It's virtually impossible to return to those innocent, saintly days of 1968, the year before Can debuted with the terminally weird Monster Movie. In the decades since, the efficiently wild Germans have become one of those bands-slash-reference points so admired by latter-day musicians and hipsters that it's become hard to imagine just how otherworldly they must have once seemed: Malcolm Mooney and Kenji "Damo" Suzuki's off-kilter wails have been refashioned as atonal sneers or, worse yet, ironic affect; Jaki Leibezeit's deceptively funky drumming has powered hip-hop compositions and b-boy battles; the group's tireless chug and penchant for electronic noodling have been absorbed and redeployed by disciples like Broadcast and Stereolab. Mute – which seems to be cornering the market on out-there nostalgia, with recent discs from Laibach, Throbbing Gristle, the Virgin Prunes, and the Residents – has reissued the first four Can albums, remastered and with new liner notes, and they still stand as remarkable comments on rock in the 1970s.

Monster Movie was released in 1969, and it was one of the only things Can ever did that suggested the band paid any attention to the surrounding culture. One hears the closing of the 1960s as some of the decade's defining sounds get amplified and then trampled by the band's thick, noisome grooves. The jangle of garage rock turns anarchic, while psychedelic rock's pop-hypnosis is reduced to a patient, infinite drone; meanwhile, Mooney hoots and hollers like a one-man Altamont. Released the next year, Soundtracks collected a series of scores the band did for independent films most of Can never even saw. Themes and motifs were minimal at best, and the disc tilts from Mooney's rants to replacement Suzuki's barks and chortles – it's their "patient" record.

The group perfected their approach with 1971's sprawling Tago Mago and 1972's Ege Bamyasi. On future staples like "Mushroom" and "Halleluhwah," the band squared off against itself, complementing monster grooves with sweet melodies and abrasive shrieks with mellowed coos. "Vitamin C" and "Spoon" are as funky and immediate as they are unnerving – they sound like a man at peace with the fact that he's going mad. (By sheer coincidence, Suzuki would leave the band to become a Jehovah's Witness.) Thirty-odd years later, unfettered and unfiltered, they almost sound madder than ever. (Hua Hsu)