When I was 15 I saw Modest Mouse at the 400 bar with the Murder City Devils. I had been given a tape with MM’s “The Lonesome Crowded West” by my friend who had bought the tickets, but I had listened to it not more than twice. And as for the Murder City Devils, well, this was the first I ever heard of them. The show was mind blowing, actually, both shows were mind-blowing. The 6 devils, crammed onto the stage, the singer devouring the mic. Then Modest Mouse, a barely controlled 3 piece setting the place on fire with strange chords and lispy chanting. The shows were great, but I felt distanced from the music. That it took some getting used to, even over the course of the show. By the end of each set, I was in love with the bands. I left the bar that night thinking, “I should have listened to that tape more.”
It’s a strange phenomena; seeing a band live can make you love them in a way you never thought possible. When you were only at the show for your favorite band, dropping your hard-earned ducats right away on that smeedium t-shit you refuse to buy online. You realize as you watch the opener that you could have done without that case of Primo, and instead used the money on that opening band’s t-shirt as well. After the show, you buy your new favorite band’s entire discography and patiently wait with bated breath their return to your fair city, wishing you’d used the money you spent on your then-favorite band’s t-shirt on the opener you failed to fully appreciate. Only the opener band breaks up before that can happen and you curse your dumb ass for not really appreciating the show you saw as you were seeing it. With that said, I sure hope Mates of State make it back to the twin cities at least one more time. There are other bands, however, that will not be gracing us with their presence ever again.
Exhale.
After eleven years, darlings of Kill Rock Stars (via Olympia Washington), the three-piece all-girl indie-rock juggernaut Sleater-Kinney called it quits last summer and I still feel the loss as I listen to their music.
I saw Sleater-Kinney twice in the span of less than a week a few years ago. I can say right now that they put on one of the best rock n roll shows I’ve ever seen. Forget what you’ve heard about genres. Forget riot-grrrrl and indie-rock; this is rock n roll at its most pure. And maybe the reason I’m writing this is that those of you who do actually read this blog might be so inspired to check out one of the greatest rock bands to emerge out of the bog of american indie-rock of the last decade.
I got into Sleater-Kinney because I heard the name so damn much at strange times and in short blurbs and I wanted to understand why SK became a household name. Sophomore Year of college (2003) I picked up “Call the Doctor” based on a glowing review from the All Music Guide and, it being their sophomore release as a step up from their mid-fi debut, that it seemed like a good place to start—especially with a song title like “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone.” “Call the Doctor” was a raw, amaturish slice of wailing Riot Grrl punk rock, filled with alternating hooks and dissonant guitar fuzz. Sleater-kinney was clearly rooted in pop structures, but executed it with such dynamic aggression and addictive melody, each album left me wanting more. One album led to another, and slowly, I moved through the refined indie rock of “Dig Me Out,” the introspection of “The Hot Rock” and sophistication of “All Hands on the Bad One,” the abrasive pop of “One Beat,“ and finally the fuzzy balls-out epic rock n roll fury of the Dave Fridman produced “The Woods.”
Catching them half-way through their career wasn’t so much of a disadvantage, so much as an incentive to want to catch up. Starting from the beginning of a discography allows a listener to follow the evolution of a band’s sound as it happened, albeit not in real time. Each new release carries the weight of all the albums that came before, as it sheds the skins that fit a little too snugly, dropping tails and growing thumbs as the walk deeper into the uncharted dry land continues. I finally saw Sleater-Kinney in support of what stands as their last (seventh) album. A concert in honor of what no one at the time knew would be their swansong, which strangely mirrored for me another swansong concert that occurred not more than 5 years prior in the exact some place.
I had the good fortune, nay, the privilege, to experience one of the last great concert experiences in my young life back in the fall of my senior year of high school (Roughly, October of 2000). A girl in one of my classes, let’s call her Scowly Erica, and I had at some point during one of my late-night caribou binges, discussed a band called At the Drive In, and how they were playing First Ave in the near future. This of course, is the same girl who stopped talking to me after she saw me putting a Dido song onto a mixtape I was making because a friend had to practice his Britney Spears dancing for his upcoming rejection from the U of M dance program. I didn’t understand why liking Dido was grounds enough to never speak to someone again. Later, I came to realize that this was my first experience of hipster pretense. I think it is fair to say that it has left its mark. And now I understand that yes, Dido is grounds enough to stop talking to someone indefinitely. j/k.
About this time, I had just purchased “Relationship of Command” because that one part near the end where the guy is singing something about “billion miles away” when he got a letter or something, really made the screaming over the first part of the song worth wading through. At that point, I was a casual listener at best. I had trouble getting into the album. It was a far cry from the Nine Inch Nails and NOFX that I was listening to in those days, at least in the “N” section of my music library. Shit, I was still listening to Clear Channel stations and punk rock samplers from Hot Topic back then. Anyway, there was clearly something different going on with this At the Drive-In business; a visceral, unbridled hysteria that I couldn’t quite capture with my musical lasso. I didn’t want to go to the show without knowing anything the band had done, so I decided that “Sleepwalk Capsules” was going to be my anthem; that when they played that song, it would be for me, and I would scream along like a patriot at a tractor pull.
It was one of those bills that no one could really be ready for. Cursive opening for the Murder City Devils opening for At the Drive in. By today’s standards, the Rat Pack had arrived at First Ave. Rarely, if ever, is a bill so awesomely stacked. Each performance was more electric than its predecessor. Cursive screamed and strummed in the classic indie-rock effortlessness that separates the introspective from the posturing. The six piece Devils took to the stage like a gang of drag-strip hooligans, preaching a gospel of pure rock n roll that most have forgotten or misinterpreted. And At the Drive In, well to those of you who never had the chance, take the best parts of the Mars Volta and Sparta, and turn it to 11. It was a rock and roll show filled with break-dancing, sonic textural experimentation in action, and gut-punching rhythms. I stood there, mouth agape, not fully realizing how special that night was. That I was watching what would become one of my favorite bands of all time (actually, both ATDI and MCD are up there on my Musical Olympus). Following the tour, At the Drive In called it quits. As did the Murder City Devils.
Fueled by my new-found love for this amazing group of musicians, I started working backwards through their catalogue and having some trouble with getting into their early work. “Relationship of Command” is a lush tour-de-force in the truest sense, and one of the greatest loud-rock albums of all time. Right out of the gate the intense outpouring of energy is coupled with click-locked cohesive technical precision, with a lush, clean-but effective production courtesy of Rick Rubin. The early albums like “In Casino/Out” and “Acrobatic Tenement,” seem amateurish and raw in a way that, in light of the evolutionary glory of “Relationship of Command.” It’s kind of like asking, if given the opportunity, would you like to date a homo-erectus, when you could go straight to a homo-sapien? Sure, homo-erectus has got the whole furry-freak thing going on that made the 70’s porn community so damn sexy, strong hands, good outdoorsman, but really, those knuckle-calluses can get a bit bothersome when hand-holding. But then again, dating a homo-erectus can help you appreciate your homo-sapien. Given the choice, I think most would recognize the wonderful evolutionary progress of their Homo-sapien, and stick with the top of the food chain. I think the problem is that when we dig backwards, we’re expecting to find the same person/band that we’ve met at the high watermark.
But no, in our quest backwards in evolution, more often than not, we find monkeys. That’s where I find myself with At the Drive In. I love their relationship of Command and even it’s predecessor EP “Vaya.” But beyond that, reaching backwards is quite the task. Maybe, had I walked the evolutionary path with At the Drive-In, gone to see their shows at the Foxfire Lounge with crowds of 15 to 25 during their Acrobatic Tenement tour, these recordings may have a special place in my heart.
HOWEVER, they just don’t. Sadly, I think lots of great music gets dismissed and embraced based on point of entry into the catalogue. Starting at the beginning is the best way to learn to love a band’s catalogue, and appreciate their latter works even more. I played “Good Things” for my long-time friend and bandmate JW, and he just couldn’t get past the early era SK signature yelping. A few months ago, he told me about how he really liked Sleater-Kinney’s newer stuff, which made me very happy. However, it makes me wonder if he’ll ever be able to nod his head to “Good Things” as if to say “keep rocking” with every beat, or to shake his head “no” to “Stay Where You Are” as if to say “Don’t stop a-rockin.” It might just be too primitive in some lenses.
“The Woods” is light years ahead of “Call the Doctor” in musicianship, arrangement, production, and songcraft; and it’s these qualities that may eclipse the raw beauty of their early work to new found listeners. There’s no real thesis to this, I should warn you, now that you’re balls-deep in this rhetoric. I guess what I am forewarning is that I predict my experience with At the Drive In will be the case with folks who might catch the caboose of the Sleater-Kinney train. It’s hard to go from a box of fresh Ritz crackers, to a box of older Ritz crackers. Then again, some of us love crackers no matter what, the varying levels of freshness add variety. Then again, some people buy Ritz crackers because they like crackers, and others buy Ritz crackers because they think of them as little edible plates. Sleater-Kinney are all kinds of crackers. I guess that’s what I’m trying to get across. I guess this is a head’s up to cracker lovers who live in a house with binge eaters: Soon your Ritz will be nothing more than an a empty plastic tube in a faded red box.
Still there’s hope. For some people, the point of entry is a key to the entire catalogue, which I hope is the case for any of Sleater-Kinney’s newly acquired fans—who I predict will be anyone happening to catch an endangered Sleater-Kinney song on the radio. I saw them at first ave from my perch on the 2-hour balcony where I could survey the stage and the 3 warriors of rock that kicked, shouted, and swung their axes like the noble leaders of ancient warrior tribes; seasoned by years of battles and conquests, wearing their confidence like the blood of their enemies. What was once riot-grrl punk rock has evolved into a rock n roll spectacle for the ages. No crazy lights or gimmicks. Just three women and their instruments. And the fact that they can bring a full housed club like First Ave to it’s knees (which it did, judging by the roars of applause falling between drop-jawing and spellbinding as they were worn on the faces of the crowd) should be testament enough to their prowess – but of course, you can only see that live. I just leaned over the balcony and smiled, realizing that what I was seeing was very special.
“These women rock.”
The next week I was in Vermont on a detour to montreal which is a whole'nother story, and found that SK was visiting at the same time. This time I knew what to expect; and I met them with singing, dancing, screaming, staring and cheering from a whisky-soaked puddle 3 people deep from Corrin Tucker. There are very few bands that can be counted on to deliver an amazing show every time. Sleater-Kinney is one of those bands. Ween is another. Sigur Ros is another. All heavy hitters. All breath-taking to experience. At the Drive-In carried an essence of that. And I have the feeling Damiean Jurado has it too.
Both At the Drive In and Sleater-Kinney had spent nearly a decade touring before the masses gave them the big nod, their sunlight barely peaking the horizon. Both of these bands have called it quits at what seems to be the highest peak in their musical evolution. Out at the highest watermark. Answering a question blurted emphatically from the mouth of a certain record store clerk at Championship Vinyl: “Is it better to burn out than to fade away?” Indeed, it is the former. As much as I’d like to see these two bands keep cranking out albums from their new evolutionary points, there is something of great value in leaving on such a high note. It completes the phrase “all that could have been…” with a strong “was.” We don’t like to think that something leaving us wanting more is truly an end. However, when we step back and take a look at it, we realize that the end we’ve been left with is a true piece of art: a creative body that extends outwards, beyond its medium, to leave fingerprints on the listener and a desire to hold the hand that left them. Only the hand is but a memory.
For those of us who were along for the ride (be it from the very beginning, or having hopped on somewhere in the middle) it is like an ever-ringing note just before the massive crashes of the finale of some great symphonic movement, preserving us in an infinity of greatness that we’ve been heading towards all along. To those of us who just arrived as that last note is hit, the gems and jewels will be more challenging to unearth, and if we are able to dig our way back and walk the evolutionary path, we’ll still be haunted by that sense of “If only I could see them live one more time, I’d appreciate it so much more.”
So it goes.
Gavin
|
