German, but not Krautrock, thought it certainly does rock. But rocking in that way that a soundtrack to some industrial film on how pencils are made that you saw on some reel-to-reel in elementary school rocks. You know the one that had some oddly driving beat that eerily matched the visuals of machines rhythmically extruding bits of wood. And even at the time you were surprised at how dark the music was and it kinda made you afraid that some metallic menace might start digesting you and reshaping your structure into something much more efficient. And while the fear of corporeal reconfiguration challenged your understanding of how one's identity may require such a physical presence that seemingly resists alteration, the proposition proved too erotically intriguing and all you could do was just give in. This is kinda like that soundtrack.