Molly - Blake Butler (2023)

I first became aware of Molly via Twitter. (It was probably after it changed its name to X, but I digress.) I had never heard of Blake Butler before, but somehow he showed up in my feed. Maybe it was from another writer re-tweeting something about this book, or maybe it was the "magic" of the algorithm. (Actually, the first chapter was published by The Paris Review, which promoted it in a tweet--so an "organic follow" - Ed.) Whatever the case, for whatever reason, though I am not often drawn to read chapter-length excerpts of books online, I read the first few sentences. I didn't read it fluidly and without interruption, but I kept the window open, and returned to it at various points throughout that morning and afternoon (probably in late 2023). I followed Blake Butler. 

As more press and materials and reviews and news stories came out about the book, Butler would often share or retweet them, offering some wry commentary of his own. (Just today, he posted this unhelpful piece of random feedback, a letter from a reader; I will try to do better than that.) The book quickly sold out its first printing. I received several books for Christmas and so have not been reserving any from CPL, but I made an exception for this, and anyways, the waiting list was so long, I would have a few months to catch up. 

Perhaps five months later or so, it was finally my turn. I expected to "devour" this book, and for the first 50-100 pages, that was the case. Ultimately it is not a perfect 5-star book, but we know from experience that perfection is in itself a cipher, and I tend to question whether any book can truly be "perfect"--a perfect short story is more common. You need to glorify an author, like Hemingway or Salinger for example, to say a book like The Sun Also Rises or The Catcher in the Rye is perfect (and it is hard to attach perfection to still-living authors). Fiction, moreover, can only become perfect through artistry. This is a memoir, necessarily an imperfect genre, with the messiness of life arguably foreshortened, depending on the reader's conception of the author and their depth of self-examination. Here, there is absolutely no mistaking that the depth of self-examination is sufficient, and going as deep as Socrates considered when he mused that an unexamined life was not worth living.

*

This book spoke to me. I felt "seen." And while the irony is not perfect (there is one review in between this one and that previous unique album review/tribute), it felt rather prescient:

"Despite her outward wrath toward most people, she still kept heroes, idolized mostly for their singularity against the odds: the wit and depth of Herman Melville, her favorite writer, whom she'd lament for how misunderstood he'd been throughout his life; the rhapsodic detail of Paolo Uccello's paintings, which she described feeling unable to breathe in front of when she got to see one in person and up close; the cryptic acumen of Anne Carson, whom she idolized both for her bravery and brilliance, and whose Float she loved to teach to undergrads to show them the endless possibilities of form; the funny fractious gaze of Jean-Luc Godard, especially Week-End, the jubilant insanity of which put stars in her eyes; the mathematical meticulousness of Agnes Martin, whose lines reminded me of the peculiar, layered drawings Molly had filled her sketchbooks with in college, thinking someday she'd become an illustrator; the no-fucks-given of Lou Barlow, who she insisted as with a chip on her shoulder was the real genius, not J. Mascis; the artisan work ethic of Steve Albini, spurred by a six month period where Shellac became the only band she'd listen to, on endless loop, mournful for artists who recognized the value of good hard work; the magic logic of Wittgenstein....."(58, emphasis mine)

I could keep going (for the observations about romanticizing Cat Power's early 2000's stage-fright episodes, or blasting Dead Kennedys, Black Flag and Minor Threat when she went on runs), but I am getting ahead of myself. Suffice to say, I sort of feel like I am Molly, or Molly is me.  

* 

Molly has a trigger warning, which most books historically have not had, and it is warranted. So too with this review:

"This memoir contains graphic descriptions of suicide, self-harm and suicidal ideation.
If you are contemplating self-destruction, please tell someone you trust. Immediate counseling is available 24/7 by dialing 1-800-SUICIDE or 988." (7)

*

In that first chapter, Butler describes the last time he saw Molly alive, on March 8, 2020, shortly before he leaves for a run that morning, as she works from bed. He notices a notification on his phone while out on the run, for an email from her, just saying "I love you" with the attachment of a manuscript of poems she had been working on. He runs back and talks to her, trying to find out if anything is wrong, and they make tentative plans for the day, to go to Whole Foods and make dinner together and watch a movie, which sounds about as nice a night as couples can have. He goes back to his run, decides to extend it by an extra half-mile, and returns home to find an envelope taped to the door with his name on it, and her two-page suicide note inside. 

That all happens in the first five pages, and the next twenty are spent recounting the following events of the day. I call that the first chapter, but it's not really right. There is just a clear transition with an extra page break. He opens the first chapter describing the last time he saw Molly, and he opens the second chapter describing the first time he saw her.

*

The book then proceeds to examine their entire relationship--from their first meeting, friendship, expressions of interest and backing away, reconnecting and becoming closer again, being together, a couple acts of infidelity, a break up, and then another reconnect--up to their betrothal. This is at least how I recall it, and I am not going to re-read to make sure I got the trajectory 100% accurate. 

In any case, this is probably the most interesting section of the book, and it represents the majority of the content. It is also the part that is universally applicable, at least for anyone that has gone through multiple breakups and reconciliations. Being in a relationship with a person suffering from mental illness requires a special set of skills. But being in a relationship with anybody in these times requires many of the same skills. You can choose to rip it all up and ghost, or you can try to acknowledge the value the person brings to your life, be compassionate and willing to compromise (because there is a sacrificial element to relationships), and hope that they would show you the same respect. It is an act of trust, and it is fraught, and it is understandable why many people say, "People don't change." Cynicism is self-preservation. We don't want to be with someone that is taking advantage of us. And yet constantly being on the lookout for ways they are taking advantage of us is a rather depressing way to live. And yet, to achieve greater happiness, we sometimes have to experience an awful, toxic relationship to know what to avoid in the future, to know what "deserving better" means.

Is this book depressing? Yes. But it is very revealing. It is an act of bravery and courage to publish this book, and Butler has managed the consequences appropriately. The honesty in this section, and throughout the entire book, is on a different level than most of us will ever find in our daily lives. Butler is like a close friend, telling it all exactly like it was for him, and we don't often find friends willing to be so vulnerable. People interrupt you as you tell a story. They ask what you were thinking. You shorten or abbreviate it to be mindful of ADHD-addled attention spans. Whatever meaning could come out of the anecdote is diminished. 

And yet what meaning comes out of this book? It is the entire mystery of life and death. 

*

It is a not a mystery why Molly may have ended her own life. There are numerous reasons strewn throughout the book. The overarching tragedy is that she nurtured the darkness within her. 

It is remarkably freeing, to be so honest about oneself, if one considers themselves a "black hole" or something similar, and voices such feelings--but they are destined to be seen as a cry for help, seeking reassurance that such negative feelings about oneself are useless to possess, unless one wishes to die. And she did wish to die, and she knew it would be a tragedy, but she did not find a way to overcome her sense of inferiority. 

Therapy is the easy answer people give. I cannot recall if the book recounts her seeing a therapist, but I believe she suggested marriage counseling, and feel like she did talk to someone, but not very regularly, and I don't believe she was on any medication. 

In any case, I was empathetic towards her character and the things she would say about herself:

"...Otherwise, there was often zero floor to Molly's loathing, aimed most of all straight at herself. 'Imposter syndrome,' she'd sometimes call it, when in a better mood, one step removed, and therefore able to turn the tables for just a second on her ire. This and other self-aware admissions like it, beyond the vortex that more often ran the show, would quickly become bitter logs laid into the fire when her logic-based attributions fell apart and sent her right back to being stranded in her trauma-ridden baseline for 'the truth': that she was irredeemable a fraud; cut from the same cloth, some twisted part of her insisted, as her father, and at the same time, unworthy of even the grace she'd offered him. 'I can't have imposter syndrome because I am aware that I'm an imposter,' she writes in her journal, already ready to fire back at any logic of relief. 'They just don't know me,' she'd explain in response to any praise, admonishing herself after the fact for even wishing it were true. 'If they actually knew me, they wouldn't say that.' As for me, her partner, trying to offer a positive opinion would only serve to turn her trust against me too, yet another fool who doesn't know what they're talking about. No matter how well something might go, it always failed to resemble what it should've been, and therefore no one could label her anything she didn't know. She'd simply gotten lucky early on, she insisted, when her master's thesis, A Little Middle of the Night, won the Iowa Poetry Prize right out of school, on her first attempt at publication. Her husband, Matt, had found her out in their backyard that afternoon, fresh off the phone, hitting herself in the head with a hammer over and over, crying and shrieking at the sky. The fact they'd chosen her meant that the prize was worthless, the judges morons, one big sham. 'No one is special,' she'd remind me many times throughout the years, as if it weren't only her opinion, but hard truth. 'No one deserves anything.'" (116-117, emphasis mine)

It's hard to remember the distinct events because the book washes over you in blocks of text. Each "mini-section" consists of one paragraph, generally 1-2 pages in length. The effect is not quite Dept of Speculation, but it informs the reading experience similarly. For all of its surface Ouilipo-esque formality, the story is told fairly conventionally, chronologically, with March 8, 2020 serving as in medias res. Personally, while I appreciate the charm of its structure, I would have simply labeled the sections by year. It seems Molly thrived on chaos, however, lived forever teetering on the edge of it and reveling in it at times, and so it makes sense that a book named for her and written in her honor necessarily wash over the reader and underline the frustration that loving her constantly seemed to involve. Just breaking it down into smaller paragraphs doesn't seem to capture her spirit. Of course, she was a poet, though I believe she practiced a certain degree of formlessness (or just free-verse) in her work.

*

The book may not be perfect but it will go onto the Best Books list. It just feels like this book was written for me, and I imagine many, many other readers will experience that similar, deeper sense of identification. It does not completely unmask the very idea of suicide, but it unmasks one suicide, and through that process uncovers the reasons, which are no doubt shared in many instances. Molly wanted it that way. Perhaps she believed, like Chuck Klosterman (and myself too, admittedly, and probably Morrissey and many others) that an early death enhances cultural impact, and elevates the import of the person (deifies them, in a way). She wrote in her note that she wanted Butler to make art, and she must have known what it would be about. And so it is that he has gone from relative obscurity into tabloid fodder, and the same for her as well. That is tragic in its own right, and yet their story will prove enormously helpful for many people for many years to come. Basically, the book succeeds on every level in my own estimation of what literature should be: honest, unvarnished, educational, and profound. 

*

The book does have more structural definition than referenced above. "Chapter 1" is the precipitating event, the final memory. "Chapter 2" is the origin story, the first memory. "Chapter 3" is the story of the marriage, picking up right after the honeymoon. "Chapter 4" chronologically proceeds from the ending of "Chapter 1," i.e. the aftermath, and really represents whatever "twist" there is in the story. Each of these "sections" or "movements" are powerful in their own right, but this 4th one underscores the messiness of the narrative, and considers another potential factor that led to the tragedy.

"One night, while on the sofa watching TV, Molly announced she'd like to have a threesome. But it had to be with another man, she said, because she didn't like women. She asked if I'd be into that, and when I said I wasn't sure, that I wasn't against it entirely but also didn't think I'd want to watch her having sex with someone else, she asked if I thought men were attractive. Sure, I knew when men were good looking, I said, had explored fantasies. but I'd never been in a situation where I felt the impulse to act. She asked me to describe a time when I'd found a guy attractive, and I thought about it and told her there'd been a guy at the poker table in New Orleans on a recent trip I took alone to play some cards and visit friends, but again, just a passing observation, no big deal. 'The next time you find yourself in a spot like that,' she said, 'you have my permission.' I said OK, trying to imagine what she meant. 'You're probably bi,' she suggested. 'I think that's beautiful.' I wasn't sure what else to say, or how to codify what she was saying in a way that connected with how I actually felt. If we did decide to have a threesome, I said, how would we find a person we both liked? Molly was quiet in response to that, eyes on her lap." (195-196)

First of all, this is another example of the love I have for this person that I never knew, but feel like I knew, from bits and pieces of other people in a similar age cohort that I've known over the years. Truly, she was an astounding person, containing multitudes, with precocious and multifarious talents, and a consistent, logical vision of the universe, albeit not a clear-eyed one. She clearly had a big heart, and the tragedy is that it was twisted up like some broken machine. I can't recall if she attempted to communicate with Butler on the urges she felt, and I can't recall if there is any other conversation in the book concerning an open relationship or polyamory or anything that would allow either of them to step outside the bounds of a monogamy, but the guilt that might follow from hiding such parts of one's life could be one of the many small things that add up to overwhelm one's inner strength and catalyze a cycle of self-abnegation.   

Clearly, this is not the only reason it happened. It happened for about a dozen others reason, too, but the ending to this book is probably the most intense part, because it comes to grips with this idea, but never says it out loud. I have to believe that if Molly had opened up and admitted the feelings she had been having for as long as she had known, Butler would have been understanding, eventually, and less secrets would be kept, and less guilt or shame would fester. It would not necessarily have saved her life, but one knows from experience, this is an extraordinarily powerful thing, and one that couples are sometimes toxically precious about. 

Sometimes, someone that you may be dating may come up to you and ask, "Are you mine?" Of course, we all want belonging (see Maslow's hierarchy of needs). Some of us like being alone, but few people want to be alone 100% of the time. If we don't receive any affection, it can be borderline deadly, make us feel unattractive and worthless and untouchable and like a person to avoid, someone perhaps better six feet underground than above it. That is if one lacks self-confidence. No doubt there must be people that are both confident and suicidal, but it sounds somewhat oxymoronic.

Molly was, in fact, a great person, and this book is a paean to her. She was not a saint, but it elevates her into an avatar for anyone that has ever felt less than, or inadequate, or insufficient, or flawed or broken or unlovable or just miserable and sick and tired of the disappointments and endless frustrations of the writer's life, or any other challenging one. 

Being possessed is a double-edged sword. We want belonging, but we don't want a "possessive" partner, someone that wants to examine our cell phone, that constantly questions where we actually are, or where we are actually going, what we did last night, or what kinds of friends we are allowed to have. People that don't want their partners to be friends with their exes, or people that don't want their partners to have friends of the opposite sex, or friends of the same sex if LGBTQ. Many of us recognize these as red flags, and yet, when you are involved with someone, and you have made a vow to love them in full, you may find yourself stuck in a position with someone that is cutthroat committed. And that feels less like "commitment" than a prison, to some of us.

This is not the environment that Butler created, but the two of them had previous experience with infidelity, and it took them to the breaking point, only later reconciling and marrying. And how many couples get divorced for this very reason? It is 100% obvious that any sane person would rather get a divorce than have their partner to commit suicide. Divorce can be a terrible thing, but it is not the end of all life, and it can lead to greater personal happiness and fulfillment. 

Maybe this is what the two of them needed, or an open relationship, or more therapy, but it's just such a brutal tragedy. The date of her death, too, is a tragedy, and Butler's handling of the Covid-19 pandemic in this text is masterful. I have to believe that Molly, a person whose contempt for humanity loomed so large, like some of us, would have loved Staying Home for Months and Years. Did Covid-19 resolve some of my own suicidal tendencies? YES. Does life feel less arduous now, with less requirements for many of us to devote 1-2 hours of our day to simply get to an office? Did Covid-19 offer the space to make as much art as we wanted, to do as much baking as we wanted, to meditate, to do yoga, to nourish our inner spirituality, to assess our lives, to better help define our inner being, wants and needs? Did Covid-19 offer an opportunity to deepen our relationships with others, to properly acknowledge the value so many bring to our lives, to appreciate the ability to be with them in-person? 

Covid-19 was a terrible tragedy for millions of people across the planet, but it was also an opportunity, and while our world is more divided than ever politically, I believe that all of us "feel ourselves" more deeply than we did before. The should have/could have/would have of this book is a foolish game to play, and yet that is another factor that makes it so very powerful and moving.

*

This book will save lives. It will improve lives. It may have caused troubles in Butler's own life, but that is his sacrifice for the rest of us. It is an act of generosity, and a beautiful gesture not only to Molly and those who loved her, but to anyone that is fighting their way through the gauntlets of modern relationships and mental illness. It is essential reading for almost everyone. It is probably in my top 5 or top 10 books of all-time. Perhaps I'm overselling it a little, but if you think you might get some small value out of it, take the plunge and reserve it or buy it, because there is so much to love and admire and learn from all of it. When coping with tragedy, writing about it can help, and reading about it can help; realizing that you are not alone, too, may be the thing that saves you. 

Grade: A

Authority - Jeff VanderMeer (2014)

 

Authority is the sequel to Annihilation, and the 2nd book in the Southern Reach Trilogy. The third book is Acceptance. I read Annihilation just over 6 years ago, shortly after the movie came out. It was the rare movie that was better than the book, which was good in itself. After all this time, my friend Luka insisted that I read it. They thought it was better, that it built on the previous volume and took a fascinating left turn, but they acknowledged, it was very slow, and easy to put down, until a certain point where it wasn't. 

This was an accurate review, but to be more specific, Annihilation is about the Biologist. If you haven't seen the film, I highly recommend it; I will need to rewatch it, because perhaps it was made with some knowledge of what was to come--though ironically, according to Wikipedia, Alex Garland did not read the subsequent books, and wrote the screenplay from memory. While some of the finer details diverged from the book (for example in the character of the Psychologist, whom Jennifer Jason Leigh played brilliantly, but could have gone even more nefarious), the spirit of it matched. 

In the review of the previous book, much is made of my general disinterest in "genre fiction," workshopping as I was at the time with a cadre of "speculative fiction" writers. I'll leave this discussion out of this review, but it's worth noting--while Authority is in this category, it is a pretty straight mystery/detective story, only looped into the otherworldly feel of its predecessor in the aforementioned final stretch. 

*

Annihilation is about the Biologist, and Authority is about Control. The main character is named Control. Later in the novel we learn his name is actually John Rodriguez. 

Control is brought in to replace the missing Director. The novel takes the form of a bizarre workplace comedy, with Control taking over interrogation of the Biologist, the one major character that is carried forward into this volume. He meets resistance as he attempts to make changes within the organization. There is The Voice, whom he reports to at the end of each day via phone call, whose voice is disguised. There is Grace, the Assistant Director, who throws up the most obstacles for him. There are other employees lower on the totem pole, Whitby and Cheney, both seemingly more friendly to Control, that further detail the mismanagement of the research and efforts at "containment" of the "border."

If this all sounds very vague, that is because it is. Control comes to his new office and finds a plant and a dead mouse in the drawer, which seems to have fed off it, and scrawled poetry of a kind on the wall. He is concerned his office is bugged. 

It is clear at least that Grace has problems with him, and the Biologist is something of a shell of her former self, and uncooperative to say the least. I cannot recall the very end to the book Annihilation, but I can remember the very end to the movie rather clearly. 

Frankly, it's probably too late to make the movie of Authority--this wasn't Harry Potter, where all the films were scheduled for release in coming years. But it should have been. I haven't read the Harry Potter books, but I was persuaded to watch the movies, and one of them (The Order of the Phoenix) is about bureaucracy. Granted, there is far less "action" in Authority, and it would be a very different film from its predecessor, but from the way it ends it would seem to be a lull of sorts in between the more adventurous first and third volumes.

*

This is a character study, for the most part, which ends with certain revelations, both satisfying and not. Control's mother (Jacki), for example, who once worked for the Southern Reach, exists in the shadows of the novel until she finally materializes. His grandfather (Jack) may have worked for them too, or not. His adage, "Don't thank anyone for what you should already have," is echoed in conversation with the Biologist. At one point in his childhood, Control was tricked into grabbing a gun underneath a car seat, after being instructed to look for some loose change:

"Sitting there in the coffee shop after his mother hung up the thought crept in that perhaps his mother's anger abut the gun had itself been a tableau, a terroir, with Jack and Jackie complicit, actors in a scene meant already, at that young age, to somehow influence him or correct his course. To begin a kind of indoctrination in the family empire." (245)

The use of "terroir" is worth noting. This book is written in third person, with a limited first person edge. Control learns the word terroir from Whitby. (As with Annihilation, the reader is also likely to learn new words.) This comes after a "tour" of the border of Area X that Control takes with him and Cheney. Earlier they had shown video of an experiment with rabbits being dispatched to the border, perhaps the primary experiment that had been carried out in a decade or more. They disappear without a trace--or did they all? The book refuses to give any answers until the end, and even then, mysteries remain, to tease out the conclusion to the trilogy. 

"'What doesn't it mean?' Whitby said. 'It means the specific characteristics of a place--the geography, geology, and climate that, in concert with the vine's own genetic propensities, can create a startling, deep, original vintage.' 
Now Control was both confused and amused. 'How does this apply to our work?'
'In all ways,' Whitby said, his enthusiasm doubled, if anything. 'Terroir's direct translation is "a sense of place," and what it means is the sum of the effects of a localized environment, inasmuch as they impact the qualities of a particular product. Yes, that can mean wine, but what if you applied these criteria to thinking about Area X?'
On the cusp of catching Whitby's excitement, Control said, 'So you mean you would study everything about the history--natural and human--of that stretch of coast, in addition to all other elements? And that you might--you just might--find an answer in that confluence? Next to the idea of terroir, the theories that had been presented to Control seemed garish and blunt.
'Exactly. The point of terroir is that no two areas are the same. That no two wines can be exactly the same because no combination of elements can be exactly the same. That certain varietals cannot occur in certain places. But it requires a deep understanding of a region to reach conclusions.'
'And this isn't being done already?'
Whitby shrugged. 'Some of it. Some of it. Just not all of it considered together, in my opinion. I feel there is an overemphasis on the lighthouse, the tower, base camp--those discrete elements that could be said to jut out of the landscape--while the landscape itself is largely ignored. As is the idea that Area X could have formed nowhere else....although that theory would be highly speculative and perhaps based mostly on my own observations.'" (132-133)

The reader later learns about Control's past, as a domestic terror operative that had been trained in going undercover, and an incident that led to removal from his post and ultimately his installation at the Southern Reach. From there, the book begins to ramp up to its climax, and most of the stray details of the narrative coalesce into a denouement that feels earned. It is after that denouement, however, that the pace quickens further. 

So it has a satisfying final act, and ends on a pretty massive cliffhanger, all of which only makes me lament that Jeff VanderMeer wasn't considered J.K. Rowling. I don't doubt a trilogy of films would have been brilliant (given the quality of Annihilation). It's still not too late! Portman may have aged a bit, but couldn't there be a little twist, the way the film of the first book diverged from it, too--that she had aged as if years had passed, not unlike travelers to distant galaxies who experience time differently than on Earth? It could work, it could work, hear me out. 

Books are much less expensive to make than films, but I have to believe Natalie would be on board, and maybe Alex Garland, too. Men was not bad, but it was no Annihilation (I didn't see Civil War, not yet at least), though Devs was pretty great (and I had no idea he wrote the novel The Beach, adapted into an infamous Leo DiCaprio movie with a silly video game/drug sequence I've not yet gotten to see). Apparently, he has fallen out of love with film, and will likely not direct another movie (though he is involved in the forthcoming 28 Years Later, after writing 28 Days Later and producing 28 Weeks Later), but I am sure there is another filmmaker out there that would love to finish out the trilogy. Authority is just problematic because it would be odd tonally after Annihilation--the first half of it would need to be treated like a sci-fi version of Office Space--but the mystery elements could make it into a fine noir, and the final sequence is a good payoff. Few things spell box office magic these days, unless based on a comic book, and the movie would not make a lot of money, but it could potentially be revelatory. Maybe Annihilation will just stand on its own forever, but I feel like it still could be so much more, if seen as the opening act in a series. There's always the chance one day, it could be "rebooted" and turned into a 3-season television series. As such, we still have the books, and there are plenty of others that will never be adapted either, and that is fine (even movies are becoming too big of an ask for audiences, to say nothing of the obsolescence of the novel). 

Grade: B+

Shellac - To All Trains (2024) / Steve Albini - 1962 - 2024

It's been 10 days since I saw the news, randomly, glancing at my inbox, seeing a "breaking" email from Pitchfork, referencing Albini. It was just a glimpse, and I thought nothing much of it, perhaps it was a tour announcement (the day before, Shellac had been announced as opening act for OFF! on the Chicago stop on their Farewell Tour). But then I looked again and it's fair to say my world fell apart.

The last album I reviewed properly on Flying Houses was Dude Incredible and so of course, the most fitting tribute is to review To All Trains, which is the follow-up that we all waited nearly 10 years to hear, the longest gap between any Shellac album. The review linked above once again exemplifies the evolving nature of the writing on this blog. I don't entirely disavow it ("Wingwalker" is still my favorite song), but would make certain stylistic changes. Regardless, it showcases my enthusiasm for the band at the time.

There were a few other music items on the blog since then, but no proper album reviews. There were lots of reviews of books written by musicians, but there was only a Top 10 Albums of 2017 post, and a review of a Pissed Jeans concert. I sort of migrated over a bit to Instagram in 2019 and made a post in March 2020 after the Shellac concert at Lincoln Hall, so there's a pic and a caption in my timeline. There's also this Shellac concert review from 2016, and really I'm not happy with any of them. I will try to do better here.

*

I did not do better here. I was advised by a friend that he was unsatisfied with this post. He was anticipating a "meditation on the specifics and deep, metaphysical quandaries this person represented, embodied, and cultivated in your internal world. It's not that there wasn't any of it, but it mostly felt like broad strokes without a lot of flesh and muscle and blood vessels added to the scaffolding." 

I did not do that for several reasons: (1) This is one of thousands of articles/items serving as a "personal obituary," and I did not have the benefit of meeting Albini in person (only Bob Weston, who was very nice); (2) I could easily write more of an essay on the task of disavowing earlier poses and wrongheaded statements, but plenty of these other items focus heavily on that, and generally do it quite well, and I do not ignore it entirely; (3) My friend took particular issue with the "album review" below, and I agree with him that it is not a very good review of To All Trains. I will edit as I see fit over time. If it seemed to get short shrift, it's because I'm still sitting with it, and it's quite hard to pretend like you understand what many songs by Shellac are about, and moreover, I am wary of being long-winded, and moreover, this friend is "not and never [has] been a fan of the band" and to him "those guys were never truly punk." 

Now a lot of people would take issue with that last statement (Steve Albini isn't Ian MacKaye, but Electrical Audio is to record studios as Dischord is to record labels), but I believe he meant in the general way they sound, and while I agree with that to an extent, I do believe To All Trains is their "punk" album, even if only 1 or 2 songs actually approach that aesthetic. I am sorry that I do not write well about music, but I have a great deal of respect for the artists and sometimes just want to turn people on to things they might not have otherwise found. 

With Shellac, you would only discover them if you wanted to, and they certainly were not interested in developing a huge following. They played in places they wanted to visit for fun (and most famously the Primavera Festival each year). They played in Chicago once every year or two, and I'm sad I only got to see them in 2016 and 2020, missing that insane pop-up concert they did at Reckless Records in 2019 (I did see them in 2007 at the Touch & Go 25th anniversary Block Party, which also included a mini-Big Black reunion complete with firecrackers, but that was before my appreciation for them ran deeper). Suffice to say, like the Fall, they are unappreciated, but unlike the Fall (who flirted for one brief moment with pop charts), they did not clamor for anyone's attention, or care if anyone didn't like their music. They knew what they did was good, even if a lot of people would never "get it." I don't think you have bad taste if you don't get it--to each their own--and it is really fucking sad to think that the band has come to a necessary end, that whoever might "discover" them in the future won't be able to see them play live, which was the ideal experience with them--but I absolutely think anyone that has *not* heard them, should give them a listen, if only because what they did was different, original, unique and no one can ever replicate the genuine article. 

*

The other Shellac-related posts above in pp 2-3 adequately relay my entire listening history with them. They don't, however, offer any analysis of the overall thrust of Albini's career, perhaps because it was difficult to contextualize at the time and yes, changes happened, as many obituaries and remembrances and homages and tributes tend to mention. 

He talked more shit than almost anyone else. And it was easy to get the wrong idea about him. He stood up for what he believed in, and stuck it to the music industry, regardless of whether it would register. As many items note, he rejected royalties from records he recorded, and rejected the title of "producer," preferring "engineer." You could still buy his services for $900/day in 2024 (I believe). This man was one of the greatest producers in the history of rock music (Phil Spector is the closest comparison in terms of impact and influence on the medium), and he remained affordable and available to hundreds of young musicians looking for proof of "cred." He was a community organizer of sorts. I believe he sponsored a 16" softball team and I am only sorry I couldn't find my way onto it, or that I didn't go to Electrical Audio as a 22-year-old and ask for any type of work, anything to find an entryway into this ethical enclave, at a certain remove from the crummy industry it served, a world of creativity and freedom.

Much has been made about his disavowal of earlier statements, and acknowledgement of privilege, and support of trans rights and other "liberal" causes, and the mea culpas offered on Twitter, and I have nothing to add except they are proof that his heart was always in the right place, and that sometimes you need to scale back rhetoric to protect the most vulnerable amongst us. No one ever defended "wokeness" better. If anyone could have stood up to the most monstrous people in our society and call them out for what they were and why they were wrong, it was him. He never would have wanted to be President, but he would have made a damn good one. 

For me personally, his death is a reminder to make the most of our time here. When I read Our Band Could Be Your Life for the first time in 2003, I was inspired. First I wanted to be a writer, then a filmmaker, then a writer again, then a musician or manager of musicians, then a writer, and then finally a lawyer. When I went to law school, for Legal Writing, we had to use a pseudonym for our first assignment, to ensure anonymity in grading. My name was Santiago Durango, who became a lawyer after Big Black broke up. I didn't get the best grade on that paper (nor on the one authored by Saul Goodman--but the one by Mynheer Peeperkorn, on First Amendment Retaliation claims, got an A). 

Albini did not like lawyers. At least once, he referred to us as "parasites" (who hasn't?). To defend his own statement that Juggalos were misunderstood, he wrote, "Less annoying than Deadheads by an order of magnitude. Very few lawyers and CEOs for a start." 

Albini died the same week as Jim Simons, an influential Wall Street mathematician that laid the foundation for "quant trading" and became a hedge fund manager. He made billions, and made billions for his clients. He lived to be 86. Query which man did more good for the world. The one that made himself available and affordable, and that helped so many people realize and actualize their lifelong dreams, creating a document of their time spent together--or the one that piled money on money and potentially created even more unfair advantages for the most rich and powerful on Wall Street? Both have strong legacies (Simons donated billions of dollars to philanthropic causes) but the one that didn't make front-page news was ultimately the greater champion and hero. 

He would probably question my life choices, and now that he is no longer with us, I will be haunted by his ghost, reminding me of my own mediocrity as a human being. But I also know he wouldn't want to make me feel bad. He would want his death to be a motivator for others, a reminder to follow their calling, and to make great things and do great things. It is tragic that this happened the way it did, but if solace can be taken from anything, it is the immortality of art. Albini is gone, but he will always be with us, too, and he left so much behind for our benefit. 

*

I don't fear Hell.
The baseball team is undefeated.

This is one of the last lines in To All Trains, and posits one of the burning questions I had about Albini. I know he loved baseball and considered it the only worthwhile sport (all other sports were either trying to score the most points before the clock ran out, or volleying something back and forth over a net, he once opined on The Best Show)--but was he a Cubs fan? This information is probably readily available but I'd rather keep it a mystery and pretend that he was in fact "one of us" (though my sense is that he might prefer the White Sox, or prefer to have no allegiance to either). The night he died, Hector Neris ended up getting the win for the Cubs over the Padres, but not before giving up a hit and walking a man while we clung to a 1-run lead. Neris is nicknamed "Heart Attack Hector" due to his penchant for escaping jams that he creates himself. I don't believe that Neris' performance had any impact on Albini that night, but it is an ironic coincidence (at least for the demographic subset of fans of both). (Sometimes I conflate events like this, or the night Carlos Zambrano threw a no-hitter in Milwaukee--which was not against the Brewers and played like a home game--the same night David Foster Wallace, another erudite master of a medium whose influence will continue to percolate for decades, left this world, far too soon.)

The lyrics for To All Trains don't yet pop up on Apple Music but some of them can be made out. Much will be made of the "haunting" quality of many of the songs and lyrics. At least four of them are pretty directly foreboding and uncomfortably prescient ("Tattoos," "Wednesday," "Days are Dogs," and of course, "I Don't Fear Hell.") 

Listening to it again, last night (5/23), while no one will consider this to be his Blackstar (released the same day Bowie died), it doesn't seem entirely clear, but it seems likely, he knew what was happening to him, and knew that this very well might be the last Shellac album (he would be pushing 70 around the time the next one would be anticipated). Their music has always been keenly intertwined with the subject of death (and land, and sex, and music, and time, and ghosts, and heaven--all coupled with doses of humor and irony--and a song about real squirrels and now one about a symbolic rat), but it feels like there is more of a morbid edge to this than all others. At the very least, it grapples more with finding some kind of peace and acceptance in coming to terms with mortality, albeit indirectly. Albini never made "gentle" music of his own, however, and while perhaps a song or two are about his coming to terms with his past reputation, it's still abrasive and puzzling (in a good way, of course, and Shellac cannot be defined by any genre, but "math rock" felt relatively close). 

*

All that being said, this is Shellac's "punk" album. It's 28 minutes long and there are 10 songs. Opening track "Wsod" is possibly about Albini's side-hustle as a professional poker player competing in the World Series of Poker, but I have no idea what most or any of the songs on this album are about. The song's bass line bears a slight resemblance to a certain Green Day (or Papa Roach) song that still gets played on the radio, and it ends with one of the loudest parts of any song they have ever done, sounding a bit like the Jesus Lizard and not for the last time. Effectively the album announces itself as another Shellac album, at this point, and you know the rest will be on par with all of their previous work. It's hard to say what the song or lyrics are about but I've seen some random thing that it is an inside joke referring to the WSOP as the WSOD because it should be called the World Series of Dick-sucking. I cannot verify that but the ending line, "Give that man a medal," is conceivably related to his championship victory.

*

Yesterday (5/30/24), I randomly came across a post on Facebook or X from the Kreative Kontrol podcast. This podcast has interviewed Albini roughly once a year, sometimes twice, for the past 11 or so years. And before the release of Dude Incredible, he went through each song with the host and described the inspiration or idea behind them. They did the same for To All Trains on 4/23/24. The podcast is two hours and twenty minutes long and opens up with 45 minutes of the host (Vish Khanna) offering his remembrances of Albini, reflecting on their relationship, which primarily involved randomly calling Electrical Audio and asking for interviews and later blossomed into a friendship. 

Suffice to say, this episode offers the truth, and these interpretations I have written, above and below, make me feel incredibly stupid. I will add in the truth to highlight said stupidity. 

Basically, I am not far off on "Wsod" but I am not sure Albini got a medal for winning the WSOP, and the lines are "Aspired to bronze/but I'll settle for lead/Passed off as gold for the tourist trade, awarded after testing/Urine, blood and hair/Those three always come as a set/Get that man a medal/Get that man a medal." So it is actually about giving awards to runners up after winners take drug tests and their "competitive advantage" is uncovered. And it is about wanting everyone to know how willing you are to debase yourself on behalf of someone else (i.e. "that guy would win the world series of dick-sucking Donald Trump," to describe the overly eager fanboys going out of their way to defend their idols, a competition of sycophants).  

He also notes, he wanted to scream, "My ass is in a jackpot!" in reference to a baseball umpire who once said that in his own defense to explain why he couldn't control player behavior on the field. 

*

"Girl from Outside," track 2, is similarly mysterious. Many of the lyrics are non-sequiturs involving a mailman. First, the narrator asks the mailman to sing a song, asking if he carries a tune in that bag. Then apparently the mailman delivers, and is not really a mailman (anymore?), but a singer. From there it jumps to being about "two guys from work, who are not at work" and then something about their favorite song and kicking ass and giving high-fives. Then finally ends on its subject matter--the girl from outside, whose hair looks "really great!" I am still trying to decide what this song is about but I am sure whatever conclusion I draw will be wrong. I do like the idea of yelling at a mailman to sing, and I do actually hear them singing to themselves sometimes. 

This is actually a totally straightforward song about a night at a local karaoke bar. The "Girl from Outside" is part of a group of bar-hopping karaoke enthusiasts, not the regulars. The tone of the song does not sound like it is about a fun night out doing karaoke, so I hope my interpretation is forgivable (i.e. thinking it described two guys sitting on a porch as the mailman comes by). And the "high-fives" are a reference to karaoke night at Lounge Ax, a defunct Chicago institution in the 80s-90s, which had a sign that said "no high-fives, except on karaoke night." 

*

"New Wave Chick" is probably the most "punk" song on the album, and opens up with arguably its most classic line: 

I'm through with music from dudes!

It calls to mind "A Minute" from At Action Park or "Spoke" off Excellent Italian Greyhound or "Surveyor" (and to a lesser extent, "You Came in Me") off Dude Incredible, or even "Copper" off of Terraform--the straightforward fast Shellac rock song. The meaning of the song seems relatively obvious but again I am likely way off--most of the best music being made today is not being made by dudes. All he cares about now is "chick new wave." Bob Weston also essentially duets this song with Albini and both complement one another here as beautifully as they always have. That said, I can't discern any more of the lyrics. 

As may be conjectured, I have consulted genius.com for some of these lyrics, but I am not printing them all. In short, this interpretation is not that far off, except that it was meant to refer to the female-fronted punk bands in the early 80s, not female-fronted punk bands in the early 20s. 

*

"Tattoos" probably has the heaviest subject matter of any of the songs, but it is similarly mysterious. 

What's the panic with you?
Your urgent need to mingle.
Press the flesh and smell my breath.
Would you just, fucking wait? 

I don't see how this part connects to the rest of the song but it does always catch me off guard because I am always panicking about something whenever it comes on (I have listened to it least once a day every day since it has been out, probably about 20 times so far, which isn't hard given its length) and it causes me to reflect and slow down and realize that whatever I am freaking out about is most likely meaningless and not worth agonizing over (like this post, for example). 

How many people did you kill 
Arguing with that kid?
You got ghosts chasing you now
In your truck
Ghosts got a ghost truck

You say, "Time waits for no one
You couldn't be more wrong
Time is patient like a hunter waiting for you to come along."
Even if I give you the out
Of not knowing what the fuck this is about

We should raise a ghost army.
Volunteer ghosts, enlisted ghosts.
Help the living help the dead with their tools.
We'll tattoo the names of the dead, tattoo the names
Tattoo the names of the dead, on your hands.

Obviously, this song could be about police brutality or genocide or any of the 1,000+ mass shootings that have happened since Dude Incredible, and not letting the perpetrators forget their atrocities, lest they continue unabated. This could also be a foolish and simpleminded interpretation. 

I mean, yes, but those concerns were brought into sharp relief during the pandemic, and actually this song is about anti-maskers, and it totally makes sense. COVID denialism doesn't reach the same level of moral culpability as murder, but 2020-2021 was the one time in (most of) our lives where breathing on somebody did bring the possibility of killing them. Of course it makes me think of seeing them on 3/11/20 and how Albini opened up the show by saying, "All of you are very brave," and how Bob Weston came out wearing a mask and how I wrote, "Regardless, I hope to see them again," as the last caption line in my Instagram post, and how that 2020 tour got cancelled after the show I saw, and how the rescheduled tour in 2021 got rescheduled for 2022, and then of course last night, watching some of the Primavera Sound Festival that they are broadcasting on Amazon Prime this year, watching Pulp play, hearing Jarvis Cocker dedicate "Something Changed" to somebody. I didn't hear for sure, but it must have been Albini, because even though you don't think of Jarvis Cocker as the type of musician that would book a session at Electrical Audio, he tapped Albini for Further Complications in 2009, after meeting Albini at the Pitchfork Festival in 2008 (which again, maybe the year I most regret missing, the lineup was so stacked, and so was Lollapalooza that year, and what a travesty its become). They named one stage for Albini this year, in the corner of the festival grounds, and I saw one of the organizers talk about how this was the first year without him and Shellac. Lana headlined Lollapalooza last year and Primavera this year. It's remarkable that Primavera kept this very inaccessible group as their "house band," playing every year for the past 15, when they themselves played only a handful of shows a year. It's a testament to the "unknown" greatness of the band.  Let's just say, if I had shelled out for it this year, this would have been even more crushing, and it would have held even deeper meaning as a spiritual pilgrimage. But yes, the song is about the people that panicked over their urgent need to mingle, denying the overall situation and ignoring the idea that immuno-compromised individuals deserve to be protected. 

*

"Wednesday" is perhaps the clearest "voice from the grave" moment from Albini, along with "I Don't Fear Hell." It is the only "dirge" on the album. It's slow, there's very little melody to it, and the drum fills are the only "energetic" part of the song (it bears a resemblance to "Genuine Lulabelle" off Excellent Italian Greyhound in that). 

When they left he was hale and strong
Had all the girls fit to marry.
And what we got back, you couldn't put in your hat
And was hardly fit to bury.

The bend in your back
In the marital act,
Whether or not you plan to marry.
Hump has three meanings, maybe four.
For him, it meant to carry
What he was born with and was given,
What he earned and what he found,
What he figured out for himself,
And what he picked up off the ground,
And at last, what he imagined.
So remember him as he was, hale and strong,
Would never run from a fight
And not the sad thing that blew out his brains 
In the kitchen, Wednesday night.     

It is hard to say how much of Albini's work in Big Black or Rapeman or Shellac is autobiographical. Of course, we want to say none. Yet one cannot pretend that something like "The Power of Independent Trucking" (opening track from Songs About Fucking, which most consider the high watermark of Big Black after Atomizer) is actually only about how long-haul truckers get their "backbone" and not a metaphor or comment on the music industry.  One cannot hear "Shoe Song," and hear Bob Weston scream, "I miss you!!!" and not think of "Good Morning Captain" off Spiderland, which Albini did not actually produce---but he did record Tweez (credited as "Some Fuckin Derd Niffer" on the album) and praise Spiderland as a masterpiece and acknowledge that Slint would never be huge, but would become extremely influential (he wasn't wrong about many things, though most people wouldn't know he was right). It was sad, or perhaps comforting, to see that his mother Gina survived him, knowing "Mama Gina" (who had a sister named Angelina) is not dancing in a heaven he doesn't think there is yet. Excellent Italian Greyhound is about as directly autobiographical an album title as there is, with Todd Trainer's dog Uffizi serving as an unofficial mascot for the band. If I had to say which of the 3 bands' songs were the "most autobiographical," it would be Shellac. I do not doubt that Albini once had a very annoying watch like the one in "Watch Song." From various anecdotes, it seems clear Albini enjoyed pool and may have seen some of himself in "Billiard Player Song."  Of course, "Wingwalker," is far more likely metaphorical than actually about the it-girl of the sky that performs ridiculously dangerous acrobatics; it is about sacrificing everything else in your life to be completely and totally dedicated to a project, i.e. the plane, which has a button that can be pushed to decimate all of the people that look like little ants from above (his various monologues during the song live were by turns absurd and poetic).

This song is hard to gauge, but the original title was "Hump Day," and it really is just about the day of the week--and a narrative about a fictional character. A broken character, someone that had been through a life experience that was transformative in a terrible way, with the person becoming different to everyone and around everyone and ultimately making him take his own life (paraphrasing from podcast here). Beyond that it is mostly wordplay with the multiple meanings of "hump." 

*

"Scrappers" may be the best song on the album, or at the very least one of the best. It is classic Shellac, coming in hard and fast on the heels of the downcast "Wednesday," with a swinging guitar line, punctuated by heavy, syncopated bass thumps soon thereafter, for 1 minute, before leading into the lyrics:

Papa, did you quit your job?
Punch the man, who said those things?
Did you sell the car
And buy a truck
And start the scrapping enterprise?

Papa is that your plan?
Papa what a plan.
Papa is that your plan?
Papa what a plan. 
We'll be pirates

The cool night air will fill our lungs
With songs we'll sing each other.
I am small, but you will come
To trust me like a brother.
We'll be pirates! (x6.5)

If you can see the album art, above the band personnel are three photographs, one for each member. The photographs are of pick-up trucks filled with mountains of scrap metal and other various discarded appliances. (Perhaps worth noting, the album cover itself is a photograph of Union Station in Chicago taken by Bob Weston; I will try to replicate the photo at some point in the future.) Basically, the band members are fans of such scrappers, and Albini spoke about how such individuals are present in all places, and how some languages naming them imply a derogatory inference.

What's more surprising, is that this is a very innocent and cute song. Albini acknowledged he was attempting to recreate the sounds included in a children's song that is popular on YouTube, and that the song is from the perspective of a little girl whose father has a regular office job, but has an incident at work and wants to quit and become a scrapper--and the girl finds that idea romantic and exciting, going with her father on scrapping runs and having adventures and being like pirates. It's kind of a ridiculous and fun idea, and accordingly a fun song. Arguably getting to hear them scream, "We'll be pirates!" would be nearly as good as hearing them scream, "Look at me, I'm a plane!" I'll have to see what concerts are up on YouTube, to see how these songs went down live. 

*

"Days are Dogs" is the most verbose song on the album, unquestionably, opening with a cowbell and launching into 100 seconds of 219 words delivered in vaguely matter-of-fact barking over a spare, simple scratchy guitar line. 

I am the last day of your life, lived beyond all expectation
My wives and concubines are all fecund and pulchritudinous
And I hope that that's correct, the way I used pulchritudinous
I pity all the dead, who are not here to witness
The omniscious* creases, sweet baby Jesus
If I can't take it with me, I'll have it all now.
*-this can't be the right word but I can't figure it out. 

The song is about how time gets away from you , and you don't get things done that you intend. "Days are dogs distracted by each other's assholes," and it goes from there, he says, and it's a very relevant message in 2024, where the only people that can avoid these types of distractions are the people that have a very healthy ability to put their phone away. He mentioned that the concluding bit is about a disaster at a rock n roll concert in Cincinnati in the 70s, when the band the Who had a concert where people were trampled to death. Going to see the Who, he explained....maybe not even worth killing someone over, and the poor son of a bitch that was in front of you, it's just bad luck you happened to be in front of me. He added that, a lot of things people do for gratification are either for aggrandizement, because they want be known as someone that has done something, or they are incredibly petty trivial shitty little things that they want or have some kind of material desire for. 

*

"How I Wrote How I Wrote Elastic Man," is a Bob Weston song that references the Fall but doesn't sound like them, though it does have a repetitive guitar part. 

I had very little to say about this song at first, despite it referencing one of my other favorite bands. It's a grower. It's grown on me, and it grows as it goes along, and by the end, it has the 2nd moment on the album where Shellac sounds like Jesus Lizard (The ending of "Wsod" sounds like "Nub," and the ending of this song sounds like "Gladiator," from Goat and Liar, both of which Albini recorded). 

Before we start 
I must explain
This song was once
Called "sauerkraut." 

It's another self-referential song within a song, not unlike "New Number Order," but then it shifts beyond its Foucault-like focus, and I really was at a loss to say anything else. Albini noted that it was inspired by a book that Bob Weston was reading at the time, which I believe is Cock and Bull by Will Self, and features the directive to the reader to "begin again," which is reflected in the lyrics of the song. This is another "grower" and ultimately becomes an album highlight, with the way instruments are methodically added on top of one another before dropping to bass and drums in the coda. And that part does sound like "Gladiator," and ironically the Jesus Lizard just announced they have a new album coming out in September and the first single released is an encouraging sign that it will actually be a good comeback album. In an interview with the New York Times, David Yow (who one must not forget, provided the name of this blog) mentioned that Albini told him people were going " shit themselves" when they found out Jesus Lizard was putting out a new album. Of course this news is overshadowed by the sadder news, but as Albini was also considered a "fifth member" of the band, one hopes at least their tour will offer a fitting tribute to his legacy. 

*

"Scabby the Rat" is a theme song for the inflatable rat that I know has shown up in Jeopardy! clues and should be played at such demonstrations. 

Is inflatable.
That's right I said he's inflatable.
Makes the whole room pregnant.
Pow! You're pregnant.

There's not much to say about this song except that it is probably the closest thing to a "pop song" on this album. All the songs are pretty short and at this point, after this many listens, I feel comfortable saying To All Trains is their "leanest" album and has almost zero-filler. Maybe below I will rank some things. The details on the song spilled in the podcast are rather limited to Albini's remembrance of his friend (Rob Warmowski) that ran the Scabby the Rat account on Twitter. This part comes near the end of the podcast, and Albini mentions that this friend died suddenly of meningitis--contracting it on Friday and dying on Monday--and the idea that Albini would have a similar "sudden death" experience, about two weeks after that interview, makes it doubly saddening to hear. But there is a mention of Warmowski and the song serves as a tribute to him and the labor efforts he promoted. 

*

The last track bears similarities to both "Watch Song" and "Il Porno Star" in how it opens but ends up becoming the most fitting final track in their catalog. I love the whole thing. If I had to guess what Pitchfork will give it, it would be 8.0. (Note: I was 0.1 off)

Obviously the last track is the aforementioned "I Don't Fear Hell," and this is the other dirge on the album after "Wednesday," but it has greater levity, with Albini actually singing, "Something something," and celebrating, "when this is over/leap in my grave like the arms of a lover." It's a very straightforward song that takes on a darker hue given the reality on 6/7/24. There are a couple great moments on it, and though now it seems destined to be tied to his actual untimely passing, there is comfort to take in it as well. Albini was a brave individual and he lived out his days in a way that many of us wish we could. His example is an inspiration. We can all do better, if we take it to heart--the work ethic, adhering to certain principles--and we might lead more fulfilling lives, too, where the everyday experience itself is the reward.  

*

There's probably more I could say, but maybe that's enough. It's taken me a long time to process this and accept it as reality. Maybe writing this has helped a bit. Suffice to say, I will be undergoing a mental reassessment of my entire life over the coming months, and hope it may end with living one where time doesn't feel wasted, or moments unexperienced don't feel missed. There are many ways to live a good life, but we are beset by a binary predisposition. The choice is often between doing great things--being ambitious, creating something new, breaking new ground--or being content with a smaller life, where you won't set the world on fire, but you will tend to your garden, do no harm and improve the lives of others around you. Albini did both, in a way, and he will stand as a lasting example of the power of standing behind one's principles, compromising for no one, and creating a beautiful piece of art out of our performance as a human being on this earth. 

Requiescat in pace

Sonic Life - Thurston Moore (2023)

Sonic Life was a fascinating read. Mostly because I have been listening to Sonic Youth since 2000, and routinely included them whenever anyone asked me my "top 3" bands. I've watched The Year Punk Broke countless times. I've listened to many of their albums--Daydream Nation, Sister, Goo, Dirty, Washing Machine, Sonic Nurse, Rather Ripped, The Eternal--rather frequently over the years. I met Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon once, and wrote about it in a zine, and gave it to Kim the next time I saw them (at Tonic). I was very intimidated and I approached Kim and she accepted the zine and spoke back to me in a German accent, perhaps a defense mechanism, or a deflecting one, which mirrored my anxiety. I saw them play live many times--perhaps not a dozen, but more than half a dozen. I picked up Girl in a Band on the day it was released (actually just tried to--it was sold out; I read it in March 2015, exactly 9 years ago; also the above details are largely repeated in the linked review, and I do think I have gotten slightly better here). 

I was not nearly as excited for Sonic Life, perhaps because so much time had passed, and because I had already managed my expectations. Sonic Youth had played their final show in November 2011, and Girl in a Band was released in February 2015. For those unfamiliar, Sonic Youth started in roughly 1981, so they lasted 30 years. Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore had been married in 1984, and the end of their marriage spelled the end of their band. One imagines Kim Gordon starting the book in 2012 or 2013, delivering the finished product in 2014; on re-perusal, it is raw and emotional, written when the pain of the unraveling was still fresh. 

There was no question, however, that I would read Sonic Life as well, and I asked for it for Christmas. For all of his iconic glory and presence as a singular Thurston, a certain mystery pervades his band's recorded output. The songs are rarely personal--they are more often about friends than themselves. Lyrics, while important, often take a backseat to the noise. The language of their music is atonal, and inaccessible to a great deal of people. It almost feels like there is a resistance towards wanting to be understood. 

Coming from this perspective, Sonic Life is a revelation of sorts. As a person that spent their teenage years in Connecticut and adopted New York City as a home (albeit only temporarily), I felt a certain kinship with him, even as I struggled to understand his modus operandi. I was there in 2001. I would say that things were not that different from 1981, then. In 2021, I would not say the same thing. So while I was not there for the 70s and 80s, when New York was dangerous and somewhat affordable, I came when Giuliani was Mayor, and the city had been "cleaned up" to a degree, but still had many areas yet to gentrify. CBGB was still open and a new subset of bands attempted to recapture the magic of the scene in the late 70s. I was more influenced by Sonic Youth than the Strokes or the Yeah Yeah Yeahs (though a band I managed owed a fair debt to Interpol), but those bands held a place for me that Patti Smith or Televsion might have held for Thurston, when he moved there in the late 70s. There are definitely overlaps.

Thurston "gets it":

"The only affordable alternatives were to be had along East Houston Street, either the Yonnah Schimmel Bakery on the corner of Forsyth Street, for a knish jammed with yellow mustard and sauerkraut, or Katz's Delicatessen, a couple of blocks east, for a split grilled frankfurter with the 'works' on a toasted bun, ideally downed with a Dr. Brown's cream soda. If you were feeling flush, a couple more bucks could get you either a hot pastrami or a corned beef sandwich on rye bread, doused with mustard and coupled with a large sour green dill pickle. The pickle was key, as it helped you digest all those cured meats. At times a pickle was all that was needed, and the pickle stores on the Lowest East Side's Essex Street--huge barrels of briny vinegar pickles set up on the sidewalk, sometimes so acrid your eyes would water--were perfect for an emergency crunch fix." (120)

I took a summer course at NYU called "Writing New York City," and our professor, Nettie Jones, took us on field trips around the city, one of which was to a certain pickle merchant on the Lower East Side. This remains the best pickle I have had in my life. So he gets it. Dr. Brown's cream soda is also the credited beverage of choice at Katz's (even if that establishment is an institution that hardly feels like the "secret tip" on the pickles). There are other revelatory food passages, such as praise for the frites in Amsterdam, and I loved them because I could relate, but I digress.

*

Overall, this is a great book. The primary criticism is the front-loading. This is roughly 500 pages long, about twice as long as Girl in a Band. At page 400, we are somewhere around 1993. So you have 400 pages covering 1976-1993, and 100 pages covering 1993-Present. 1987-1993 are covered rather quickly as well. Really, the majority of this book is about the beginning of Sonic Youth, roughly 1980-1985, with a strong emphasis on the Confusion is Sex/Kill Yr Idols and Bad Moon Rising era, which is when the band began to ascend. I always found the earlier material somewhat unlistenable, and Sonic Life lent a greater appreciation for those albums. For how difficult the listening may have been, it is clear from the book that they were trying to be more of an accessible "rock band" than the vast majority of their peers in the No-Wave Scene. 

To give a specific example, consider the song "Ghost Bitch," a song that almost never registered to me, ensconced deep in the muck of Bad Moon Rising, which shows up on many more setlists than I previously perceived. And while there is a lot of noise in it, it turns into a more traditional "song" and actually kind of exemplifies what was great about their earlier material--that transition from pure noise and feedback bleeding into a song and the feeling that the moment has arrived. This is much more noticeable on live recordings, and a reminder that Sonic Youth was one of the great live bands, their noise jamming akin to the "noodling" of the Grateful Dead.

They do actually have an opportunity to meet the Grateful Dead, but it is passed up and Jerry Garcia dies shortly thereafter and regret is pronounced. In the early days of punk, hippies were the enemy, but that facade fell away in short order. Greg Ginn was a huge Deadhead and Black Flag became a jam band right after Damaged. Lee Ranaldo was also a bit of a Deadhead, though it's clear Thurston's heart is with the Stooges. Neil Young asked Sonic Youth to open for him in 1990 and their experience on that tour was somewhat transformative. They would soon have their "pop" moment, becoming leading mentors to Nirvana, influencing their decision to sign to a major label imprint and the consequent explosion of Nevermind. And they would realize not long after, that massive success was not in the cards, and settled comfortably into their niche around 1995 on Washing Machine, which was good enough for a fairly nice living. 

*

The chapter on Sonic Youth in Our Band Could Be Your Life underwhelmed me at the time, perhaps because the members of the band all seemed to act like adults, and drama was minimal. Until the end of their career, the biggest drama seemed to be the way they jerked aroud Bob Bert. Bert was their primary drummer before Steve Shelley took over, and after Richard Edson, who became an actor (in Stranger Than Paradise, the director of which was Jim Jarmusch, also a figure in the "scene"). But I had no idea how many times Bert was fired and rehired (at least three or four times). He never did anything wrong, the band just wanted a different "style" of drumming, but they had trouble finding a suitable replacement, so they kept asking him back. So he may be considered an unsung hero, for providing stability even when they did not offer the same.

Of course, the drama came at the end, and Moore dodges it to an extent. He claims that he does not want to capitalize on pain. Which feels like something of a shot at Girl in a Band, because that book basically took the dissolution of the relationship as a framing mechanism. Moore does explain how he fell in love with his "soulmate," to an extent, but the salacious details have already been printed elsewhere, and apparently do not merit refutation. And even if they did, it would not be a good look to respond to 8-year-old grievances after all this time. Thurston has said that he is totally open to a reunion, and the book is in the spirit of that, a celebration of all they accomplished--so it makes sense not to dwell on the past, once everyone has put it behind them. Regardless, while it is not our business to tell people how to write meaningfully about divorce, I have to believe there could have been a way to offer an effective mea culpa and maintain dignity, and that absence feels like a missed opportunity. 

More generally, there is not a great deal of emotion in this book. There are plenty of rhapsodic flourishes about the power of music. Iggy Pop once said (memorialized by Mogwai), "when I'm in the grips of it, I don't feel pleasure and I don't feel pain, either physically or emotionally." One could say the same about this book. It just kind of washes over you. 

* 

There's so much information. Moore may have an excellent memory, or kept diligent journals, but the book required significant research as well. It seems like the entire book is a recitation of all of the tours that the band ever did. There are far more anecdotes from these performances than from the recording of their albums or anything else in their lives, apart from the birth of their daughter Coco. 

While Moore may not want to berate himself or hold himself up as a target, he is more than willing to make fun of himself. The band always came off as very cool and hipper than thou, so it is endearing to read about the awkward beginnings:

"Together we walked across downtown to the East Village. We found some late-night food at a diner on Second Avenue, Egan [Kim's dog] tied up outside, attentively waiting for his master, once in a while issuing a bark to let her know what time it was. Kim told me she had been staying far uptown at the apartment of the SoHo gallerist Annina Nosei. Leaving the diner, I asked how she was going to get up to Annina's with Egan so late at night, as animals weren't permitted on the subway unless they were Seeing Eye dogs. A taxi seemed luxurious. She said she was okay. I was too shy to kiss her, even politely on the cheek, though I wanted to. So I simply said--

'Okay, see ya around.' 
--and stuck my hand out, feeling immediately foolish. She cocked her head slightly, half-smiling, before returning my handshake.  
I walked to my apartment smitten and a bit mortified, my desire overwhelmed by my lack of confidence. I was clearly no Lothario. I was twenty-two years old but with a teenage brain, slow to transition to adulthood." (145)

*

The beginning of this book is as good a primer on the New York City music scene in the late 70s as I have read. The book as a whole is not as good as Please Kill Me, but the beginning of it eclipses that, at times, because it is funneled through Moore himself. Similarly, I cannot say it is better overall than Girl in a Band, though many aspects of it are better. Moore is excellent as a historian. The sheer amount of information is overwhelming and the narrative is amusing. Girl in a Band is more artistic, the prose is often more clipped and spare, and it progresses along an emotional arc. There is no real arc to this book--rather, there are Books, six of them, comprised of 71 chapters.

The arc of Sonic Life is in Books 1-3. That is where Moore realizes his dream and vision of the future and goes about manifesting the band and its unlikely success. There is something deeply inspiring about these pages, a tone that Our Band Could Be Your Life maintained throughout, about not having any idea of how to play music but wanting to anyways, and doing it. 

So when this book captures that energy, it is at its best. I do think it needs an index. Any book that required significant research and lobs hundreds of names of famous, semi-famous and non-famous artists at the reader should get an index. There is a real "scene" that gets captured here, in full-fledged glory (punk), which eventually dies and turns into something else (no wave), which then dies and turns into something else (college rock), before branching off into nether realms (grunge). There may be a greater testament to the No Wave scene than Sonic Life but I've yet to see it. Moore's observation of it and life within it is the strongest part of the book. 

 

Those were simpler times, and they are treated lovingly. The real memoir of the book is Moore's early life. By the time the band is charting a course towards greater accessibility with Sister, the book is about Sonic Youth, and no longer about Thurston Moore, and emotional truth does not apply to entities the same way (i.e., it was nice of John Lydon to show the band what seemed genuine concern when their gear got stolen before a gig they did with Public Image Ltd.). He sums it all up rather nicely, it just ends too abruptly. 

Grade: A-

 

****

Is that really all I have to say? No. But I can't write a perfect review of this book. I thought it might be an interesting exercise to provide two excerpts--one from Sonic Life and one from Girl in a Band--about the same event, which is a performance by Public Image Ltd. Perhaps that will provide a window into how these two artists remember details:

"There were others of course--the Velvet Underground, the Door--who took risks in the 1960s, when no one knew where any of it was going. Before them were the Beats and before the Beats the avant-garde artists, the futurists, Fluxus, and before that, the blues, outsider music, a mourning for what's expected but will never happen, so why not dance and play and forget for a few moments that we're all alone anyway?

Cut now to Public Image Ltd. performing at the Ritz in 1981 in New York City. Sid Vicious was dead and the Sex Pistols were over. Public Image Ltd. had made an impact and their third album, The Flowers of Romance, had mystery, with its girl on the cover. The Ritz crowd anxiously awaited the band's appearance. The huge movie-scale screen where videos were projected before bands was still down. The screen was a natural barrier, used to create and motivate the crowd's reaction. First up came a huge image of John Lydon's face, laughing. Then he began to sing. Projected onto the screen was a strange film of a dark alley and the girl from the cover of The Flowers of Romance getting out of a garbage can. The film stopped, but the screen stayed in place, and suddenly behind it, the shadows of the three band members appeared. The screen stayed still. Furious at seeing the ghostlike, ritualistic figures of the group out of reach behind the screen, the audience became agitated; they couldn't see the band in the flesh. They started yelling. A few of them threw metal chairs. The band ran offstage and the audience proceeded to destroy the screen. 

Public Image didn't go out there intending to cause a riot. They were simply trying something new. The audience's expectations were dashed. The band's pure audacity had drawn crowds to the Ritz in the first place, but then the audience couldn't accept what the band was offering. It was too much. And that experience, that feeling, will never appear on YouTube, will never be downloaded onto anyone's laptop or phone. Today you will never find a picture of it, because the Internet didn't exist, and no one was paying attention, or bothering to document what was taking place right before their eyes, with the exception of a zine started by a bunch of fifteen-year-old New York girls called The Decline of Western Civilization." (261-262)

This comes near the end of Girl in a Band, and goes onto to discuss our need for heroics from musical icons that died too young, how the 80s were like the 60s, questioning whether the 90s actually happened, and then ends with her seeing Dave Chappelle at the Oddball Festival in Hartford in 2012 or so, comparing the audience to that show to the one for PiL at the Ritz, and how Chappelle couldn't get the audience to stop talking and so opted to spend 25 minutes on the stage, smoking a cigarette and waiting in silence, to their escalating dismay. It's kind of a great mini-essay on what it means to be in the audience and what we expect to get out of the experience. She had written famously before about how audiences want to see themselves on stage, and so the performer should be a mirror to them in a way, serving as a conduit for their energy. It appears that Sonic Youth took this concept to their stage show, in their waning years, as they would project a video of the live audience itself, being captured from the front of the stage, behind them on a screen as they performed. I have to think this is a callback to the PiL screen, and Gordon's and the band's own notions of how to frame the audience experience.

In contrast, the 28th chapter of Sonic Life, "The Electric Dread," is 3 pages long: 

"Public Image Ltd, in May 1981, set up shop in New York City. Their idea was not to perform gigs like any other rock 'n' roll group, but to make recordings, books, and films--to be a 'company' of sorts, a brand as opposed to a band. 

Less than a year earlier John Lydon and PiL guitarist Keith Levene had appeared on the program Tomorrow, a late-night network talk show with an engaging, funny, take-no-guff interlocutor named Tom Snyder. Lydon and Levene attempted to state their case of being an 'anti-band' to Snyder, only to become argumentative when he didn't take the bait.

The band had already shaken up the North American airwaves earlier that year by lip-synching on the weekly music show and institution American Bandstand, Lydon making no pretense of going along with the pretense, walking among and dancing around the live TV audience, reavealing PiL's music to be nothing but a canned recording.

On the Tomorrow show, Snyder was surprised, even astounded, at how rude and aggressive Lydon could be. At one point he admonished the punk lord, only for Lydon to accuse the host of having a 'tantrum.' Lydon and Levene kept getting out of their chairs to lean across the table and cadge cigarettes from Snyder's pack. 

The episode was explosive for us, energizing the entire scene in its defiance of the mainstream.

The Ritz nightclub on East Eleventh Street had a cancellation by the London band Bow Wow Wow (who were managed by the ex-Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren, whom Lydon was then suing). Lydon and Levene accepted an offer for their new anti-band to play the gig instead, but only if they could perform behind the Ritz's monolithic video screen, touted as the largest in the world. Rolled down, it filled the entire stage. They had the idea to illuminate the screen and stage from behind with high-intensity PAR can lights, creating monstrous silhouettes, while Super 8 film footage of the group bopping around Manhattan was shown.........

[The queue outside the Ritz is described, the rain that began crashing down, and the extended wait for the band to set up their unorthodox arrangement, and the hapless opening band that was booed off the stage...]

Before too long the silhouettes of Lydon, Levene, and their bandmates rose high on the screen, inciting cheers from the audience. The opening salvos of the band's just released album, The Flowers of Romance, with Lydon yodeling an unholy atonal yowl, blasted through the PA.

A live feed of the group behind the screen would intermittently cut into the preshot Super 8 footage. Each time an actual image of Lydon or Levene would appear, the crowd would lift its voice in approval, but the effect soon became redundant and annoying. 

Bottles began to be hurled as chants of---

'Lift the screen! Lift the screen!'

---filled the room. 

[The audience's pulling of a tarp on the stage that was under all the band's equipment is described.]

Keith Levene ran in front of the screen, waving his arms at the audience to stop the madness, but it was entirely ineffectual as bottles whizzed past his head, nearly braining him. Stagehands ran out to rescue Keith as a pretaped image of Lydon appeared on the screen, warbling and strumming tunelessly on an acoustic guitar, singing a piss take on an old folkie tune---

I've got a hole in my heart

Levene proceeded to put on a recording of The Flowers of Romance. He played some kind of feedback guitar with it, which sounded excellent to me--though my appreciation for it may have been in the minority. More chants of---

'Lift the screen!'

---came, mixed with yelling and laughter, bottles lobbed endlessly towards the stage. Lydon again appeared on the screen, this time singing an actual live and in-person version of the same song---

I've got a ho-o-ole in my heart

The audience lost it.

This was not a concert; it was an insane asylum.

With the pulling of the tarp having fully dismantled the band's gear, Lydon's silhouette loomed across the screen as a giant demon, haranguing into his microphone a singsong tease---

'Silly fucking audience, silly fucking audience!'

It was the final straw.

Bottles now rained over the room and onto the stage, splattering, smashing, and staining the screen, the crazed audience grabbing at it, attempting to tear the offending obstruction down. The pride and joy of the Ritz, its world-famous video screen, hung precariously from its moorings. 

In an instant all the houselights flared up, a Wizard of Oz voice booming from the PA---

'THE SHOW IS OVER!! EVERYONE LEAVE!! NOW!!'

Furious security guards began to forcibly push the audience out of the room. No one really fought back; everyone was simply too bewildered, too giddy even, at how messed up and chaotic this gig had become. There were laughs and a few shouts of---

'I want my money back!'...(183-185)

Maybe you can see the difference. Gordon's is like an essay, from a distance; Moore's is like a short story, experienced moment by moment. It's likely both were at that PiL show at the Ritz in 1981 together, but you can't totally tell from Gordon's.  I didn't fully copy the entire text of "The Electric Dread," but I hope the lawyers at Penguin Random House are willing to dote on me, and see that this is its own form of publicity, and that it can only help keep conversations about the book going. Book reviews should be able to include long excerpts, and this has been a foundational rule on Flying Houses. It helps the reader decide if they want to take the deeper dive.

*

I'm not sure what else to say. Both of these artists and their band have meant and continue to mean a great deal to me. They do not get their due respect. Perhaps they did, briefly, 30 years ago, and Daydream Nation is in the Library of Congress and they are still famous, in the sense that they stood for the vanguard of their time, and persist today as solo artists that keep pushing themselves in new and sometimes exciting directions (Gordon's two solo records have both been remarkably good; Moore's work has become a behemoth, less suited for the type of rambunctious live performances of Gordon on recent tours--really appearing to me like a female-fronted version of the Fall, her onstage persona reimagined and reinvigorated--and more suited to jazz lounges and study lounges, playing instrumental music for productivity, and naps). Their books are a "study in contrasts," and each is certainly worth reading for any fan of the band. Gordon's is the more affective story, and the reader will feel more after finishing hers; Moore's is the nerdier, more emotionally-distanced one. Arguably, the first half of Sonic Life eclipses Girl in a Band, and if it had continued in that vein, might have been better overall. It doesn't fall of the rails exactly, but it loses some verve and sense of wonder along the way, and turns into bulletpoint-like prose summing up their final years (the chapter on 9/11 is the last great part of the book). Much of it is extremely readable and amusing and thought-provoking and educational. And that really should be good enough for a book. We need not require that musicians open up and bleed in their memoirs--it just feels like that would be more true to the spirit of punk--but there are other sub-genres and other aesthetics.