will have to be confronted.
Exhaust sound.
While I explained the problems, he crouched by my bike’s exhaust pipe, literally absorbing the vibration of the running engine. When sound stops being sound, it becomes a functional force.
— “Hear that?” he shouted over the roar. “Your V-Twin is missing a beat in the low end. All good. It’s not a breakdown — it’s… syncopation.”
He paused for a second, then added:
— “I’ll put on a different exhaust for you — one that gives metal a voice. It’ll sound as steady as your industrial.”
I looked at him in surprise.
“Basically, ” he said, noticing my confusion, “we’ll remove your stock dual pipe. Install a two-in-one setup, a short resonator, and a few baffles. We’ll tune the AFR. It’ll punch the lows into metal like a press in a factory hall.”
Trying to process what I had just heard, I looked at Clara. She was standing by the workbench where, among the tools, lay a strange device resembling a miniature grand piano. But that is another story.
(from the notes of Viktor Stahl)
See section
Artifacts:
Technical notes on the 2-into-1 exhaust system of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle.