Hans Richter. Episode 1: The Weight of Rhythm.
In our gym, “Iron Kach, ” all sorts of things happen. But something like this, I’ll be honest, hadn’t been witnessed in a long time.
I go to the gym to turn the stubbornness of my muscles into a dialogue with my own limits, to build the body as an architecture of will—the kind of will my brother received from nature. At that time, I still had no idea of the true genetic generosity with which nature endows certain individuals.
After ten hours behind blueprints and screens, the head begins to live separately from the body. Thoughts become abstract and crumble like sand through fingers. That’s when I grab my bag and go lift iron. With iron, everything is honest: either you lifted it, or you didn’t.
The Rhythm of the Gym.
That day, I was building myself again—slowly, methodically, like the architecture of a rhythm that still had to withstand the weight of sound. Bicep curls, EZ-bar, maximum weight. Muscle is also a material, if you treat it with respect.
These weren’t just lifts and sets. It was a rhythm—the same one later found in the drums, when eyes close and the body listens to the vibrations of the heart, not the rep counter.
And then, the gym began to shake, and the walls responded with a rumble. These were tremors with a magnitude of 7-8 on the Richter scale. I was working on my last set, away from what was happening. And suddenly, my muscles froze. I don’t know what effort it took to hold the barbell, suspended halfway; I just stayed there in tension, like a taut bowstring before a shot. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight that opened before me. With an incredible effort of will, taking several steps, I moved closer in that isometric pose.
Before me stood a Giant—a figure whose flesh already sounded like a percussion rhythm ready to become the frame of our music. He was stomping out his heavy steps in the cardio zone! It was a massive monster that shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of such machines. However, I had no desire to be in the shoes of anyone who dared to stop this train!
As I later learned, Hans (Hammer) Richter is the kindest person who could have made a career in bodybuilding. Hans Richter is worthy of the gold in the most prestigious and highest-paying tournament, “Mr. Olympia.” And here he was, wasting his time!
Every step he took shattered the silence like a reminder of the fragility of the building itself, where the walls echoed with pain, his exhaustion, his longing for the inevitability of destruction. One couldn’t help but look—everyone froze in disbelief, barely containing their laughter. The gym was rocking, tossed like a dinghy in the ocean. And the sagging frame of the treadmill was already breathing smoke.
The mountain-man was running heavily, but with incredible persistence, as if he wanted to outrun himself.
— “Why are you breaking the machine?” I ask, tearing myself away from my weights and recovering from the shock. “With your back and arms, you should be bending bars, not running.”
— “I’m trying to lose weight. I’m a blacksmith; my work makes me grow wider. Soon I won’t fit through doors. I want to get thin, ” a powerful growl rolled out.
The gym shuddered once more, goosebumps ran down my body, and I recoiled from the unexpectedness. It was the voice of a beast! A voice for which such words were uncharacteristic, sounding strange and unnatural.
I was looking for this sound. A massive blacksmith with the lung capacity of a whale! Who else but him should deliver this primal roar!
I looked at him—at the shoulders, the arms, at this rare, heavy genetics—and suddenly caught myself feeling envious of this mighty form. I knew about the Endomorph complex—it’s a classic irony of “iron sports”: the thin ones kill themselves to gain even a kilogram, while the natural giants dream of “deflating.” But for me, an ectomorph for whom mass costs incredible labor, this was hard to fathom.
— “Metal, ” I said, “shouldn’t be light. You’re not fat; you’re a monolith. You shouldn’t be 'dried.' You need to be shaped. And by the way, I need a vocalist and a drummer who won’t get tired of spinning sticks after an hour. Can you handle it?”
Hans spoke little. Not because he was surly, but because he was used to letting his work speak for him. In the forge, a man either strikes or rests. Everything else is unnecessary noise.
From that day on, Hans sat behind the drums. And I learned for the first time how long a rhythm could be held. He strikes steadily, without fuss, without fatigue. Like a man who knows that strength is not a punishment, but a tool. He is just a Machine! His powerful hammer blows transferred to the drums and became part of our band. Instead of fighting the treadmill, he simply sets the pace. He is our band’s metronome, the one who taught us to withstand the weight of rhythm just as I once learned to withstand the weight of the barbell. And his voice “drives the piles.”
With the arrival of a live rhythm, the music became denser. Klara remained at the synthesizer more often, weaving the cold breath of harmonies into this heavy frame. Her voice gave way to Hans’s growl—and at the time, it seemed like a natural, almost imperceptible shift.
The rhythm didn’t appear suddenly. It already lived in his steps, in his breathing, in the thick pause between two breaths. In his rhythm, there was no jazz and no rock. It sounded like the operation of a factory shop—like a press that knows no fatigue. That was when I first caught myself thinking that our music was beginning to sound not like a concert, but like a mechanism.
All that remained was to give this rhythm a form. Hans became not only our unique drummer; he learned to value his genetics. And I became the person who first understood: strength requires no excuses.
Against the backdrop of these antics in “Iron Kach, ” I think more and more often that one needs to build not only their body but also their spirit. We, as the blacksmiths of our own fates, create strong bonds, sometimes even comically falling out of rhythm. Who would have thought that in this gym with iron walls, a true friendship would be born—one stronger than any metal!
And I, strangely enough, became calmer. Apparently, because sometimes, to keep from falling apart yourself, you need to help someone else find their form.
In the end, we all work with metal here. It’s just that everyone has their own alloy.
Along with this rhythm, a new intonation imperceptibly seeped into the lyrics. Not aggression—rather a sense of the pressure of time, in which words about war sounded all too often. From that moment, our music got onto the tracks of industrial, and the lyrics took on a military hue.
(from the notes of Viktor Stahl)