You don't want to be in Herbert Grönemeyer's skin either. Among the three Germanic pop preceptors who are active in this function, without any of them having bothered about it, he is the one who can make it most difficult for criticism.

Unlike Lindenberg and Müller-Westernhagen, he can't even hope for extenuating age circumstances, for something like relief that he still exists at all and that he releases a record from time to time. No, when Grönemeyer does that, as he did this Friday "That's going on," it's as if Habermas had just said something.

It is not a work of light music; here the reviewers first put on their reading glasses and study the texts very carefully, whether everything is correct, whether perhaps the rhyme is impure here or something cryptic there.

As if it were a delivery service

When this singer, who has never been guilty of anything, treats contemporary issues, which he does again this time, then it is said that he is running after them; when he focuses on love poetry – and of course he does again – it is said that he is not interested in our time, that he may even be apolitical or simply has nothing more to say. It is expected to provide "comfort" or "orientation" as if it were a delivery service.

Such demands are not made of the Pope or the Federal Chancellor; but probably people know that nothing will come anyway, and prefer to stick to Herbert. Now it is not the case that its new creation is written into the ground or even torn.

What is irritating, however, is this ironic, condescending gesture, the benevolence to which every artist is entitled, only simulates in order to then let the, let's call it: reception trap snap all the more treacherously. Grönemeyer, it is said, is always best or only reasonably good if he lets the creation of meaning remain, whereby it is concealed that it is constantly squeezed out of him.

From the profound craft of this musician, who still has the piano ballad as well as the dance song underlaid with by no means stale beats and rhythms; also of the fact that his poetry consistently "sounds" like something, i.e. obeys the law of sounding, without always "meaninging" something; In other words, he keeps the promise that pop music represents in an inimitably personal way and is doing so again now – this is mentioned, if at all, in a tone as if all this were self-evident and as if anyone could. And that is very unfortunate.