5 December 2008 :: werewolves and zombies are way more interesting

:: Record Review

Sebadoh

III Reissue
(Homestead/Domino; 1991/2006)

Rating: 90%
Combined Rating: 90%

It seems strange –- no, downright fucking crazy -- for III to be enrobed with the bling connotations of "timeless classic," and even if I’m somewhat inevitably impelled to forgo leveling this record’s peaks, it’s despite Sebadoh’s inglorious efforts.

Perversely, it’s that very same warped work ethic that encapsulates, and ultimately renders this paean to Fallibility as a perfect piece, 23 incongruous jigsaw pieces spliced together with plaster and tape spool. So, the record is messy; all over the place and loosely stitched production wise, oscillating wildly from the snap, crackle and fuzz of songs like “Downmind” to the dazzlingly clear audio of the “The Freed Pig” -- the musical variety stamping each song with its own individual character and ambiance. But, unlike, say The White Album, lynchpin Lou Barlow’s wry bitterness attains a sort of haphazard uniformity, so that simply dismissing III as a "collection of random shizzle recorded between Times A and B" is retrograde to the soul that innervates the body of the work. The album, for all its scattershot puerile references to alcohol and incest, is disarmingly honest.

The candour is incandescent from the get go: “You were right.” Rather than, or, perhaps in addition to bewailing his perceived betrayal by Dinosaur J. Mascis, Barlow infuses the sanguine antics of the hook from heaven guitar line with a deep sense of sobriety. And, in doing so, he delineates his disillusionment to an almost uncomfortably frank level. He, who’s not only “self righteous, but never right,” but also “destroying the tolerance for the negative spirit that I bring.” The band’s sense of self-loathing is palpably ripe, to the extent that even on Barlow’s dedication to his woman, “Kath,” the “righteous coward” ironies are laid on thick. And whilst it’s understandably difficult to see bakesale Lou as a ladies man, his unfettered, focused lyrics pierce through the thick smog of superfluous discourse, and superannuated desire that Sebadoh are too commonly consigned to. Quoth Juan: “Every nervous moment’s worth it."

Not every moment of it works -- “Smoke a Bowl," for instance, sounds like they’d gone and done precisely that, with all too predictable results. But the vast majority of the songs sport enough effusive melodies to transform III into something other than a nostalgic lo-fi relic. “Violet Execution,” also featured on this reissue’s bonus disc in the guise of an ever so pointless (but, come to think of it, isn’t that the whole point?) "2004 remix," is an easy rolling, laid back glance at the "absurd parade" -- proving that Gaffney could play it cool, as opposed to his crazy riffing on the aggro, but faithful rendition of the Minutemen’s “Sickles and Hammers.” It’s his very own “As the World Dies the Eyes of God Grow Bigger’s” schizophrenic, acid induced fuzzfolk, though, that proves the most accurate summation of the record as a whole: the sudden, and relentless, switch between campfire singalong verses and sledgehammer distortion pretty much the aural equivalent of "irreconcilable differences."

It doesn’t seem surprising, then, that Barlow presents us a flipside to his opus’ fractured leanings. Everything about “Spoiled” is unified, from the way in which the vocal delivery is inextricably linked, and intuitively led by the despondent minor chords, the unwavering downward guitar strums and resurgent, hazy synth epitomizing the pitter patter of rain on one’s heart. As, for all intents and purposes, the final piece of this extraordinary patchwork, it looks back and rue’s “The Freed Pig” ‘s opening, self-indulgent salvo, at once materialising form out of chaos, but also realising the never-ending spiral of despair and doubt, instigated by “these empty urges”. When Barlow comes out with gems like “Sorry for ourselves / Sorry for the things we’ve seen / No one cries for help…”, he (unknowingly) ensures that III transcends its immediate limitations, that a penchant for both idiosyncratic, and intensely human, songwriting and a knocked up microphone can prove so much more affecting and inspiring than Pro-Tooled perfection. Alan Baban :: 11 August 2006 |                

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