Gila were among the most atmospheric of the krautrock bands — the vehicle of the guitarist Conny Veit, whose fiery, fuzzed playing and gift for cosmic landscape made their two albums small classics of the genre. From the electric storm of their debut to the meditative, Native-American-themed concept album that followed, Gila moved between two very different worlds, linked only by Veit’s extraordinary guitar.

The short version

Founded in 1969 by guitarist Conny Veit, Gila existed in two distinct forms. Their debut, “Free Electric Sound” (1971), is a cult classic of fiery, guitar-led space krautrock; their second, “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” (1973), is a gentler, folk-tinged concept album made with members of Popol Vuh. Short-lived but deeply admired, they remain a treasured corner of the German scene.

Conny Veit and two Gilas

Gila were founded in 1969 by Conny Veit, a guitarist, singer and painter from Stuttgart, as a cosmic, largely instrumental space-rock band. After their debut, Veit was invited in 1972 to join Popol Vuh, lending his distinctive guitar to that group’s landmark “Hosianna Mantra” — an experience that drew him toward classical music and a more contemplative approach. When he turned back to Gila, it was effectively a new band: for their second album he reshaped it around members of Popol Vuh, making music quite unlike the fierce psychedelia of before. Two Gilas, then, bound together by one guitarist’s restless imagination.

From cosmic guitar to folk meditation

The first Gila played atmospheric, guitar-led space krautrock — Veit’s snarling, fuzzed guitar wreathed in delay and set against jazzy, shifting rhythms, swirling organ and washes of synthesizer, conjuring vast cosmic landscapes in the manner of early Pink Floyd or Agitation Free. The second Gila was a different creature entirely: quieter, modal and meditative, blending acoustic and electric guitar with folk and ethnic textures and the spiritual atmosphere of Popol Vuh. What linked them was Veit himself — a guitarist of rare feeling, equally at home raising a storm or painting in soft, devotional colours.

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Free Electric Sound and Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

Their debut, “Free Electric Sound” (1971), is a cult favourite of early krautrock — a wild, fuzzed, electric trip of cosmic guitar jams, free and fiery and utterly of its moment. After his time with Popol Vuh, Veit reconvened Gila for something altogether different: “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” (1973), a concept album inspired by Dee Brown’s book on the history and suffering of America’s native peoples. Made with Florian Fricke on synthesizer, Daniel Fichelscher on drums and bass, and singer Sabine Merbach, it is a haunting, folk-tinged work, closer in spirit to Popol Vuh than to the first Gila, and widely regarded as Veit’s masterpiece. Soon after, the band came to an end.

Album by album

Two albums tracing one guitarist’s journey from cosmic fire to quiet contemplation. Tap either title for its guide.

The players and afterwards

Gila were always Conny Veit’s band, though its line-ups changed completely between albums — the early cosmic group giving way to a gathering of Popol Vuh musicians for the second. Beyond Gila, Veit was a vital presence in the wider scene, playing on Popol Vuh’s “Hosianna Mantra” and “Seligpreisung” and touring with both Amon Düül II and Guru Guru. After Gila wound down he kept making music in smaller projects over the years, before his death in 2001. He left behind only a handful of records, but their atmosphere and feeling have kept his name alive among lovers of krautrock.

Where to start

It depends on the mood you’re after. For the fierce, cosmic side of Gila, begin with “Free Electric Sound” (1971), a guitar-led krautrock trip of real power; for something deeper and more reflective, “Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee” (1973) is a haunting, Popol-Vuh-flavoured concept album and Veit’s finest hour. Two very different records — and both worth your time.

Why they still matter

Gila matter as one of krautrock’s most atmospheric and individual bands — and as a showcase for Conny Veit, a guitarist whose playing could conjure whole landscapes out of fuzz and delay. Across just two albums they captured both the wild, cosmic energy of early krautrock and the spiritual stillness of its more meditative side, and their connection to Popol Vuh places them at the heart of the scene’s most visionary music. For anyone exploring the German underground, they are a quiet treasure well worth discovering.

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