‘We live in a culture of fear’

You’ve redefined rock, using samplers instead of guitars. Your music has always stood for radicalism, sound experimentation and anti-conservatism. How important is the physical experience of music in this context?
Franz Treichler: Very important. But it’s a fine line. We want to lead people into uncharted territory – but not in a way that frightens them. The sound should be physically palpable, especially the bass. But if someone has to leave the room because it becomes too much, that’s counterproductive. In the nineties, volume was almost seen as a competition. Today we take a more nuanced view. Music should challenge, not overwhelm.

You once said that good music is more of a kick up the backside than a slap in the face.
Treichler: Exactly. A slap makes you tired, a kick gets you moving. A good show leaves you stirred up, but inspired. You want to go out and do something – music, conversations, ideas. That’s the effect we’re looking for.

You were working with samplers from an early stage. A shock to many rock purists.
Treichler: Back then, many people thought: rock only works with a guitar. We said: no – we’ll use samples, mix Stravinsky, metal and punk. And yes, that’s rock. For many, it was a ‘shockwave’. Also because, on stage, you didn’t know what was coming next. A man at the keyboard, static, but sending huge sounds into the audience – that was new. That uncertainty created tension.
Bernard Trontin: That was really bold back then. We were different – and that was a good thing.

Has that radicalism changed over the years?
Treichler: In form, perhaps. But it was never a goal. It is a consequence of our taste and our curiosity. If a sound moves us emotionally, we follow it – whether it’s delicate or brutal.
Cesare Pizzi: For me, radicalism was never the goal. I just wanted to make music that moves me. That can also be something very quiet.

You used to work with samples without sorting out the rights. How did that work?
Treichler: It became a tricky business in the 90s. For the contract with the US label Interscope, we had to consult a ‘sample doctor’. We laid everything out on the table – Prince, Pink Floyd, Nirvana. She listened to it, shook her head: ‘You can tell that’s there, best leave it out.’ We disguised a lot of it – pitched it, played it backwards, put it in new contexts. We hardly cleared anything officially. But we were never big enough for anyone to take legal action against us.

Big enough, at least, for a label like Interscope to take an interest in you.
Treichler: Yes, they thought ‘T.V. Sky’ was brilliant. With ‘Only Heaven’, the verdict was: very European. And our ambient album after that? Too experimental. They asked us to release it on another label instead. Shortly afterwards, the big corporate merry-go-round began – Warner, Time Warner, AOL, Seagram…

Were there any good experiences with Interscope nonetheless?
Treichler: Absolutely. After signing the contract, Jimmy Iovine, the label boss, invited us personally. In the car, he suddenly said to me: “As a producer, I would never have let a record company into the studio.” I immediately thought: OK – this is our man. He was all about the music, not the business. Later, we were invited to a party – at a house in Beverly Hills owned by one of the Copeland brothers. That is, the family of Stewart Copeland from The Police. There were instruments in the living room, and we started jamming. It was loud. So loud that at some point the police were at the door – for disturbing the peace. Someone shouted, laughing: “We love the police!” – and everyone laughed. An almost surreal moment.

So why didn’t your career take off in the US?
Treichler: To be successful there, you have to tour non-stop for three or four years. We had families back home. Our drummer was expecting his second child, our keyboardist had two young daughters. We didn’t want to give up Europe.
Trontin: For Nine Inch Nails, that was the way – touring non-stop. We decided otherwise.

Your path was one of constant reinvention. What does the studio mean to you – and what about the stage?
Treichler: I love the magic in the rehearsal room. That moment when an idea emerges from a sound. The stage is about sharing, catharsis. But the creative process – that’s the core for me.
Trontin: Without creation, there is no concert. The stage is the result.
Pizzi: For me, creation is essential. Playing live can be hard work. But when a new sound emerges, I come alive.

The new album is full of new sounds. And full of personal stories. Take ‘Blue Me Away’, for example. A love song?
Treichler: Yes – the only track I wrote after my wife Heleen passed away. Not a traditional love song, but a cry. I wanted to reach her, somehow. At the same time, it was a way of drawing a line under things. Not to get stuck in grief – but to complete what we had started.

The album is titled “Appear Disappear” – just like us humans.
Treichler: Exactly, the track is about life and transience. People appear, then disappear again. Bands too. Even ourselves. It’s an accepting view of change. And also a commentary on our society: how very present we are – and how quickly we can vanish.
Pizzi: For me, it’s also a metaphor for our band’s history: I returned after 25 years, and it was as if I’d never been away. This appearing and disappearing is part of our DNA.

In the song, you speak of ‘The Brain of the Monster’, which is where we find ourselves here in Switzerland.
Treichler: For me, it’s an image of our privileged society. We’re far removed from global reality – and yet part of the problem. The ‘monster’ isn’t just out there; it’s inside us. Responsibility starts on a personal level: with our own actions, with our consumption.

You also address technology, drones and surveillance.
Treichler: Yes. Originally I wrote ‘shoot that drone’, but changed it to ‘shine that drone’. A trick to get round algorithms – certain terms immediately make you look suspicious. In terms of content, it’s about how technology is rarely used to help, but mostly for control. I met engineers who were developing drones for medical purposes. Yet almost all the projects ultimately ended up in the arms industry. That’s where the money flows: facial recognition, autonomous weapons, wars without friendly casualties. We live in a culture of fear, where war often appears to be the solution. But in the long run, war only breeds new generations of hatred.

Especially in an age characterised by acceleration, algorithms and digital control, your loyalty to the classic format seems almost defiant. Why do you still think in terms of albums?
Treichler: We’re old school in that respect. We love concepts, connections. Today, 80,000 songs are released on Spotify every day – but only a few albums. An album tells a story. That’s important to us.

It’s much the same with your visual work – there, too, you’re searching for a language of your own. The music video for ‘Skinflowers’ was legendary in its minimalism.
Treichler: The video is filmed entirely backwards – including my vocals. You can hardly tell, though, in the finished video. Visually, we’ve unfortunately never found a good partner – the sort of long-term, steady collaboration we’ve had with Roli Mosimann in music for decades. There have been a few good clips, but no long-term, fixed partnership.

Do you actually see yourselves as an industrial band?
Treichler: Not really. We were called that, but we never felt we belonged there. For us, industrial was Cabaret Voltaire, Throbbing Gristle – more of a performance than a genre. We were somewhere between electronic, rock and experimental.

Yet you enjoyed international success.
Treichler: Because we were different. Not in spite of – but because of. Many people said back then: ‘You’re from Switzerland, you’ll never make it beyond the border.’ But it was precisely our radicalism that made us heard – in England, Holland, Australia. That was our good fortune.

Still, Geneva is still your base, isn’t it?
Treichler: Yes. Despite all the contradictions. Geneva is international, full of languages and cultures. I love hearing five languages on the tram. Of course, there’s poverty and gentrification too – just like everywhere else. But culturally, it’s vibrant. More vibrant than I can handle.

What still drives you to carry on today?
Treichler: A love of music. That moment when a sound touches you. That’s never changed. Even if it takes more patience these days – in the end, what counts is that it has substance.


The current album «Appear Disappear» (Two Gentlemen/Irascible) was released in June 2025. The tour’s opening shows in October are already sold out, and The Young Gods will be back in Switzerland in December. Tickets are still available for the following dates:
5 Dec. Dackstock, Bern
12 Dec. Grabenhalle, St. Gallen
13 Dec. Konzerthaus Schüür, Lucerne
19 Dec. Fri-Son, Fribourg

All dates & tickets