February 2005 Archives
"PROMOTION: Other than the informational sheet you hold in your hand, this record will have no formal promotion. There will be no advertisements, no press or radio promotion, no promotional or review copies, no promotional gimmick items and otherwise NO FREE LUNCH."--Press release for Shellac's 1000 Hurts.
Exacting, cost-inefficient production standards (180 gram manufactured in England, fancy packaging, etc.), meticulously custom-made gear, as much as four years between records, brief, infrequent touring that rarely coordinates with record releases, playing obscure-ass cities in Europe and Northern Canada just because they've never been there, and doing so on river boats, at Krispy Kreme Donuts and whiffleball tournaments (seriously). On paper, Shellac sounds a little like an experiment in commercial suicide. And in some ways, it is--but for Steve Albini, Todd Trainer, and Bob Weston, it's an experiment that's failed miserably.
There are so many fucking brilliant truths to the Shellac story that I can't begin to list them all--but I'll try to elbow through a few: First, of course, you've got Albini--the most celebrated asshole in American independent rock. After writing a number of inflammatory fanzines in Chicago, Albini initially rose to fame with a drum machine, an incredibly tinny guitar, and an all-consuming obsession with society's ugliest ills in a band called Big Black--one of the ugliest bands of the 1980s. Big Black was ugly not just sonically--though they certainly sounded uglier than most bands of the era (or any era) ever dreamed of--but conceptually: songs of violence, racism, misogyny, incest, etc.--ideas that got "i don't give a fuck what you think" Albini on the hate list of most socially conscious punk fans throughout the early '80s--ideas that he insisted were first-person narratives. again, not that he gave a fuck.
After the release of Songs About Fucking, Big Black's final album, Albini committed himself to studio engineering, a job for which he's earned most of his notoriety (and a little bit of his infamy)--recording all of your favorite records by all of your favorite bands (see: Nirvana, the Pixies, Melt Banana, the Breeders, Slint, Whitehouse, Bedhead, Bush, Low, etc.)--and where he still makes most of his money.
In 1988, dude formed Rapeman, who took their name from a particularly repugnant Japanese comicbook character, and who broke up in part because record plants refused to press their records.
For the next several years, Albini stayed out of writing music for the most part, building up his recording resume into the 90s. He eventually started playing music with Trainer, and after hiring Bob Weston as an engineer, Shellac was born.
In Shellac, Albini found what he always seemed to want: a band that was established enough in its lineage to not have to worry about "making it" at a point in his life where he was able to make the kind of music he wanted to under his specific, ridiculously exacting standards (and unconventional, militantly anti-industry business models--read Albini's legendary "The Problem With Music" article for more info... really, if you haven't, it's sort of required reading) without having to worry about relying on his band for an income. the band began with a whole slew of singles (The Rude Gesture: A Pictoral History, Uranus, the Bird is the Most Popular Finger) before releasing At Action Park in 1994. Besides Albini's clear maturation, AAP is a markedly different sort of record than he'd ever made before: spacious, thoughtful, and, in spite of itself--often lyrically very beautiful.
followingAAP, Shellac released what would become one of their most legendary fuck-yous in the form of a 779 part run LP called the Futurist. Written as a soundtrack for a dance production, the Futurist was recorded, and later deemed not fit for proper release by the band--who decided instead to press a limited run and give it to some of their friends and family members as a gift. The catch? the band printed a list of all of the recipients as the records front cover, circling in silver pen the name of each record holder as they were distributed--insuring that if the person were to, say, sell the record on the internet, the band would be able to figure out whodunit. which is just incredible.
Commoners, on the other hand, had to wait a total of four years for Terraform, Shellac's sophomore record, and in my opinion, their masterpiece. Here, Albini's lyrics become even more cryptically beautiful--from "Didn't We Deserve a Look At You the Way You Really Are," the critically reviled twelve minute opening track, to the beautiful conclusion of "This Is a Picture"--the record is fucking flawless... even that "doo-doo/feces" line.
Two years later, Shellac dropped 1000 Hurts--a considerably lesser affair. 1000 Hurts is, however, particularly remarkable in its packaging: housed in a box modeled after that of a traditional reel-to-reel tape, the vinyl retailed for the same price as did the CD (as was customary with Shellac releases--the band is, of course, adamantly anti-digital)--but included, floating disdainfully loose in the record box, was a CD--making the CD version virtually pointless. Awesome.
God, there are just too many awesome things to say about Shellac. Like the fact that Albini once claimed all of their songs were about Baseball and/or Canada. Or that they record live without any overdubs. or that they wear their guitars on belts around their waists. or that they produced a 7" simply to give it away to a German audience of 1,000. Or that they are the Greatest Band of All Time.
(post script: this entry is in part a response to a challenge issued by one s.s. I hope you're satisfied.)
