STRAIT TO THE POINT: UGK – Dirty Money (2001)

Review by: Michael Strait


A workmanlike success, which by UGK’s standards almost feels like a failure.

UGK’s first three albums were all released within a crisp six-year period, so the five-year hibernation between Ridin’ Dirty and Dirty Money must have felt agonizing for the fans. The intervening time wasn’t completely without activity, though, and two very important things happened in the couple of years before this album was released. The first, oft-referenced in discussions of this album, was Jay-Z’s decision to feature the duo on what would become one of his most iconic hits, complete with lush, party-ready production from the then-trendy Timbaland. The second, sometimes overlooked, was the presence of Bun and Pimp on the Three-6 Mafia’s similarly iconic single Sippin’ On Some Syrup, which didn’t chart nearly as high but was nonetheless present on an album that went platinum faster than you can blink. Now, I’m not one to assume, but considering Pimp C is the man who once boasted about having a “ten thousand dollar Link medallion hangin’ on a two thousand dollar shirt”, it perhaps isn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that he saw something persuasive, on some level, in these numbers. So he and Bun B set about making their first party rap album, and the results were… mmm… not as good as they’d hoped.

See, the problem is that Bun and Pimp just aren’t really cut out for party rapping. UGK’s rap style has always been mostly about the charisma, humour and storytelling, but party rap usually needs something a little different. If you wanna see how it should really be done, look no further than Juicy J and DJ Paul’s guest verses on “Like A Pimp”. Neither of them deliver any particularly memorable lines, but both of them have such precise rhythmic delivery and so much propulsive energy that the song becomes a grade-A banger regardless. Party rapping is, above all else, about the most musical aspects of rap vocals, and that just isn’t really in UGK’s wheelhouse. Pimp’s hook on the track is great, of course, and both of them deliver great verses, but in the end they’re just the wrong kind of great verses for the song, and it’s no surprise that neither it nor any of the other tracks on this album had any sort of longevity in the clubs. It exists between two worlds, a tad underwhelming on headphones and expensive soundsystems alike.

There are other problems here, too, some of them oddly specific. “Ain’t That a Bitch” has the best production on the record, turning B.B King’s “Chains and Things” (which would make a great UGK song title in itself, no?) into the rough aural equivalent of a cruise through the seedier end of a city in a gleaming cadillac, all cocky and sleazy and smooth; it’s also heavily censored on every single version of the album, reportedly because B.B. wasn’t happy with all the swearing and wouldn’t allow his song to be used otherwise. This not only deprives us of the gloriously southern way Pimp C pronounces the word “bitch” (which you can hear in the leaked uncensored version), but also makes Pimp and guest Devin the Dude’s verses near-incomprehensible and unpleasant to listen to. Bun B’s verse isn’t as curse-reliant as the others, and as such is still a delight – “I got a letter from the government the other day/ I opened and read it, it said: “F___ UGK!”” makes me chuckle just about every time – but on the whole it’s quite a depressing missed opportunity for what should have been an easy album highlight.

Don’t get me wrong: there ain’t an outright bad song on the record. “Gold Grill” is probably the closest they come, and its only real crime is that it’s just kinda dated, consisting as it does of the sorts of cheap glitzy synths that were really only in fashion for a few years in the early 00s. They’ve got a certain sleazeball charm, though, and the song is mostly perfectly fine, if a little disappointingly benign considering the guest features. That’s really the problem with the album as a whole – it’s all good, professional and well-made, and the rhythm component is almost uniformly excellent, but most of it is ultimately rather forgettable. “Choppin’ Blades” has a very catchy hook, which is good, ‘cos I usually can’t remember much else about the song when it’s over. Same goes for “Pimpin’ Ain’t No Illusion”, which does feature a pretty nice slimeball verse from Too $hort but is otherwise just another song. I’m running out of things to say here, actually – I enjoy this music just fine when I’m listening to it, but I’ll be fucked if I can recall anything specific about the tracks when they’re done.

The memorable moments here are mostly courtesy of Pimp C, who is being his usual lovably ridiculous self. He raps about sex, cars, and drugs in that way only he can, delivering each boast as if he is preaching universal truths. His very first verse on the album contains the words “Got a young brown stallion/ And she 20 years old/ When she pop it from the back/ You see that hairy asshole”, a set of lines only he could deliver as confidently as he does (though I do wonder if anyone got around to telling him what “stallion” means afterwards). Elsewhere, he proudly gloats that he “Put my dick up in her spahhn/ I done blew yo bitch mahhnd“, straining anatomical credulity in a way I’m perfectly happy to accept. Bun B, sadly, is back to a rather subordinate role on most of this album – his technical skill level decreased a tad over the five years since Ridin’ Dirty, and in terms of charisma there’s no way he can compete with, for example, the way Pimp raps “Take it off, chick, bend over, let me see it/ If you lookin’ for a trill-type figure, let me be it”. I spend most of his verses decently entertained, but not enraptured, much like with most of the guest verses here. Big Gipp, Eightball & MJG, Devin the Dude and (I guess) C-note are all good or great rappers, but they suffer from the same problem as Bun and Pimp do here: they just don’t really fit over this kind of music, and all their verses all end up sounding kinda similar, drowned under the party beats.

The last three tracks here are listed as “bonus tracks”, which makes no sense to me since 1) they came by default with the original edition of the album and 2) they aren’t noticeably different in either style or quality from the ones that preceded them. The beat on “Holdin’ Na” is kinda cool in its minimalism, being almost all rhythm and very little treble, and “PA Nigga” is composed mostly of cool synths that sound kinda like they belong in an old-school video game. Yeah… uh… I can’t really think of anything else to say about this album. I guess I’ll finish up by saying I don’t really agree with the people who knock this for lacking Ridin’ Dirty‘s introspective self-consciousness, since Super Tight (with the possible exception of “Stoned Junkee” if you’re feeling generous) didn’t have that either and was still a masterpiece. But a masterpiece this ain’t, and it’s got far more to do with UGK being straight-up out of their element than with a lack of conscious rhymes. It’s still very far from bad, of course, because UGK out of their element is still UGK, but I doubt I’ll be returning to this album very much after I publish this review. Don’t worry too much, though – there’s life in the old pimps yet, and we’ll get to it soon.

STRAIT TO THE POINT: UGK – Ridin’ Dirty (1996)

Review by: Michael Strait:


Another masterwork, though a markedly different one.

I said before that Super Tight is the rare masterpiece unconcerned with being dark, deep or thought-provoking, and that was one of the reasons I loved it. It should stand to reason, then, that I’d be disappointed by Ridin’ Dirty. This is just the sort of rap album journalists love most: it’s a dark, dour and paranoid tour through the grimy, poorly-lit streets most Americans like to pretend don’t exist, with lots of poignant lyrics about mortality, futility and fear. Indeed, unlike the prior effort it’s primarily lyric-focused, with the production this time taking a backseat in order to give the duo room. It’s no wonder that it’s by far the most-rated UGK album on RYM, and part of me kinda wants to complain about that. But the fact of the matter is that this album really deserves all the praise it’s ever received. It’s one of the best albums ever made, and if I had to pick a UGK album to tout as their masterpiece this one would probably (just barely) edge out Super Tight. Nineties hip-hop was without question one of the greatest eras of the popular music age, and this right here is the best of the best.

If it has a flaw, it’s a fairly traditional one: it’s definitely a little frontloaded, and there’s a steady – if gradual and not perfectly consistent – trend downwards in quality from the first song to the last. The title track is the only song on the album that I consistently can’t recall much about without listening to it again, and the immediately preceding “Good Stuff” is definitely one of the album’s weakest cuts. The hook is still catchy and the rapping is still stellar, but on an album this good my expectations are higher than that. It’d be a highlight on most albums, but here? Well, let’s just look at some of the competition, shall we?

“One Day” is the opener (not counting that intro, of course), and it’s one of the best songs ever made. It owes a lot to the Isley Brothers’ original, but it’s a different sort of masterpiece, far simpler and heftier in its emotional impact. Ronnie Spencer transforms the wryly regretful remarks from the original into a soft wail of despair and quiet mortal terror, and 3-2’s opening couplet remains, for me, one of the most instantly memorable and desperately sad moments in rap history. “Mama put me out at only fourteen/ so I started selling crack cocaine and codeine,” he says, totally matter-of-fact and free from any embellishment. Bun B and Pimp C spend most of their verses waxing beautifully lyrical about the same horror, and Pimp C’s verse in particular is absolutely gorgeous – “AK loader as I get swallowed under city lights” might be some of my favourite rap imagery ever – but nothing they spit really matches the raw impact of that couplet. Bun B really does try, though: “I remember being eight deep off in Chucky crib/ Lettin’ us act bad, not givin’ a fuck what we did/ When we lost him, I knew the world was comin’ to the end/ And I had to quit lettin’ the Devil push me to a sin.”

Of course, he never does get round to quitting that; he’s pulled back into the same old brutality by the next song. I used to struggle with “One Day”‘s presence on this album, unable to reconcile its bleak regret with the proud evil that followed, but after a while I realized you couldn’t have the one without the other; the various evil deeds and brutal tales that follow draw their power from what “One Day” tells us about their inevitable conclusion. Musically it’s gorgeous, of course; the Isley Brothers were geniuses, and Pimp C’s deft little finishing touches – the barely-audible, possibly synthesised backing vocals mimicking the chord progression; the characteristically excellent drum patterns – are lovely. But the real meat of the song is in the pall of gloom it throws over all the accomplishments and victories the two of them detail over the rest of the album, and the air of crushing mortal inevitability it bestows upon all their most violent boasts. What goes around comes around; one who lives by the gun must die by the gun. There is no happy ending to this story.

The album as a whole is way more minor key and downbeat than the last one. Super Tight was exuberant and maximalist, but this is reserved and minimalist, and even the most whimsical stuff on here wouldn’t fit on the former album. “Fuck My Car” is the silliest song on the album and perhaps the only one free from any trace of existential dread, but the instrumental is positively dour and refined next to the great big brass bands of Super Tight. The bass riff is the only real motif here, and it’s not really drawing attention to itself; instead, it’s content to lounge about in the back, allowing a whole array of minimal production details to fill the song out. There’s the occasional piano stab, some brief slices of psychedelic guitar, and the occasional fog of synth strings hovering about at the edge; the whole thing is definitely funky and energetic, but it stops just short of being outright fun. Evidently Pimp wasn’t as comfortable with this production style as he was with his earlier maximalism, ‘cos more than half the tracks here (excluding the intro and outro) are produced by other people, and “Fuck My Car” is one.

So is “3 in the Mornin'”, which may just be my favourite instrumental work in UGK’s discography. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a song more perfectly capture the essence of its title, actually – that slow, distant, booming bass, those bare textural guitars, that barely-noticeable piano note and that soft percussion all add up to a song that very much distills the essence of sitting in a tranquil daze deep in the night. The hook fits in perfectly, drifting ephemerally across the beat like a lazy fog, daring you to take notice of how faintly unsettled it sounds. This is just about the only cut on the album that’s really, definitively more about the music than the rapping, so much so that I didn’t even notice the guest feature on this track until about my fifth listen or so. The verses are great, I guess, but it’s difficult to pay attention when the instruments are painting such a vivid atmosphere.

“Murder”, meanwhile, is the opposite. The song is primarily built around a simple, metronomic keyboard riff, and while it’s backed up with Pimp C’s usual little production details (what sounds like some sort of distant vocal riot, a whistle sample, a deftly-placed record scratch) the song really exists as a showcase for what might be the best verses in either of their careers. The general consensus seems to be that Bun B’s verse is better, and it’s certainly some of the most impressive rhyming I’ve ever heard in my life. “Now I done ripped out my Barrelli/ Flyin’ through yo Pelle Pelle and/ Some smelly red jelly is drippin’ out of ya belly/ Servin’ ’em like a Deli, jumped on my cellular telli” is probably the best moment, but the whole verse is nothing but endlessly shifting multisyllabic rhymes, and it’s always faintly astonishing to listen to. But as great as it is, the UGK lines I see people quoting most often elsewhere are always from Pimp C’s verse here: “If I told ya cocaine numbers, you would think I was lyin’/ Young niggas 22, is talkin’ bout they retirin'”, or, of course, the immortal “I’m still Pimp C, bitch, so what the fuck is up?/ Puttin’ powder on the street, ‘cos I got big fuckin’ nuts!” That was always Pimp’s gift; he could never match Bun B for technical proficiency, but he had an innate talent for writing great and instantly memorable quotables, and this song is full of them. “South Texas, motherfucker, that’s where I stay/ Gettin’ money from yo bitches every goddamn day!”

It’s one of many boasts that hangs under the shadow of “One Day”, sounding more paranoid and insecure than it otherwise would. “Diamonds & Wood” is full of those, too. It’s one of the smoothest grooves in the group’s discography, with lovely guitar licks and a bassline lifted from another classic funk masterpiece, and at first Pimp’s lyrics seem like the usual set of bellicose gloating one would expect over such luxury. Pay closer attention, however, and one notices that the posture is much more defensive than usual. “I flip down the Ave., you know I’m looking tight/ These jealous niggas looking at me and my car so shife/ Wanna take my life, and wanna jack, but I see all through that/ Never let these bitch niggas take what’s mine, nigga, never do that.” The usual narratives about jealousy and success are undercut with a paranoid sense of constant vulnerability, and suddenly Pimp’s triumphal posturing doesn’t seem quite as fun as it used to. His final verse dips into the sort of self-medicating depression that wouldn’t become normal in street rap for another twenty years or so: “I see the jealousy and hating, and the wicked ways/ We all lost children, praisin’ paper, smoking our life away/ Got to the point where I could not decipher day from night/ She say she love me, but all we do now is fuck and fight.” He calls it “The other side of selling dope, and out there running the streets”, but one starts to wonder whether he really believes it’s worth it. After all, what’s the point of all these material gains if they come with enough paranoia and guilt to keep you from enjoying them?

That paranoia runs through and taints almost everything here. Even “Pinky Ring”, with its silly (if very catchy) chorus about “fly women and fancy thangs”, trades in paranoia and mistrust of the mostly misogynistic kind, although Bun B brings in some traditional drug-dealer paranoia (“Mashin’ from the scene, almost crashin’, flashin’/ Cop lights keep a playa dashin'”) to flesh the scene out a little. “That’s Why I Carry” is, of course, far more explicit, with its squealing whistle-synth, worried piano chords, otherworldly synths and ghostly vocal samples underlying some real viciousness. Bun B is the villain of the narrative here, but he’s very well aware of how quickly the tables could turn. “Jackers in the dark alley waited on/ The fool comin’ out the gamblin’ shack/ Pistol to his back, took 4 ounces of crack, and a fat doja sack”, he says, almost perfectly mirroring the deed he described himself doing earlier in the same verse.

That’s nothing, though, compared to the brutalities and monstrosities described in “Touched”. There’s a great bassline and lovely, minimally-applied organs, but the meat of the song is in Bun B and Pimp C descending to the lowest levels of villainy they have yet traversed. “Bitch, your old man talkin’ to me like I’m in school/ He don’t know I hang with killers, we’ll erase that fool/ Wouldn’t give a fuck about him, but he came to my son/ If you think that I’m that nigga, then you picked the wrong one”, says Pimp, reminding me of a particularly tragic scene in The Wire. This is the one time it’s impossible to find Pimp’s villainy fun or entertaining; he’s just being a real, total asshole, having abandoned any respect for his elders and any moral centre he may once have had, fully embracing the most sordid end of human nature and wallowing angrily in it. The song is most famous for Bun B’s opening lines (oft-quoted, including by Jay-Z), but it’s Pimp C’s raging maliciousness that always gets me about this song. “Nigga I’m hangin’ out the truck, b-buck buck/ Hit your nigga in the leg, hit your bitch in the gut”, he sneers, having already killed the man to whom he’s referring and now killing his loved ones for what appears to be no reason. It’s a rather sobering reminder that, for lots of people on the streets, this sort of villainy isn’t the fun diversion it is for us listeners; there are people who must daily navigate the environments in which these predators roam, and it’s not a joke to them.

It’s an unusually low moment for either of them, and it seems that they aren’t completely free from any wounds on their conscience. Pimp C spends most of “Hi Life” ruminating on what a dismal mistake it was to get himself stuck in this world. “What ya want me to do?”, he asks at one point, apropos of nothing; “It’s like somebody cut my throat.” It’s not clear exactly what he’s referring to, but considering the general horror, terror, paranoia and mortality he’s been telling us about all across the album, I think I can guess the general gist. “Hi Life” is a great song in general, with its wonderful backing vocals, restrained guitars and sadly ironic hook, but I do think it could probably have been placed better in the album. It tracks closely enough with “One Day”‘s themes that it’d make a great penultimate track, closing the album out on a sort of emotional bookend. As it stands, the album effectively ends with the aforementioned title track before fading out with a lovely nine-minute instrumental jam by Pimp’s band, drowning the album’s horrors in a sea of relaxed, smoky barroom vibes as Pimp lays back and gives some recognition to his fellow Southern rappers. UGK were never very good at album closers, but in the absence of a proper one this will certainly do. Besides, it gives one space to think about the implications of the record one just listened to.

There is, after all, a lot to think about here. That’s why the journalists love this album so much, see, and alas, it’s why I love it too. I’m generally opposed to outright conscious hip-hop, but albums like this are more my speed. UGK never condescend to me on this record, and they certainly never preach; they just tell stories about the places they came from, boast about their successes and happily relay tales of murdering and brutalizing their enemies, and they let the listener come to their own conclusions about what it all means. That, to me, will always be the point of the best gangsta rap: it tells the story of the streets from the perspective of the villains, making it clear that there are no heroes in the picture and inviting you to picture yourself as one of the innocent civilians victimized in the lyrics. If Super Tight was an album about having a great time being a very bad human being, then this is an album about having a downright terrible time being a monster, yet finding oneself trapped and being unable to extricate oneself from steadily worsening moral degradation. That’s far from UGK’s usual style, so it’s almost a shame that this ended up being their most acclaimed album, but what can I say? A masterpiece is a masterpiece, and UGK brought this fate upon themselves by making one of the best albums in hip-hop history.

This is, in fact, the second time in a row they’ve done that, which is pretty much astonishing. Hip-hop isn’t a genre that tends to value consistency, but UGK beat the odds and made two effortless masterpieces in a row. This, sadly, is the end of their peak; there aren’t any more best-album-ever contenders in their discography from here on out, though there’s still a lot of good music to cover and I’ll enjoy doing it over the next few weeks. In the meantime, do yourself a favour and listen to this album repeatedly. It belongs in anyone’s library.

Introduction to Fam Lee

Fam Lee is a Chinese phonologist and semi-professional hockey player, who was born in Taiwan in 1984. He received his education in Taipei, Beijing, and the University of Sheffield where he was first introduced to the local music scene by one of the members of the soon to be massive band the Arctic Monkeys. This is one in a series of reviews in which Lee will attempt to chart the progress of British and American independent music from the 80s to the 90s.


A Young Person’s Guide to Sonic Youth – Part I (The Studio Albums)

Reviews by: Fam Lee

Whenever cultural criticism complains of “materialism”, it furthers the belief that sin lies in man’s desire for consumer goods, and not the organisation of the whole which withholds these goods from man: for the cultural critic the sin is satiety, not hunger- Theodor Adorno, Cultural Criticism and Society (from Prisms)

Sonic Youth (1982)


From back in the days when they were more of a posture than a band comes the group’s eponymous debut EP with the same nervy, chiming guitars and skittery emphasis on rhythm that became so trendy during the great post-punk revival at the turn of the millennium, and which had largely lain dormant up till then. Oddly enough this results in the Sonic Youth EP sounding far more up to date than some of their later releases. But then that *was* the in sound at the time, at least in the arty downtown milieu that Sonic Youth inhabited, so I’m not sure how much kudos they should get for it.  It’s funny that prior to hearing this EP I had always assumed that they’d started off their career making pure white noise and that this began to  gradually crystalise over time into more conventional  song-like structures; but in fact that quintessentially amorphous aspect of SY isn’t present on their first release. A historical curio at best. (4/10)

Confusion is Sex + Kill Yr Idols (1983)

sonic youth

Confusion is Sex finds Sonic Youth turning away from the urbane modishness and busy pseudo-tribal rhythms of the No Wave scene towards a more static and inwardly focused psycho-cultural aesthetic: their debut album, it already contains hints of the brilliance to come. Most importantly they had already started to manifest that signal openness to experimenting with texture and dynamics that would ultimately set them apart as avant-rock pioneers and pave the way for at least two generations of guitar bands. CiS is also notable for introducing Kim Gordon’s sardonic vocals to the world; her cover of I Wanna Be Your Dog, turning the original with its teenage lad backed-up-cum frustration into a howling, lustful, taunt, ripe with sexual self-assurance,  is one of the album’s undoubted highlights. Overall though Sonic Youth still sound somewhat wet behind the ears on CiS and Kill Yr Idols (the EP which is tacked onto the end of CD editions of CiS and which CiS inconspicuously segues into): cycling between primitivist protopunk, buzzing chainsaw guitar, and jumpy No Wave, they’re never completely convincing, never themselves, in any single one of these styles. But then this was only just their first album and things were about to get a lot more interesting. (5/10)

Dialectics means intransigence towards all reification- Theodor Adorno, Cultural Criticism and Society (from Prisms) 

Bad Moon Rising (1985)

sonic youth bad moon rising

It was on Bad Moon Rising that the group’s earlier cauldron of rock, noise and free-jazz influences began to simmer and resolve into something new and distinctive –in short, that Sonic Youth actually started sounding like themselves. And it’s a measure of the group’s success in creating their own sound-world that Bad Moon Rising ends up sounding so familiar to anyone who’s never heard the album before but who happens to be au fait with Sonic Youth’s subsequent material: it’s the kind of welcome familiarity and even intimacy which only the really iconic bands seem to attain to and which is remarkable for feeling so natural and spontaneous — even if that iconic sound is still quite clearly at an embryonic stage on BMR. That the ‘Sonic Youth’ sound didn’t actually come to the band spontaneously, that it took a fair few attempts for things to finally click into place, you only need to listen to their previous records to understand; that it would take them a few more years to perfect you only need to compare BMR and its successor Evol with the masterful Sister to appreciate. Interestingly — and rather tellingly for a group who were in reality only at the beginning of their careers — Bad Moon Rising was born of a conscious attempt on the part of the Youth to forestall what they feared were the signs of an impending creative stasis, something that famously led to them to detune all their guitars.

Overall the album serves as a fine showcase of the progress achieved by the band in their  pursuit of the deeper aesthetic and melodic joys inherent in ear-melting guitar feedback.  The songs, tracks or pieces on BMR whatever you want to call them, blend into each other so effectively that it’s often difficult to pick individual favourites from out of the melange. That being said, one of my personal highlights on the album is be the evocative ‘I Love Her All the Time’: a hypnotic ballad with the steady, rolling pace of an old-time train journey through the open plains and a sense of epic, cinema-scale grandeur that makes it feel unmistakably American; there’s no way in hell that a British band could ever have come up anything like this. And yet this isn’t some kind of pure, ecstatic Kerouakian-On-the-Road style kick, or even, heaven forbid, an alternative 1980s update on Cosmic Americana — even if Lee Renaldo was a big Deadhead in his time —  instead Sonic Youth seem far more attuned to the drearier, more quotidian aspects of life in the hinterlands — to a such degree, indeed, that it would enable them to connect successfully with a legion of disaffected and marginalised teenagers all across the USA and beyond. Thematically the album makes a strong nod to the transgressive/trash aesthetics that were all the rage in the early 80s,  although BMR’s mishmash of faintly political slogans, allusions to cheap horror flicks, and pseudo-beatnik poetry comes across as pretty cosmetic: there’s nothing remotely offensive or heaven forfend, genuinely transgressive, on here.

All in all, and despite its importance in the evolution of the band’s sound Bad Moon Rising falls well short of classic status. For a start the album is unable to boast even one single future counterculture teen anthem of the sort destined to light up the next few Sonic Youth albums (Death Valley 69 comes close — although in the final count it just seems to lack a requisite something, personality maybe). And yet, although it is low on thrills, BMR is by no means a lacklustre record. Instead it is solid and engaging throughout. The band obviously took great pleasure in coaxing those strange ringing effects from their guitars, but at the same time they have the good manners and the good taste not to impose this new found joy on the listener’s patience: nothing outstays its welcome. Later on they would learn how to assemble these sounds together so as to make them sound not just compelling, but positively symphonic. But for now a decent effort. (6/10)

Evol (1986)

sonic youth evol

‘Evol’ tends to be regarded as Sonic Youth’s first truly great album. I suspect that might have a lot to do with the fact that it starts off with one of those stone cold Youth teen anthems that I mentioned above, viz. the brilliant Tom Violence, the initial impact of which might dull you to the fact that the rest of the record, while it’s often very good,  still lacks the focused intensity and the powerful, devastating application of melody that would soon come to characterise the group at their best. Indeed I would personally reserve first great album honours to 1987’s Sister.

Following up on the expansive, ghostly din of Bad Moon Rising, Evol saw the band take off on a somewhat altered tangent and exploring a loping, muscular, quasi-industrial sound, that’s strangely redolent, in many places, of Joy Division. This was no musical dead end however and this heavier sound would play an important role in their subsequent musical development, a sturdy rhythmic backbone poking through the torrential washes of electric feedback.  Evol and BMR, when taken together as complementary parts of a whole, showcase many of the core components of the SY, er, sonic palette; one that the band would put to use to such devastating effect on their two subsequent albums.

Unlike on BMR though, the individual songs on Evol separate themselves out nicely. The aforementioned opening track, ‘Tom Violence’, is without doubt the chief highlight of the album, and would surely have taken its place as one of the most effective song-length encapsulations of the spirit of 1980s US alternative music — or as it’s otherwise known, college rock — if Sonic Youth hadn’t themselves surpassed it with ‘Schizophrenia’ and ‘Teenage Riot’. The rest of the album doesn’t quite match up to the singularity of the opener; although it very rarely falls beneath the level of the very intriguing. Music-wise you can’t avoid the thick, heavy bass on tracks like ‘Starpower’, even if Kim Gordon’s oh-so languid vocals are apt to lead your attention off elsewhere. There’s a pointless spoken-word track, ‘In the Kingdom # 19’, where the backing eventually resolves into a close approximation of Glam rock. ‘Death to our Friends’ has that screeching banshee-guitar lead up that would become another signature Sonic Youth move, but like a nervous teenage lover, it climaxes just a little too early, leaving you hungry for more. On ‘Secret Girl’, the band try something different, and it works amazingly well: a series of disconcerting thuds, squeaks and tremors resolves itself into a haunting piano-led psychodrama showcasing Kim Gordon’s icily effective vocal delivery. They were on the verge of greatness. (7/10)

Sister (1987)

sonic youth sister

After years of releasing records that, though, they wanted for little in terms of creativity and invention, always felt somewhat awkward and transitional, Sonic Youth finally hit artistic paydirt with the album that would cement their reputation as one of the greatest of American underground bands since Television. ‘Sister’ is the ‘Rubber Soul’ to ‘Daydream Nation’’s ‘Revolver’– or the ‘Revolver’ to ‘Daydream Nation’’s ‘Sgt Pepper’ depending on your personal preference in Beatles’ albums . It is the work of a group who, having spent the best part of a decade carefully, meticulously, fashioning their own unique, feedback-driven sound — and concomitantly creating an audience for that sound through a relentless touring schedule that took in both America and Europe — were gradually starting to approach the height of their powers and to achieve a level of creative mastery that would catapult them far out of the reach of most of their musical peers (at least for a couple of years or so). It was this hard earned proficiency that enabled the group to sustain a careful equilibrium between the tortured physicality and sheer presence of the sound — its screeching dissonance and buzzing crystalline static — and the group’s sugary, pop-nous and melodic instincts that had been bubbling under on previous records — to sustain it, moreover,  through the course of an entire album and to create a beautiful hybrid noisebloom in the process (to appropriate the title of a Merzbow album). This wasn’t just a case of draping what were otherwise fairly conventional rock tunes in a fuzzy layer of feedback, a la Jesus and Mary Chain, instead those spectacular gusts of noise constitute a crucial part of the DNA of each song. What’s more, the group handle the pacing and dynamics on Sister with assurance and ease; they’re seemingly incapable of putting a foot wrong — well, almost,  they kind of drop the ball with the third track: after starting the album with Schizophrenia and Catholic Block, a punishing one-two combo that lends the almightiest of thrusts to proceedings, the energy levels suddenly plummet on the Beauty Lies in the Eye — not bad song in itself, but everything does starts to flag.  Nevermind, because things pick up immediately afterwards on Stereo Sanctity, and the band don’t make the same misstep twice. The rest is faultless in its sequencing, in the contrasts it offers both in pace, feeling, and texture.

As to the individual songs on the album. The first two I’ve already mentioned:  Schizophrenia and Catholic Block — the spiky chiming earworm of the former and the jeering bluster of the latter, must rank as two of the band’s finest, most iconic moments. Both tracks resume the group’s previoius lyrical obsessions with youthful angst and disaffection but with an added urgency and conviction. Elsewhere, the group’s roused-up beeswarm guitar is put to blissful effect, working up a savage, nervy storm on tracks like Stereo Sanctity, Pipelink and Pacific-Kill Time. The incandescent Tuff Gnarl and acid-tongued  Pacific Coast Highway sound like the kind of thing that might have been punk’s next great guitar-based leap forward if anyone prior to SY had had the talent, the guts and imagination to ever actually go there; Pacific Coast Highway in particular manages to pack an inordinate number of musical ideas along with a finely worked out sense of emotive progression within its relatively brief span of 4 minutes and 17 seconds; White Cross is raw, lacerating, and unreasonably exciting. In fact the whole album is unreasonably exciting; ‘Sister’ turns out to be easily a classic of 80’s guitar music.

Our method does not amount to a mere description of the social structure as it exists at a given moment, nor does it merely draw an abstract line dividing all the individuals composing society into two groups, as is done in the scholastic classifications of the naturalists. The Marxist critique sees human society in its movement, in its development in time; it utilises a fundamentally historical and dialectical criterion, that is to say, it studies the connection of events in their reciprocal interaction. Instead of taking a snapshot of society at a given moment (like the old metaphysical method) and then studying it in order to distinguish the different categories into which the individuals composing it must be classified, the dialectical method sees history as a film unrolling its successive scenes; the class must be looked for and distinguished in the striking features of this movement- Amadeo Bordiga, Party and Class 

Daydream Nation (1988)

daydream nation

The most widely diffused, and the most virulent, of all the grand ‘le wrong generation’ dadrockist narratives has it that pop/rock music more or less hit its peak somewhere around 1967, that is during the summer of love, before beginning a tortuous and bumpy decline, at first gradual, then ever more precipitous —  all the way down to an all too desolate present day. You might be granted a few blippy, short term peaks and upsurges here and there but nothing too antithetical to the central trend, namely, that the overall tendency of things was always to get worse. On the other hand, of course, there are those who go too far in the opposite direction, and the dadrocker’s extremism is matched in its zeal by the poptivist’s conviction that, aside from some random variation here and there, the inherent quality of rock music has not altered in any major way since the dawn of the music in the late 50s. The thinking being that, since innovation is the main force and inspiration behind almost all of pop/rock’s greatest moments, and since musical and cultural innovation show no sign of abating anytime soon, there can be no question of any but the most momentary of short-term declines. There are serious problems with both positions but the dadrocker is, in my opinion, much the wronger of the two; his  — and let’s be honest here, it is usually a he — dogmatic insistence on an effectively monotone decline comes off the worst when faced with the only test that really counts, and that is the test of reality. Take into consideration, for example, the five year period between 1986 and 1991,  bearing in mind that by the former date the forces of degeneration would have had close to two decades during which to wreak their entropic havoc. And yet those five consecutive years were witness not only to one of the greatest creative peaks in the history of hip hop, its so-called golden age, but, crucially, they also saw the growth and flowering of Detroit techno, arguably the most radically futuristic genre of popular music of the past 50 years. Those five glorious years, half a decade, were also exceptional in terms of their impact on guitar based rock music, and would see the release of a spate of game changing records the likes of The Queen is Dead, Doolittle, Sign O’ the Times, Loveless, and Nevermind — albums that can more than hold their heads up high in the canonical company of such 60s tour de forces as Revolver, Pet Sounds, Astral Weeks, or Blonde on Blonde.  Now it would clearly be the height of absurdity for the dadrocker to go on to claim that all of these albums (and I’ve only listed a few of the important albums released during those years) were simply flukes: that they were merely incidental products of rock’s principally downward spiral.  The problem is that the counterexamples are too numerous and they clearly tend towards the conclusion that in spite of the rockist’s sideline grumblings, popular music did experience a vivid, multicoloured upsurge throughout the course of those five years, years which were positively teeming with felicitous cross-genre hybridizations and  with beautiful, previously unimaginable mutations. But all of this is just so much scene setting. For, it was within this very same cultural milieu that Sonic Youth released an album that even in the midst of such frenzies of creativity would stand out for its inventiveness, for its nerve and its ambition, and finally for its socio-cultural resonance — at least amongst a fairly large constituency of acne-ridden, straggly haired, drugged-up slackers, who were becoming increasingly alienated by the yuppyish turn that the 1980s had taken. This was to be the record that conferred the crown of true musical greatness upon the band once and for all.

Everything about Daydream Nation feels epic, everything is animated by a boldness and a daring that was unprecedented for the band, and that, in fact, revealed the dizzying rate at which their ambition had grown in the space of only two years. It begin with the very name of the album itself and a title which carries the kind of poetic heft that had been seriously lacking in the band’s song and album titles up till then. And then of course there’s the cover artwork:  Gerhard Richter’s, by now emblematic, image of a lit candle set against a background of greenish-brown, that offers an elemental corollary to the deep feeling of elation and optimism, the ecstatic sense of “fucking the future”, that is the predominant emotional note on the album. Indeed Daydream Nation is remarkable for its feeling of earnestness and hope that placed it in direct opposition to the curdled cynicism of the prevailing (highbrow) artistic/intellectual trends of the times. Granted, SY would try their hand at postmodernist goofing on the Whitey Album but on DN they wear their hearts on their sleeves and this is an essential part of the album’s appeal.

But then, think of some of the landmark underground  (or if you prefer alternative) albums that preceded Daydream Nation and that paved the way for it- –  records such as the Velvet Underground and Nico, Horses, Metal Box, and Marquee Moon. What made those records so unpalatable to mainstream tastes back then was, in very large part, the extent of their use of irony. And we aren’t just talking about any old kind of irony here: but an irony of a particularly bleak, existential sort, one that had its roots in a strongly felt nihilism that went far beyond — and actually stood at odds with — the cocky iconoclasm of most 60s rock and roll rebellion. It was an ironic posturing that ultimately took its cues from the great literary decadents of the 19th century and Rimbaud and Oscar Wilde in particular — and one that was absolutely foreign to the music of Sonic Youth.  But then, spoken word pretensions aside, Sonic Youth just never were as steeped in literature as your Patty Smiths or your Lou Reeds or any of the rest of that turtle-neck crowd. If anything they were much closer in spirit to the mid 20th century abstract expressionists like Jackson Pollock or Mark Rothko (fortunately, for them, without the suicidal depression and the crippling alcoholism) —  cue the usual commonplace observations about how there being something essentially painterly in Sonic Youth’s music, something that lends itself readily to analogies with visual art, to talk of washes of sound and of grain and texture. But it’s a question of attitude too, because at the end of the day what you get with classic period Sonic Youth is the zeal and the enthusiasm, and quite often the fast playing, of punk — that direct, energetic appeal to youth passions — but without any of the lowlife druggy, decadence that punk absorbed from its embryonic New York beginnings. Sonic Youth were always too wholesome for that.

And with Daydream Nation you get that wholesome sense of zeal straight from the get-go, from the first chiming notes of the overture to Teenage Riot, Sonic Youth’s thrilling blitzkrieg anthem to teenagehood that manages to rival the Who at their most grandiloquent, mythologising best and whose potency as a call to arms would only be challenged a few years later by Smells like Teenage Spirit. A great deal of the album’s propulsive force derives from that opening track — or more precisely from the exact instant when Sonic Youth’s scorched earth guitars kick in after the hazy-dawn prelude and Kim Gordon’s repeated incantations of “Spirit Desire”. The forceful pace laid down by Teenage Riot is ramped up even further by Silver Rocket, the latter gathering itself into a frenzied, headlong momentum before, suddenly coming to an abrupt and forced halt at the crash barrier, spinning parts and all — but then quickly picking itself up again, dusting itself down, and then coming on even more furiously than before. The Sprawl is a gorgeous study in colour and texture and one that starts off fairly conventionally, with Kim Gordon half-singing, half-narrating, over guitars that are jerky and agitated, before everything slows down to a steady crawl and the layers of feedback and static gradually resolve into some drone fuelled approximation to dub reggae. It’s something you find yourself returning to over and over again just to marvel at the adeptness with which the band manage to pull it all off. The whole album is like that, cycling through various extremes of speed and intensity as well as alternating between melody and sheer white noise, but the band always do it so seamlessly and make it all look like so much child’s play. This is really edge of the seat stuff here, folks. How can you not thrill at the way the coruscating, kaleidoscopic guitar intro to Cross the Breeze transitions, on the back of a series of ominous, discordant guitar stabs, into a delirious fireball of energy, that propels the track forward until the pace starts to relent once more in order to allow Kim’s jeering, impudent vocals to take over from the guitars?  One of my personal highlights from the album is Hey Joni, a remorseless and unrelenting juggernaut of a track that pits Lee Renaldo’s coarse howl against some of the tightest, and most on point playing on the whole record. There’s no better showcase for Sonic Youth’s masterful use of melody and hooks in setting up their highly disciplined eruptions of violence — nor of the crucial role that Steve Shelley’s drumming plays in making Daydream Nation the prodigious artistic feat that it undoubtedly is.

The album concludes with a tripartite musical suite entitled — appropriately enough — the Trilogy, that taken altogether clocks in at just past the 14 minute mark– a running time that must have bewildered music critics back in the day when prog was regarded as a filthy word and the punk aesthetics of ‘76 were still largely in force. The band got away with it thanks to the singular intensity of focus that they manage to sustain throughout the Trilogy, but also because, at the end of the day, it really is just three shorter tracks stitched together into one. On the other hand, given that the average track length on Daydream Nation is around  6 minutes, the decision to round off the album with a 14 minute concept-piece isn’t as out of place as it might have otherwise seemed.  Indeed one of Daydream Nation’s greatest achievements might just lie in its successful fusion of a punk-derived noise aesthetic with what is essentially a deeply proggy musical approach — and now that we can be adults about the whole prog thing it’s probably the right time to go  around shouting this from the rooftops.

A little bit of personal history. I first heard Daydream Nation when I was at secondary school, back in the mid 90s. I actually bought it on the strength of an NME review for the reissue which gave it 10/10. Back then things were more straightforward when it came to genre. Sonic Youth were an alternative rock group in the the lineage of the Velvet Underground, the Stooges and Television, and with close affinities to Krautrock, Punk, and Noise.  And that all seemed to make complete sense at the time. But then I never got round to listening to prog until much later, when I was past my mid 20s in fact. The sad fact is that impressionable as I was, I’d been discouraged from doing so by the hostility of the music press which had always dismissed the entirety of prog rock as irredeemably pretentious and overblown.  But listening to Daydream Nation now, it seems to have more of an affinity with Close to the Edge or Fragile by Yes or Red by King Crimson than Tago Mago or the Faust Tapes — and of course we shouldn’t forget the group’s self-admitted fondness for the Grateful Dead in this connection either. But maybe that’s just me.

An essential album. (10/10)

Goo (1990)


So that, having released an absolute tour de force of an album — the masterpiece that put the group’s reputation beyond dispute for ever, and that would also prove pivotal for the evolution of late 20th century guitar music  — Sonic Youth were, arguably, entitled to rest on their laurels for a spell. Christ, with both Daydream Nation and Sister under their belts, you could even forgive them for releasing the Whitey Album.  And moreover it’s difficult to begrudge any band in that situation for deciding to go off in more commercial directions and in Sonic Youth’s case to thereby cash in on the decade or so of hard work and creative toil which they had put into their music up till then (well hard for me to begrudge at least — but then I’m not an independent music purist). And this is indeed what transpired when, at the brink of a new decade, the group signed their first major label deal with David Geffen Records before going to release their most commercial album to date, Goo — the former event, lest we forget, leading directly to Geffen’s signing of Nirvana and therefore triggering off grunge.

So, as I’m sure everyone’s eager to find out (well that is unless they’ve heard the album themselves) how does Sonic Youth’s major label debut actually stack up? Well, before going on to discuss that it is worth mentioning the fantastic job that the band have done with the cover art. Taking a bold, pop art inspired approach, as on the Whitey Album, they have managed to produce something iconic, something that has endured. And as with the Whitey Album, the cover art turns out, alas, to be somewhat over effective, setting up the kinds of expectations that the music ultimately falls far short of: because the sad news is that, despite its several, individual, highlights, Goo is Sonic Youth’s most lacklustre album to date — even if, in their defense, the sense of disappointment should be understood relative to the heights that the group had managed to scale previously. For although Goo really suffers from its lack of rawness — the furious buzz and crackle of Sonic Youth’s earliest stuff — and even more so from the lack of sustained inventiveness that characterised Sister and Daydream Nation, it is far from a bad album, indeed it’s only one letter away from being good.  At the end of the day Goo’s problem comes down to this: it’s just way too blatant. That is, it comes across too obviously as what, in reality, it actually was: a somewhat sanitised, corporate version of the group’s previous incarnation as 80s independent label Sonic Youth.

Whether it was due to a conscious effort by the band not to scare off potential mainstream, fans or whether they were just a little burnt out from the concentrated effort that had gone into past releases, Goo saw Sonic Youth finally let their sensible side — the one that had always been present on the sidelines before — take over. Goo happens to have some truly fantastic songs — and believe me, any album boasting the likes of Dirty Boots, Tunic (Song for Karen), Mote and Cinderella’s Big Score already has a hell of a lot going for it. The problem lies in the smothering tendencies of the production that has rendered everything far more tasteful than by rights it should be, than the actual songs call for. Even those patented SY guitar breakdowns, that are normally so exhilarating, are largely drained of a feeling of spontaneity. Here I should add the slight disclaimer that the first time I heard most of these songs was as live versions on a 1993 bootleg Energy, years before I heard Goo itself. Perhaps if I’d heard Goo first, the initial imprinting having come from the studio versions, I’d have liked the album a lot more.  One thing was to become patently obvious with the release of Goo, however: Sonic Youth’s avant-reign was over, at least for the time being.  (7/10)

Dirty (1992)


I’m just going to go straight to the wrap-up here because I think that in this case, on the basis of its sheer unremarkableness,  the album merits it. So here we go:

Sonic Youth’s seventh studio album Dirty is just as toned down and inoffensive as its predecessor, Goo, even though I would argue that quality wise it just about manages to edge the latter album out. Suffice it to say that ‘Dirty’ is the band at their most generic and prototypical. (7/10)

…OK, let me backtrack a bit now since generic Sonic Youth isn’t necessarily such a bad thing, in and of itself. The fact is that, in the overall scheme of things, Sonic Youth were still a really good, if no longer quite a great, band, and therein lies the rub. After the sustained musical fecundity of the band’s 1980s output — after all those thrilling discordances and all the hairpin guitar pyrotechnics — seeing them settle into such a comfortable groove is disappointing to say the least, and especially because the group were unable to compensate for their lack of musical daring in other ways, for instance by writing better songs. And then you have to figure in the whole context of the times too.

Let’s put it this way: Dirty was released a year after the epochal Loveless, and the markedly less epochal, but nevertheless, deeply influential, Spiderland. These two albums took up the aesthetic and creative challenges set up by Daydream Nation and managed to up the ante even further; the former album serving, a good two or three decades after the likes of Hendrix and Page, to once more revolutionize our appreciation of the possibilities of the electric guitar as a means of producing extremely loud and extremely compelling noise — and to an extent that Daydream Nation only hinted at. In the meantime SY were content to carve out a rather less-demanding niche as an only slightly left of field alternative/indie rock group. Swept up in the grunge slipstream which they had been instrumental in creating, Sonic Youth managed to set themselves apart from the younger stadium-conquering cohort like Nirvana and Pearl Jam and other less commercially successful groups like Pavement and Dinosaur Jr, by making music that, although it was less melodically accessible than that of their peers — though only marginally less, mind — was able to boast heavier and more cred enhancing doses of feedback in compensation along with a few other avant garde bells and whistles here and there. In other words there’s a slight whiff of superficiality about the whole business. But this is not to impugn, or even to bring up the question of, the band’s integrity.  In theory I have no problem with bands trying to make their sound more accessible per se, and indeed some groups end up making their best music in following that route, one fine example being Tim-era Replacements.  It’s just that with Sonic Youth that transition coincided with the group’s passage from being an era-defining group to being a merely very good. Something that cannot help but colour one’s view of the music that they produced during that time period.

I’ll make the same caveat I made with Goo, and that is: taken on its own terms, and freed from some of the emotional baggage I alluded to above, Dirty is a good record, and indeed it’s often a very good record. But once their music becomes more conventional, once you start to judge it on hooks and melodies — rather than on texture or the quality of being psychologically unnerving or whatever other deviant criteria you might want to apply — then  in comparison with some of the other great ‘alternative’ guitar albums from that era, e.g., Nevermind, Trompe Le Monde or Copper Blue, well, let’s just say that Dirty doesn’t exactly stand out in comparison.  But perhaps I’m being too cruel. The fact is that the band’s sound hadn’t stopped progressing completely, even if the group’s experimental impulses were considerably reigned in. And their Goo-Dirty era music was still influential enough to provide a blueprint for much of American indie rock to come. As to individual songs. Nothing is quite as immediate as the album’s stand out anthem, Sugar Kane, although Dirty definitely scores high when it comes to less immediate but ultimately irresistible brainworms, the best of which are the hypnotic Theresa’s Soundworld, and the syrupy Chapel Hill.  And the rating, just in case you missed it above or if you’ve forgotten it after wading through the wordy non-sense of the intervening review breakdown, is (7/10).

Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star (1994)

experimental jet set

1994 must have been a strange year for Sonic Youth. For the band found themselves at the tail end of grunge: the movement that they’d helped to create, and which had gone on, from reasonably humble beginnings,  to conquer the entire planet. Careerwise, they could boast of having outlasted two whole generations of their peers and reached a point where the “youth” part of their name could only be understood ironically. And in strong contrast to the parlous physical and moral status of so many of those aforesaid peers — the result of epic, horrorshow levels of drug and alcohol consumption, with excessively nihilistic underlying psychological tendencies — Sonic Youth were going still strong, and manifested no clear signs of wear and tear, which probably explains why it was that, the following year, they were able to release one of their strongest albums to date, the brilliant Washing Machine. In the year 1994, however, they put out the rather less impressive Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star, a record that has, quite justly, gone down as one of the most disappointing and underwhelming in all the band’s lengthy discography, although top place (or rather bottom place) honours in that regard should certainly go to 2000’s NYC Ghosts and Flowers. Once again Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star is *not* a bad record. It’s just really, I don’t know, a little bit dismal, kind of  ho-hum.

One thing needs to be cleared up immediately though. ‘Experimental’ might be the opening word on the album’s title, but EJSTNS isn’t any more avant-garde, or any more innovative, than the rest of their other 90’s output, not in any superficial surface way at least: I mean there’s little in the way of screeching dissonance or crushing atonal feedback on offer here. In fact on initial impressions EJSTNS comes across as an album of rather prosaic Dirty off-cuts,  something that you might find on the second disc of a deluxe 25th year anniversary Dirty reissue.And yet listen closely enough and you can actually start to pick out a sense that, underneath that surface torpor, things were beginning to move off in a more interesting direction after the relative stasis of a Dirty or a Goo — although in a way that only became fully apparent on Washing Machine. EJSTNS can be viewed as the point when the band’s avid consumption, and appreciation, of hip hop and mainstream pop as well as Krautrock starts to become overt in their music — and not just as a half-ironic, half-put-on like on the Whitey Album. At the same time though the group was also pursuing a gentler, folkier sound as testified by the album’s opening track, a stripped down little blues number featuring Thurston’s vocals at their most hopelessly bratty.

EJSTNS with its truncated guitar pieces, often unfocused and meandering,  its hazy emphasis on low end frequencies — and a corresponding lack of emphasis on the jagged feedback baptismals of days gone by — has a real, unfinished, sketchbook feel to it . The album’s second track, the chiming  nursery rhyme take-off, Bull in the Heather, features some fantastic vocals from Gordon, and proves an early highlight. But then the rest has a tendency to pass you by like so much aural wallpaper — until, that is, the rude awakening that is Self-Obsessed and its successor Sexxee, both of which showcase the band at their most frustratingly, needlessly, self-parodic. Luckily, Sonic Youth manage to get their shit together on the very next track, Bone: a fragile piece reminiscent of the Velvet Underground at their most vulnerable and Lou-Reed-androgynous.  And yet so much of the album is colourless with the sense of boredom becoming glaring and unholy on tracks like Waist. Listen to the album enough times though, and once you’ve overcome that boredom factor, you too will begin to appreciate the subtler delights of Quest for the Cup or the wistful Sweet Shine. So that although it doesn’t get 8 or even 7 stars, it’s exceedingly far from being no stars at all (6/10).

The fact that it is still a commonplace to say that Marx had been Hegelian in his early writings, and only later on a historical materialist – and possibly still later a vulgar opportunist – is also confirmed by such intelligent editors as S. Landshut and J. P. Meyer (Berlin, 1931), who see these manuscripts as a philosophical preface to the enormous work of “Capital”. The task of the revolutionary Marxist school is to show all opponents (who are free to either accept or reject everything) the unity of the theory from its first appearance to Marx’s death, and even beyond (it is about the basic concept of invariance – in contrast to the thesis that party doctrine would be continually enriched).- Amadeo Bordiga, Commentary on the Manuscripts of 1844

Washing Machine (1995)

sonic youth washing machine

It’s always struck me as strange that Sonic Youth should name their 1995 follow up to ‘Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star’ after the humble washing machine when surely ‘Refrigerator’ would have been a far more appropriate title. You see ‘Washing Machine’ finds the band heavy in the midst of a full-on love affair with the drone, and washing machines, with all their rattling and their suggestive climaxing, tend to be a bit too distracting for the true drone aficionado.  Regardless of the title though it’s important to note that three filler-heavy LP’s and a dull novelty album into their post Daydream Nation career and Sonic Youth had managed to hit artistic paydirt once more with a brilliant return to form. And in the same way that listening to some of Sonic Youth’s earlier records you were often struck by how uncannily similar they sounded to Joy Division, so it is that on Washing Machine the band seem to be constantly haunted by the spectre of Neu!.

That the legendary Dusseldorfian drone-rock pioneers were an avid source of musical inspiration for Sonic Youth can be easily gleaned from The Whitey Album.  For it is on the latter that you find the track ‘Two Cool Rock Chicks Listening to Neu’, which is literally a recording of two lassies haughtily blethering away with a Neu! pastiche playing in the background.  And I don’t think it’s pushing it too much to read something significant into the fact that Sonic Youth’s most direct reference to Neu! was part of their half-serious, half pisstake homage to Madonna and 80s pop more generally. Clearly Sonic Youth had come to appreciate Neu! for the insight that their music offered on how to respond to and to acknowledge the precipitate advances made in popular music from the 1980s onwards on the basis of repetition and the monotony of electronic drum beats, while keeping to an ostensively rock-based idiom: that is, without having to put the old guitars away and take up samplers and drum machines instead. Not that Neu! were their only influences in this regard — and you can easily add several others to the roll call — and neither is that Neu-influence always blatant and nor is present on every track; nevertheless that influence does feel very key to this record.

Washing Machine also represented a definitive — and to my mind very welcome — move away from the more commercial waters in which the band had been stranded since the beginning of the 1990s, had in fact stranded themselves. For whatever reason Sonic Youth’s mainstream flirtations had finally come to a halt and so their music began correspondingly to swell out and lose some of its rockist corporeality. In fact you only need to take a glance at the record’s distended, prog-like, song duration times to work out the turn that things had taken: 9’33’’ for the eponymous Washing Machine, 6’22’’ for the gorgeous Unwind, and almost 20 minutes for the Diamond Sea: all of which, at the very least, offers an interesting contrast with the truncated feel of ‘Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star’.

The record begins with one of the band’s strongest ever nods to rap and hip-hop, Becuz; a track which while it doesn’t quite offer up the same levels of dazzle as their previous opening salvoes Teenage Riot and Schizophrenia, is still a pretty fucking startling way to open an album. Gordon’s leering, cartoonish vocals, caricaturing the wired-up, aggressive masculinity of so much 1990’s gangsta rap, ring out over a brutalist multi-pronged guitar assault that sounds like a pitched riot of triangles and steel tipped polygons. On the third track Saucer-like they sound like a different band altogether, something that has a lot to do with Renaldo’s vocals which have an earthiness and stolidity that’s completely at odds with the giddier, often juvenilish, vocal stylings of his bandmates: they lend the song an earnestness that beautifully complements the simplicity and poignancy of the melody. And here one should to note that overall the album brings a much more meditative and contemplative side of the band to the fore. Musically this manifests itself in a sort of restraint and, even, a lightness of touch that was relatively new for them — but the drones though, you can never get away from the drones.  And in fact on the the next track, the 9 (and a half) minute long wonder, Washing Machine, the drones finally manage to stage a furious takeover.  And OK that’s one thing, but then suddenly, and for the duration of the next two tracks, the album swerves off into self-consciously psycho-dramatic territory. Unwind is a slow slide into a warm bath of childhood nostalgia; it also feels like the band’s attempt at a lullaby, which it probably was given that Kim and Thurston had only just become parents for the first time. Little Trouble Girl continues with the theme of the remembrance of things past but ends up as a far more unsettling proposition.  It takes the tenderness and wistfulness of Unwind and watches it languish and curdle away in some forgotten corner of an abandoned institute for the mentally infirm, the distant echoes of a 60s girl group heard through the crumbling white corridors.

Now in normal circumstances both of these songs would likely have merited a few more words of praise each, and perhaps even another sentence apiece. However, both Unwind and Little Trouble Girl have the misfortune of immediately preceding ‘No Queen Blues’ in the tracklisting — and the contrast is somewhat glaring. It’s essentially the difference between music that’s appealing, but in a somewhat, cerebral, chin-strokish manner — and music that screams out for your total devotion in an out and out ‘our band could be your life’ kind of way. Granted that ‘No Queen Blues’ doesn’t really stand out all that much from the rest of the album at first:  if anything it feels like a punkish throwback, something they added to the record for old times sake, or maybe just as a stopgap after the previous two songs. But then when the song eventually does win you over — and boy does it ever win you over — you’ll find that it has become the irresistible focus of the whole second half of the album — and maybe even of the entire record.  ‘No Queen Blues’ manages to recapture the raw energy of the band’s earlier material — the edge that was so conspicuously absent from their post-Geffen output —  and Thurston’s vocals have lost none of their snottiness — without being at all derivative of the past. But don’t get too excited now kids; the track turned out, alas, to be something of a last hooray for that side of the band.  The rest of the album following on from ‘No Queen Blues’, including notorious bleary-eyed musical leviathan, the Diamond Sea, is fine and all — and don’t misunderstand me here, the band definitely deserve kudos for pulling off the Diamond Sea,  twenty minutes long and it doesn’t ever overstays its welcome — but there’s nothing that engages and enlivens quite like ‘No Queen Blues’. In fact it took some effort on my part not to constantly skip back to it while I was listening to Washing Machine for the purposes of reviewing. In summation then, Washing Machine was the work of a band that having thrown off the self-imposed shackles of spurious commerciality found itself returning tantalisingly close to the peak of its powers. It was to be the band’s last great unqualified success for a while.  (9/10)

The place of the worst barbarism is that modern forest that makes use of us, this forest of chimneys and bayonets, machines and weapons, of strange inanimate beasts that feed on human flesh.- Amadeo Bordiga, Class Struggle and “Bosses’ Offensives”

A Thousand Leaves (1998)

sonic youth a thousand leaves

Three long years were to pass before Washing Machine’s successor, a Thousand Leaves, saw the full light of day: the longest interval that Sonic Youth’s punishing work ethic had ever allowed them to leave it between album releases. The band had used the time for focusing their energies more fully on the domestic sphere. But they’d also been able to build their own private studio thanks to the proceeds of a headlining slot at Perry Farrell’s neo-hippie fest Lollapalooza.This brand new set-up offered them an unprecedented level of freedom in setting down and developing their musical ideas and eventually led to a whole slew of experimental releases around the turn of the millennium under the SYR rubric. The effects of this new, more settled state of affairs are also readily apparent on A Thousand Leaves and the band sound more at their ease than ever before — although never so much at their ease that they risk getting complacent (– they were way too self-conscious to ever let all those years worth of accumulated hip go to waste just like that).

Imagewise the late 90s were an interesting time for Sonic Youth and for Kim and Thurston in particular. The couple had shown it was possible to combine a stable domestic situation (which it seemed to have been till Thurston could no longer keep it in his pants) with a hugely successful, and artistically credible, musical partnership, and so they came to exemplify the ideal of the carefree (domesticated) bohemians about town in the eyes of at least two generations of Gen X-ers. You know the sort, you imagine them trawling around antique markets of a Sunday morning, brood fully in tow, in some quasi-gentrified part of town: hunting for 70s jazz records and ironically-aesthetic pop culture detritus (this was just a few, short, years before the word “hipster” went on to poison that particular well for the foreseeable future).  Kim and Thurston stood for having your cake and eating it too. They stood for the notion — one that now feels hilariously quaint but which rang false even back then, depending how much privilege, or lack thereof, you could count on — that if you tried hard and really kept at it, you too could make it in a creative profession and without having to completely compromise on your ideals. Not only that, but you could hold down a family at the same time, have kids, and make all of it work together.  And you only need to look at the levels of cross-generational trauma that Kim and Thurston’s split eventually ended up triggering in order to appreciate the extent to which they had taken on the status of aspirational figures at the time, with a glamour and appeal that went far beyond an original small hardcore of indie music fans.

Given this background then and in order for the group to stave off the impression of having become overly comfortable with their lot in life — the potential curse of the well-to-do elder statesmen/woman — it became ever more important that they maintain their edge music wise. At the same time, let’s face it, they were getting on a bit and so probably weren’t as keen on the prospect of going up on stage each night and attempting to summon up infernal deities or revenants by playing as fast and as loud as possible. And so it makes sense that A Thousand Leaves would take up the meandering, experimental approach characteristic of Washing Machine — except that this time round the group are in even less of a rush to get anywhere, like, anytime soon; whatever remaining sense of urgency were still present on the last album are now largely forgotten having been replaced by a sort of breezy aural doodling, a stripped-down guitar-y scrawl.  Album opener ‘Contre Le Sexisme’ sounds uncannily like Nurse With Wound — so much so, in fact, that I had to check whether I’d hadn’t put on the wrong record — an odd state of affairs even for a band as ostensibly out there as Sonic Youth. Fortunately the album segues quite quickly into Sunday, just before things start to get too weird. The latter track features Sonic Youth at their most overtly Velvets-ian, falling somewhere in between the third, eponymous, LP and Loaded, in terms of influence, even if it is sorely lacking in the easy, gossamer charm that was so characteristic of those two albums. For all that it’s not a bad track by any means, even if it will have been spoiled for many people by the grotesque promo video the band put out featuring Macaulay Culkin. Music journalists are wont to criticise Kim Gordon’s campy and frequently (badly) out of tune vocal performances on a Thousand Leaves. And on Female Mechanic you can really see their point. Perhaps the idea had been that by making her vocals as grating as possible they would serve as an effective counterforce to the stridency of the band’s guitar parts — but all too often the vocals just end up being jarring without the compensation of being interesting. Saying that, the trick does actually end up working on Ineffable Me the punkiest thing on the album by a good country mile (the track also has the band applying effects that make their guitars sound like the Residents’ keyboards, which is pretty awesome).

Of course it’s all too easy to dismiss Sonic Youth at this stage in their careers. But the fact is that for all their bourgie smugness they were still capable of creating music you could get unreasonably excited about, as the song Wildflower Soul amply demonstrates. Once again the track owes a heavy debt to those legendary Ludlow Street loft dwellers, the Velvet Underground, but this time around Sonic Youth actually manage to take on enough of the sharpness and urbanity that set the Velvets apart from so many of their successors, to make this track feel like a minor post punk triumph. The rest of the album although it’s often very pleasant to listen to, and sometimes even positively effervescent, offers nothing to the listener as engaging as Wildflower Soul, nothing that makes you want to stop what you’re doing just so you can listen more attentively. For instance, listening to their 11 minute Allen Ginsberg tribute Hits of Sunshine, is a little like watching a glass of lightly carbonated artisanal lemonade fizzing away into eventual flatness on a bank holiday picnic: kind of fun, I guess, in a distracted sort of the way. At end of the day then A Thousand Leaves is just a little bit too tasteful for its own good. (6/10)

NYC Ghosts and Flowers (2000)


The dawn of the new millennium saw the release of Sonic Youth’s 11th studio album (or 12th if you count the Whitey album, which I personally don’t) ‘NYC Ghosts and Flowers’ — a rather poignant sounding title which I had always assumed made reference to the events of 9/11, but in fact the record was actually released the year before. The period around the turn of the millennium actually turned out to be a fairly fruitful one for the group, who, along with their  ‘main’ studio albums kept themselves busy by putting out SYR records (which I will review separately in a follow-up). If you were a fan of Sonic Youth back then it must have felt like something of a boom period — at least in terms of quantity if not quality. But returning to the record at hand. The birth of ‘NYC Ghosts and Flowers’ was not an easy one, and took place under something of a cloud. For it happened that the year before the album’s release the band had had all their equipment and instruments stolen from a touring van outside their hotel,  an event that — given Sonic Youth’s well known reliance on their stock of specially modified guitars — had a profound effect both on their sound as well as their morale. In interviews around the time of the album’s release the band would claim that the theft had led them to rethink their whole musical approach and in essence to start all over again. However that seems somewhat drastic to me, since, to be honest, I can’t really hear any really *profound* break in continuity between this album and its predecessor, and both are clearly products of the group’s more sedate, digressive latter phase. Doubtless a certain lack of rapport between the band and their new or borrowed equipment might help to explain NYCGF’s unprecedented (and frankly uncalled for) emphasis on spoken word, the band’s disconcerting eagerness to break out into beatnik poetry like it was a nappy rash or a  particularly aggressive case of vaginal thrush.

NYCGF is generally regarded as one of the weakest and more underwhelming entries in the Sonic Youth discography, and I honestly can’t disagree with that estimate.  But let’s get something straight here: a bad Sonic Youth record is still better than anything most other  bands are capable of putting throughout the whole of their miserable careers. And even if the record does essentially pass by you, it does so in that clever way that Sonic Youth’s late period records have, convincing you to endure the colourlessness and monotony of their hookless boho doodling with the lure of something more pleasurable to come — and because that monotony, despite its relative blandness, is still engaging enough to tide you over,  it doesn’t feel like you’re being shortchanged. In other words the anticipation keeps you going. The difference on NYCGF is that unlike their other releases — where you’d always end up coming away with a veritable diamond or three for your troubles — this time around they never actually end up delivering; and so you’re left there, waiting for the pay off just as the album ends, which it does, it feels like, prematurely. Nonetheless, NYCGF does have its flashes of inspiration if not brilliance: Free City Rhymes and StreamXSonic Subway (there’s that weird Residents influence popping up again when you least expect it) are pretty good. If I was to describe NYCGF with one word it would be ‘dwindling’. (5/10)

Murray Street (2002)


And so it was that two years down the line from NYCGF and with cheeky avant garde funster Jim O’Rourke firmly ensconced in the role of bass guitarist (and thus allowing Kim to focus on playing electric guitar) our heroes were ready to release their twelfth album:  Murray Street. And, well, there’s no big surprises here: nothing remotely close to a change of  musical direction for the band. Instead Sonic Youth were content to carry on with the mellow, conversational pace of their previous two studio albums — and although Murray Street does suffer at times from the same predilection towards aimless drifting as A Thousand Leaves and NYCGF, there is a noticeable upsurge in musical quality. You don’t come away from Murray Street with a feeling similar to that of having watched an hour of TV static with a few intermittent clips of actual television shows in between — as you do with the two previous albums. In fact it’s heartening to hear the band hit upon the sort of effortless poetic flow that they had so often struggled to reach in the last few years namely on songs like Rain on Tin and Karen Revisited. And actually these two consecutive tracks are brilliant enough to permit the rest of the album to bask in a reflected glory that it nowhere near deserves; they form the golden nuggety core to the album, a core that’s enveloped roundabout by a fluffy wholemeal  layer of guitar drift. So that although Murray Street should be chalked up as an overall win for the band they still weren’t completely out of the woods yet. (6/10)

Sonic Nurse (2004)


I’m just going to go ahead and call this a return to form for the band — or at least as far as their proficiency with the album format was concerned. The qualification is somewhat necessary since Sonic Youth never really lost the capacity for greatness at an individual (often extended) track level: even when it looked like they no longer had it in them to make a truly satisfying album.  I suspect the flatness of their late 90s and early 00s output was a byproduct of a conscious decision, post-Dirty, for the band to move away from the traditionalist rockist dynamics that had always underpinned their music — and that had served them as a point of departure for protracted feedback explorations — towards a freer, more open-ended approach.  Fair is fair however that turn towards formlessness did sometimes make, as I said above, for great individual tracks — although never for really satisfying albums. It comes as little surprise therefore that the group’s best LP since Washing Machine also happens to be their most song-oriented LP since Washing Machine.  What was behind the renewed appreciation for conventional form I can only speculate. Perhaps the band had finally gotten over the need, that seemed so pressing at the turn of the millennium, to seek artistic validation through alignment with the musical avant garde. They had after all already gained their experimental chops with Goodbye 20th century and countless side projects with random outsider freaks and outre bods — and had even gone as far as drafting experimental eejit Jim O’Rourke into the band.

Sonic Nurse also happens to be a watershed in my own personal appreciation of the band. In fact it was the album that got me back into them again after years of dismissing their post-Washing Machine output as largely subpar — an assessment that was based almost completely on reviews and descriptions rather than actually listening to the music itself. It was a chance rediscovery one might say. I found the album going for a pittance in a record store because the CD case was missing  — the only packaging was a plain white cardboard sleeve with the name scrawled on the front in blue biro — and thought, why not? And having not really expected all that much I came away quite impressed from it after just the first few listens — and especially so with the album’s triumphant opening track ‘Pattern Recognition’, which is still my favourite thing on Sonic Nurse. Fast forward a few years later to the present day, and I have to admit that the album has lost some of its original sheen for me. However, I still find it to be an engaging piece of work from start to finish: one of those reliable standbys for when you want to just leave a whole album running from start to finish as you go off to chop vegetables or to scour the bathtub. In terms of highlights, I’ve already mentioned ‘Pattern Recognition’, but there are several others including ‘Dude Ranch Nurse’,’New Hampshire’, ‘Paper Cup Exit’, and ‘I Love You Golden Blue’. Interestingly now that the band had decided to stop trying to hide its ever present debt to Classic Rock, the spector of Neil Young looms especially large on the album and particularly on its best songs.  Kudos to the old shakey voiced Canadian codger is all I can say. (7/10)

Rather Ripped (2006)

4 T

And so we move on to the band’s 14th and, in fact, penultimate long player release, 2006’s Rather Ripped: a record that, speaking in terms of banal chronology, was to signal the end both of Jim O’Rourke’s brief tenure as bass player, as well as the group’s significantly longer, and definitely more iconic, association with Geffen record. Musically, Rather Ripped has the reputation of being one of the band’s most accessible albums, and it’s a reputation that’s largely deserved, as far as it goes, given that it has a much greater focus on songcraft in comparison to its predecessors. But I think that ultimately misses out on what really sets the album apart in the context of Sonic Youth’s wider discography, and that, in a couple of words, is: heart and tenderness — trust me friends, the feels are strong on this one. At the same time the album also served as a rather strong corrective to anyone who might have suspected that the band had run out of steam or that they simply lacked inspiration.

Rather Ripped is an album shot through with longing for the past, with an often overpowering sense of nostalgia and wistfulness — all of which seems a bit strange for a band that for most of its history seemed to find its raison d’etre in the need to experiment and to push the envelope musically, and which in consequence seemed to be inherently anti-nostalgic.  Interestingly though, it’s not so much Sonic Youth’s own musical past to which the band fix their collective affectionate gaze on Rather Ripped — I mean this is not a noisefest revival of Kill Yr Idols or Confusion is Sex, well, not till we get to Helen Lundeberg anyway, and neither is it in any simple sense a revisitation of Sister or Daydream Nation — rather that gaze takes in the whole post-punk musical milieu in which the band came of age, continued on into maturity, and were then able to stroll towards a comfortable middle age (or so it seemed Thurston’s libido proving otherwise). Listen out in particular for the influence of REM on Rather Ripped. It’s something that tends to creep up on you throughout the album: like staring up into the sky and suddenly realising that the clouds have formed themselves into familiar shapes without you noticing. The band clearly saw the record as an opportunity to bring their strong music freak tendencies to the fore; tendencies that had been, by then, deeply coloured by three decades worth of personal recollections and the bittersweet remembrances of those of their peers who never made it out the other side — which explains why the its celebratory tone is so muted.

Now there’s a certain, cynical, school of thought that views Sonic Youth as the ultimate in manipulative scenesters, and which would happily dismiss the album’s overt sentimentality as just another phoney move. But Rather Ripped feels genuine to me, revealing the kinds of emotional depth that the band evinced only sporadically on their previous records. It is perhaps true, though, that as a result of the band’s more conventionally song driven approach on Rather Ripped, you do get the sense that, after 30 years of proud and unstinting waywardness, that, *shock horror* Sonic Youth’s guitars have finally been tamed. And that will have understandably alienated a good portion of the faithful. On the flipside, and in stark contrast to the albums immediately prior to it — with which Rather Ripped shares a similarly lackadaisical, understated feel — Rather Ripped manages to maintain a coherence, a musical center of gravity, that was sorely lacking in the former, and this makes even the usually exasperating SY filler tolerable.

Sad to report then that the band were unable to come up with anything better than the underwhelming Reena to start proceedings off with. Luckily they redeem themselves straight away with the second track, Incinerate, which, with its nagging Dinosaur Jr-esque guitar figure sets the world weary tone for the rest of the album to come: the vocals a little heavier, the delivery noticeably more slurred than usual. Twinkly guitar harmonics frame the pointillistic white boy blues —  or let’s be honest middle aged white man blues — of Do You Believe in Rapture offering Thurston a perfect setting to explore the enhanced possibilities of age weathered vocals for gravitas. Jams Run Free, on the other hand, takes up the Neu! obsession of former years and gives it a nice, shiny, metallic coating, while, at the same time refusing to cross the 4 minute mark, as the band had been so often wont to do on similar tracks in the past. Rats is puffy bluster; Turquoise Boy’s pulls back its veil of sadness to reveal a hidden strength and muscularity.

Rather Ripped signalled a softening of the band’s habitual emotional frigidity in favour of openness, vulnerability and a burgeoning appreciation of affect; this was a group more in touch with its shadow side than it had ever been willing to let on before. And it’s unmistakable on a track like Lights Out, one of the most sombre thing the band had ever released, or on Neutral, a track which features the album’s single most spine-tingling moment.  It comes partway through Neutral, just as the guitars and the drum die away and Kim Gordon — her vocals taking on an iciness and aloofness eerily reminiscent of the grand Nico — proceeds to sing over a naked bass motif that is in essence just the melody of Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division. It is a perfectly judged moment — the most perfectly judged moment on the record —  and one which the listener is led to with care and consummate skill. Pink Steam gets teary eyed midway through its seven minute length, a couple of minutes before Moore’s forlorn vocals kick in.  Or’s suburban Heart of Darkness sets up a chunky, dubby, vaguely tribal rhythm and borrows a guitar figure from the End by the Doors, all to suitably sinister effect. Things start getting punchier towards the end, on the final two tracks, with the No Wave rehash of  Helen Lundeberg’s No Wave, and Thurston Moore’s ornery rant Eyeliner.

The album undoubtedly breaks very little ground sound wise — unless you count the group’s newfound readiness to incorporate explicit musical references and borrowed motifs into their music — which was a canny move, truth be told, given the 00’s strong plunderphonic/retrogasm turn. It did demonstrate however that Sonic Youth were capable make music that was accessible and even reasonably radio friendly but without sounding contrived and overly polished as had been the case, alas, with their grunge-era Geffen stuff.  Rather Ripped really is a striking album, one of the group’s greatest artistic successes to my mind. It would have been a great note for the band to end on; a strong finish to a remarkable career — although obviously if they’d gone on to make other records as great as this it would have been even better.  But no, they only had to go and mess it up again didn’t they?  (8/10)

The Eternal (2009)


Did the world really need a new Sonic Youth album in 2009? The excellent Rather Ripped would seem to suggest that, yes, it did need a new Sonic Youth album. And what’s more, for the first time, the wider American public was in agreement too. For it transpired that the album which the band did in fact release that year, the Eternal, would end up being their biggest selling album in the US ever.  It also happened to be their last.  And well…it’s OK. Look there’s some nice tracks on here, and even if the sense of the group being on autopilot creeps up every now and then, Sonic Youth still  manage to maintain a feeling of vigour and energy that would be to the credit of a band 20 or 30 years younger.  And indeed there’s some very impressive playing on here but despite that the album skirts far too close to mediocrity to really convince anyone, aside of course from the usual out of touch music critics, mediocre music enablers, that would habitually slaver over each new SY release — a return to form after the last return to form after the last return to form — that the world truly needed a follow up to Rather Ripped after all.

The Eternal is a solid album, but it’s the kind of solidity that ends up acting like prophylactic against the kind of novelty and mutancy that rock music actually thrives upon. In reality the mid to late 2000s were the twilight for the kind of itchy, iconoclastic energy with which post war youth culture had been infected, from the beginning of Rock n’ Roll, and which in its late 70s no wave-noise mutation had spurred Sonic Youth on at the very beginning of their careers, and carried them all the way to the cusp of the new millennium, after which they began to flounder. Rather Ripped showed how you could make compelling music somewhat outside of that attitudinal framework. The Eternal does not.And as I said, the songs are mostly forgettable. Partial exceptions include Poison Arrow, Antennae, Massage the History, but I find it hard to summon up very much enthusiasm for those either. (5/10)

The doctrine inculcated since Aristotle that moderation is the virtue appropriate to reasonable people, is among other things an attempt to found so securely the socially necessary division of man into functions independent of each other, that it occurs to none of these functions to cross over to others and remind each other of man. But one could no more imagine Nietzsche in an office, with a secretary minding the telephone in an anteroom, at a desk until five o’ clock, than playing golf after the full days work was done. Only a cunning intertwining of pleasure and work leaves real experience still open, under the pressure of society. Such experience is less and less tolerated. Even the so-called intellectual professions are being deprived, through their growing resemblance to business, of all joy. Atomization is advancing not only between men, but within each individual, between the spheres of his life.- Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia


STRAIT TO THE POINT: UGK – Too Hard To Swallow (1992)

I wish I was in dixie, hooray, hooray…

Review by: Michael Strait:


I wish I was in dixie, hooray, hooray…

In general, great rappers and rap groups follow a different trajectory to great rock bands. The latter – before the turn of the millennium, at least – usually began with a few promising EPs, got started in earnest with an endearingly amateurish debut album, spiralled off in all sorts of lovely artistic directions for ten-to-twenty years and then finally spent the last ten-to-infinite years of their careers churning out utter garbage to pay the bills. The rappers, meanwhile, usually start their career with a mindblowing, undeniably brilliant debut album, occasionally manage one or two good-to-great followups, and usually spend the rest of their careers spiralling downwards into an infinitely dark pit of artistic debasement and (if they’re lucky) celebrity drama.

UGK were a rare thing: they were a great rap group that behaved rather more like a great rock group. After a couple of portentously brilliant (and HIGHLY juvenile) EPs, the underbudgeted, underpromoted and underappreciated debut album came along right on schedule. Armed with almost nothing but a few drum machines, a whole lot of charisma and a few no-name sound engineers, the best duo in rap history embarked on a quest that would end up casting a sonic shadow the South still dances under to this day. The idea of the South as a distinct force within the rigid geographic genre system of hip-hop existed only spottily, and certainly far below the mainstream, before this album; these days, the omnipresent South has handily conquered the entire East Coast and Midwest, bending them backwards into the sonic paradigm you can ultimately trace right back here, to Pimp C.

Pimp C, man! I fucking love Pimp C. One of the most talented men ever to inhabit the world of hip-hop, for real. Rappers pretend that they live and die by the words they spit, but what really makes or breaks a rapper is charisma, and on that front nobody will ever best Pimp C. Even here, not yet twenty years old, he’s brimming with a magnetic bravado that is absolutely delightful and completely impossible to ignore. “Cocaine in the Back of the Ride” isn’t one of the best songs on the album (which is saying a lot, really, ‘cos it’d be a highlight on many albums), but it’s made mesmerizing by the unstoppable force of his sheer self-belief, and the tangible delight he projects whenever he’s on the mic always brings the biggest grin to my face. The lines “Got more dope than a pharmacy, ho/ Got a job for the city, bitch, I’m shoveling snow” don’t look particularly special on paper, but he delivers them as if they are irresistible proof of his own utter supremacy over everyone else in the human race, and I’m having so much fun that I feel like agreeing. Bun B gets some funny lines on the song, too – “Little kids on the corner, steady grabbin they nuts/ Sayin, ‘I wish I was Bun when I grow the fuck up!'” – but on the whole, the song belongs to Pimp C, and it’s mostly the same story with the record as a whole.

But I’m getting sidetracked. Pimp C’s rapping on this album is absolutely wonderful, but it wasn’t what I was talking about earlier. The influence of Pimp C’s delivery-over-lyrics rapping style on later generations of Southern rappers can’t be overstated, but his production style is what really made the South what it has been ever since. His drum programming, for one, was already head-and-shoulders above what most producers from the other two regions were doing at the time, and presaged the way Southern producers would mess around with all sorts of intricate drum patterns in later years. His drums on “Short Texas” wash and willow around the sampled Funkadelic beat like they’re made of some sort of liquid, more texture than percussion, melting away for much of the song only to reappear when most impactful. The drums on “Use Me Up” are mostly just a recreation of the original, but the sounds he’s found are deeply satisfying, and the little dots of synthetic vibraslap are a lovely addition. Both these songs are generally really great – the former in particular has this awesome siren sample that pushes it to real great heights – but the real standout on the first half is the eternal classic “Pocket Full of Stones”.

“Pocket Full of Stones” is, for real, one of the best straight hip-hop songs ever made, and it’d make this an essential album even if the rest was mediocre (which it isn’t). That laid-back, subtly intricate drum pattern is one of the best on the album, and the sample usage is some of the best in the world. Just listen to the downbeat peal of the saxophone in the chorus; it’s gorgeous, and all the more impressive considering that it used to be the triumphal opening to a whimsical LL Cool J song. The minimal bass & keyboard samples give the whole thing an underlying atmosphere of reserved cool, but there’s just a hint of distant paranoia in there, too. That’s an excellent context for the story the two of them are so vividly telling on top of it, which is as full of memorable, funny lines – “fuck black Caesar, niggas call me black Trump!” – as it is of substance. The first two verses are, of course, absolutely iconic, but the pair keep my attention through the whole thing, encapsulating the appeal of gangsta rap so perfectly that they just about render the rest of it redundant. The six minutes never feels too long; if anything, it sometimes doesn’t feel long enough. That effortlessly cool, atmospheric groove is something I could get lost in forever, especially if Bun B and Pimp C are providing narration.

The other big highlight on this record is “Feel Like I’m The One Who’s Doin’ Dope”, on which Bun B isn’t present at all. One might, therefore, expect it to be a whimsical pile of charismatic jokes and hilarious one-liners, like the immediately following “I’m So Bad” (which is mostly about autofellatio, although it’s probably metaphorical). One would, however, be very wrong: this is one of the most harrowing hip-hop narratives ever rapped, and the fact that it’s all eventually revealed to be a dream somehow doesn’t do much to dampen the impact. Pimp C spends a lot of time in his lyrics portraying himself as a remorseless killer, but it’s rare that he examines the consequences of the life he lives in as much detail as he does here. He inches over into horrorcore territory on the second verse – ejaculating upon the corpse of the woman you’ve just raped and murdered is some real Lord Infamous shit – but its placement in the escalating tragic-villainous narrative makes it more impactful than even the darkest rap that ever wafted out from the dungeons of Memphis. The squelchy bass keys – played by Pimp himself – are a nicely filthy finishing touch.

There ain’t a bad song on here, actually. Bun B wasn’t at his best yet, so his solo tracks are perhaps the least memorable of the bunch, but they’re still immaculately produced – particularly “976-Bun B”, which has the best bassline on the album and one of those gorgeous sampled female wails of the kind you usually find in UK Garage. “Cramping My Style” is of a piece with Ice Cube’s “It’s a Man’s World”, featuring a female rapper trading combative verses with Bun B; it’s not a career highlight, but it’s amusing and pleasant while it lasts, and the soul sample is lovely. “It’s Too Hard To Swallow” is just a great slice of classic gangsta rap boasting over a perfectly laid-back, chill instrumental section that sounds like it was borrowed right out of a 70s soul track, even though – according to the liner notes – there aren’t actually any samples on this track at all. And then there’s the opener, which features what TVtropes might call Pimp C’s Establishing Character Moment: “I didn’t do ya girl but your sister was alright/ Took her to my homeboy’s caddy last night/ […] Now everybody in the world/ Know that your sister is a nasty little girl!”. His mocking goblin grin is audible, and the bassline that falls in behind him as he delivers it pushes it to a level of amusing catharsis that really shouldn’t be possible with such a juvenile sex boast. The remix of it that ends the album is a bit of an anticlimactic way to close out, but it’s a good remix; it’s all druggy and psychedelic, and it just sounds so trill, like it’s made from some sort of otherworldly gold.

Of course, UGK would only get more trill from here on out, but this album is nonetheless excellent on its own terms. No hip-hop collection is complete without it, I’d say, especially if you – like me – accept the obvious supremacy of Southern hip-hop over all other forms. We’re dealing with a top-tier group here, folks, and even their shaky, amateurish debut is head-and-shoulders above most of the music in the world.

STRAIT TO THE POINT: UGK – Super Tight… (1994)

Review by: Michael Strait


Simple, homemade goodness. An unassuming masterwork.

Wikipedia tells me Too Hard To Swallow has sold a total of 370,000 copies since release. I’ve no way of knowing when all those sales took place or how much money the duo made from each one, but it’s clear something had changed by the time they released Super Tight. Whatever money they made from their debut wasn’t wasted; the production is clearer and brighter, the live band fuller and more skilled, and the samples rarer this time around. Pimp C finally had the means to match his talent, and he promptly set about creating the sorts of lush, rich and detailed arrangements that would make his soul and funk idols proud. The end result is an album that feels rather like bathing in a room made mostly of gold, perhaps adorned with diamonds, while sipping some expensive liquor; it’s luxurious, and profoundly fun to listen to.

It helps that both of them were, by this point, exceptional rappers. I think I still prefer Pimp C – his charisma is still just irresistible – but Bun B’s early clunkiness is mostly gone by now, and his technical skills are really starting to take off. “I Left It Wet for You” is excellent in just about every regard – the smugly rising bassline; the mocking, whispered chorus; the refined, tasteful percussion – but the exuberance of Bun B’s rhyming in the final verse is probably the highlight. It’s the sound of a man who is utterly, shamelessly aware of his superiority, showing it off not because he’s insecure but because he just finds it fun to do so. He’s not yet at his peak – that’d come next album – but he is nonetheless great all across the album. Though I gotta say, man – “suckin’ dick while I’m takin’ shits”? Really, dude? That’s disgusting.

I’m not actually entirely sure which song I’d nominate as the best on here, because they’re all almost equally excellent. “It’s Supposed to Bubble” – one of the few wholly sample-based songs on the record, though you wouldn’t be able to tell at first blush – might be it; it’s probably one of my favourite hip-hop songs ever made, and definitely one of the happiest, most pleasant songs in my library. It’s just the sort of warm, sunlit, pleasantly happy hip-hop I could never imagine coming from anywhere else in the country in the 90s, even if Pimp C’s declaration that he “don’t fuck around no more with that gahd damn drank” is a little sad in hindsight. The lead-in to the chorus is perfect, and Bun B’s contentedly meaningless repetition of “it just be like that sometimes” is just the sort of thing that sticks in one’s head forever. One could, maybe, pick hairs about the morality of creating such a pleasantly summery song about the benefits of getting rich off of violent drug deals, but hey – at least they aren’t rapping about “fuckin’ a bitch while her baby’s suckin’ dick” anymore, right?

“Pocket Full of Stones, Pt. 2” is also on the shortlist for favourites. If the original was a reserved, slightly paranoid tour through the urban Texas streets, this one is an exuberant romp right across them, with bouncy funk organs and impeccable basslines providing the foundation for Pimp and Bun’s celebratory braggadocio. Pimp, in particular, is absolutely undeniable right from the beginning; he is so clearly and so obviously having so much fun dealing drugs that it becomes kinda funny to listen to him insist that he “don’t wanna do it, but a nigga gotta eat”. His attention to detail as a producer is similarly excellent – the wordless, possibly sampled (or perhaps simply synthesised) male background vocals that repeat regularly throughout the track are difficult to notice at first, but they serve the essential purpose of filling the song out just that little bit more, pushing it from merely luxurious to gloriously decadent. Speaking of which: those horns that come in on the chorus, heralding Pimp C’s pocket full of stones as if they made him emperor of the universe… oh man, I love this song.

Man, I keep wondering which song I should talk about next – they’re all so good. How about “Pussy Got Me Dizzy”? It takes a shitton of charisma to rap the words “I got some high school pussy, and you know it’s the lick/ ‘Cos every day, after school, she be ridin’ my dick” and make me like it, but Pimp C can pull it off. He is endlessly capable of making the worst, most reprehensible sort of villainy sound incredibly fun, and the big squelchy bass synths running under his verse certainly help. The horns in the chorus do, indeed, sound properly dizzy, as does the the little whiny whistle-synth that spirals tauntingly around them. Bun B’s verse is, as usual when he raps about sex, absolutely hilarious and completely disgusting, so I won’t quote any of it here, although I will say that I very much hope it wasn’t based on too many real life experiences. The final guest verse seems a tad forgettable after the duo’s verses, but you really shouldn’t hold that against it – it’s not 3-2’s fault his friends happen to be two of the most memorable rappers of all time.

Then there’s “Stoned Junkee”, the longest song on the album and for sure one of the best. A bassline that climbs for the sun, clawing its way out of the muck, as the organs collapse atop it; a pounding, lazy drumbeat, echoey and huge; a distant guitar, soloing away into space like some Funkadelic odyssey; and, above all, Bun B and Pimp C, painstakingly painting their sordid pictures of life under the needle. And then there’s “Protect & Serve”, one of the best anti-police polemics in rap’s long and storied history of them, eclipsing the NWA song it samples in both raw rage and musical mastery. The conflicting piano & synth riffs complement each other perfectly in their contrast, and the bass synths are as satisfying as usual. How about “Feds In Town”, with its glittery, glowing synths and perfect bassline – and those perfect little samples, one of some distant car horns and one of a fuzzy record scratch, that make the whole thing feel so much more complete? Or how about “Underground”, which has one of the catchiest and most iconic hooks the duo ever made, not to mention one of Pimp C’s most irresistible grooves?

Like I said – it’s all brilliant. The intro, “Return”, is among my favourite opening tracks in hip-hop history, making the duo’s philosophy clear right away and containing one of Bun B’s most entertaining verses. “Niggas steady catchin lead to the head, I never aim for the chest/ Muthafuckas sportin bulletproof vests!” he exclaims, with an air of something resembling grievance at the sheer audacity of these motherfuckers to dare take precautions against being killed by vengeful rappers. It’s great, as is “Front, Back and Side to Side”, which I occasionally misremember as boring because it’s ever-so-slightly weaker than its immediately surrounding tracks. But it’s the absolute opposite of boring, with that lovely textural ostinato popping through the verses and that immaculately smooth instrumental arrangement. If I have a complaint with this record, it’s that the closer, while great, isn’t one of the absolute best tracks on the album, and is perhaps a kind of anticlimactic way to close out such a stupendously good record. Still, the sample is great, the descending piano riff is possibly greater, and Bun B’s threats to rip out my spine are just priceless.

I’m always very happy to discover a masterpiece that’s neither a tour through the mind of a depressed, mentally unstable genius nor a great big artistic statement designed to be fawned over by the music press. This is an album about having a damn good time being a very bad human being, and it just so happens that it’s one of the best albums ever made. This level of consistent quality is a seriously rare thing, and the fact that it’s not the last time UGK would pull it off is what makes them one of the best groups that have ever put music to wax. If anything, I’m almost dreading reviewing their next album, ‘cos it’s just as good as this one and I’m just gonna feel straight-up weird having nothing bad to say about an album two weeks in a row. First world problems, right?


Review by: Alex Alex

The modern music industry, a hardest and a cruelest competition, much resembling the modern sports is not, however, openly presented as such. Had it been, then Matt Elliott, an English musician, singer-songwriter, and whatever else those sportsmen in disguise are labeled, could well have been questioned by some music anti-doping agency on the ways he obtains his astonishingly depressing, as well as suspiciously crazy, results.

Music business still masking itself as a creative activity, the sportsmen-artists are allowed any legal technique as long as it’s masked as illegal. Nick Cave used to come to the arena in a black suite and a white shirt, the raven wing color hair being all natural and the stories about his past as a punk or who those guys are – all very strange but absolutely comprehensible narrative. Hell, one could even present the proof of rationality post factum – surely Joy Division had some rights to do what they did – in cinemas and theaters you pay before you see the show but, well, there are many business places where you are supposed to pay after.

So, the anti-doping committee would then proceed with checking the rationale behind the Matt Eliott album “Failing Songs” (which has come immediately after his previous one called “Drinking Songs” on the record label “Ici d’Ailleurs”). Immediately the suspicions would arise. “Drinking Songs”, “Failing Songs” – those titles seem to be almost mirror opposites to, say, “Murder Ballads” or all those freaky titles of the black metal albums – surely there must be some drugs hidden in the sugarcubes? And what the hell does “Ici d’Ailleurs” mean if it doesn’t hint that these songs are not really that suitable for drinking?

But then, surely, “Failing Songs” is a collection of protest songs inspired by “the current political climate in Great Britain” as Wikipedia says? Surely “we’re free to do exactly what we’re told, we’re free to buy what we’re sold” is that type of lyrics which would allow “the times they are a-changing” chorus? Can the album be allowed to participate in the competition then?

Oh, wait there’s another song which starts with “When people ask me I always say/The targeted assassination is the only way”.. The protest seems now to be not that constructive – people can become worried a bit. Ah, wait! It must be a loud aggressive song because, of course, the political climate in Great Britain is that of the Queen being the head of the fascist regime a scientist turning into a fly – and all this will eventually be revealed in the happy-ending kawaii KISS masks kabuki show and the kids leaving the circus happily?

Hell, no. The “Planting Seeds” song is a very sad, very melancholy and there’s not a hint of that shameful positivity of the artistic protest in it. “Assassinate a corporate billionaire or their heirs” does not sound satirically (neither self-satirically) nor punkish – it does not even sound decadent, Lou Reedish or how – it sounds tired. And when the singing is over there’s the music and it’s very calm and it sounds crazy.

So what if the spectre of Communism, haunting Europe – is first and foremost a spectre? What if the spectral nature of it is much more important than the Communist programme the spectre happens to read. After all, The Third Eye Foundation, the previous project of Matt Elliott, does have an album named “Ghost” – of course, it’s very different from “Failing Songs”, purely instrumental, much less listenable but all the craziness is in there. In what sense does the spectre of Communism haunt Europe then? Surely we know what we protest for when but do we know what we protest against? Is our dissatisfaction with the existing conditions, in fact, a dissatisfaction with the existence itself? Are we protesting or are we just crazy? In that sense are we not always Ici d’ailleurs?

Well, anyway, for the anti-doping committee it will be absolutely clear that Mat Elliott shall not be allowed to participate in the competition. Indeed, no one can run so fast that “the future that we had is now the past” – this would mean exceeding the speed of light. No human artist, no matter what the circumstances are, can do that and what kind of formula should one discover to achieve that?

I think this is exactly the question we should ask ousrselves when listening to any of Matt Elliott works.