Tired of Ugly Fat?

Column from Matter 11.

By Steve Albini

The changes in popular music have been going on long enough that we can take a step back and look at the thrust of things more clearly than we could even two or three years ago. If I were to make any sort of generalization (and it looks like I'm going to, doesn't it?), it would have to be that we are plum ready for some new blood and some new noise.

People have been saying that for a while, but up until recently, anyway, there was still enough viable music being produced by the machinery set in motion by the Ramones and the Sex Pistols. In gross terms, there still is strong music being made, but by fewer and fewer bands and in ever-more-limited contexts.

EVEN LAST YEAR there seemed to be more signs of life: more promises being made than now. Since then, the ranks of the has-beens and never-weres have swollen while the real spark has been spit out for a lot of other bands. So far this year I can only think of two or three really captivating bands. Music from them, a few holdovers from last year and a few recently-uncovered old gems have filled the time, but I worry a lot about next year. We're probably about through with this phase of development and on the crest of a long dry stretch.

A couple of specific incidents have caused this vague disillusionment, but if not them, then something else would've. Recently I got to witness one of those watershed events that can pull the shutters off your eyes and give you a new perspective. Man-Sized Action, profiled last issue, and one of the finest bands in Minneapolis or anywhere, decided that three years was long enough to toil away in obscurity making absolutely brilliant music and being completely ignored while shit bands with a saleable gimmick get dragged to the top by their bootheels. They booked a final show and played like absolute champs, pumping out about 40 songs covering their entire career. A dying band has never sounded so alive. Somebody said he thought it was like a funeral, but it was really more like an Irish wake, where everybody gets blasted and throws a wildass tits-up party, so they can remember what an ace the deceased was while he was around.

Things like that--a truly dedicated, original band calling it quits--makes you wonder how long it'll be before the Wipers reach the same conclusion. Or Naked Raygun, or Black Flag or any band that takes its music seriously and wants the public to do the same.

I DON'T KNOW how many other people share the disillusionment. (I mean, if you want to placate yourselves by pretending there's any real substance in phenoms like the new Meat Puppies or Morrissey and his Smurfs, or the Dream Butt-wipers Syndicate or Frankie Goes to Psycho-analysis, that's your business.) But if any of you do feel this way, too, then these suggestions might help pass the time.

There's this Saints album called Casablanca that was recorded during one of their reconciliatory phases and has more heartfelt emotion and unpretentious, raucous music than anything I've heard in a long time. I've heard rumors that it's been issued in England under a different title, but the one I've got is from Australia, and it has no additional information. If you can find it, pay whatever they ask for it.

Last year, Mich Kreight Ihr Nicht, an unheralded 12-incher by Tommi Stumpff, showed up in Vintage Vinyl, and turned me into a slathering imbecile. It's nothing but frantic electronic rhythms, German screams and synthesizer noise blasts, but somehow it's one of the most compelling, frightening and amazing records ever to widen my cochleas. Like old DAF taken to a psychotic extreme. This proves unequivocably that you don't need big hair, an image, or even use of both your legs to make brilliant music.

LIVE SKULL. FROM the same general frame of mind as the Swans, Sonic Youth, and Circle-X, these guys seem to have distilled their music to a higher degree, saying what those other bands only implied, running where they only plodded. They have one self-titled 12-inch EP out that almost justifies New York's existence.

The Bishops (Count Bishops for purists.) I don't know if they understood it at the time, but these old English R&B wildmen layed the groundwork for such diverse bands as the Stranglers, Gang of Four and Motorhead, and sounded like a synthesis of all of them. Don't believe me? Listen to their Cross Cuts LP with the lights out and see if you don't come to the same conclusion.

There's hope, I guess. When Man-Sized finished their set with their brilliant "Claustrophobia," the stage was covered with the likes of local luminaries Bob Mould, Grant Hart, most of Soul Asylum, Rifle Sport, odd members of Breaking Circus, the Whole Lotta Loves, and dozens of appreciative fans. Those people were all there because they're kindred spirits, and they know merit when they see it. If there's that kind of audience around, sooner or later something will show up to play for it.

Plugs. X-Men. Antidote Radio, RIP, a brilliant and valiant effort that Chicago just wasn't willing to support. Make More Records, EVERYBODY! It's not that tough, and we're running out of good ones. The Die Kreuzen LP. Green.