By Daniel Hill
By Jaime Lees
By Roy Kasten
By Melinda Cooper
By Jeremy Essig
By Roy Kasten
By Daniel Hill
By Chris Kornelis
Like to, schmike to -- just fucking come already! Some poor schmo comes up romantically empty-handed, and St. Louis is denied Sonic Youth's presence for years to come. History may be written by winners, but the future is shaped just as much by losers, as Sonic Youth's unloved booking agent proves.
The importance of history comes up frequently when one is dealing with Sonic Youth. With sixteen albums in twenty-one years (and a host of EPs, side projects and solo efforts), the band has plenty of past to sift through. Sonic Youth has outlasted the no-wave scene that brought the original four members together, the hardcore punk that swallowed no-wave, the alternative nation they helped midwife, the grunge revolution they watched burn out in surly adolescence and the current nameless, shiftless musical climate that seems ripe for takeover by someone or something (please let it be noisy phenomenon Sissy Spacek). Through it all, Sonic Youth continues to do what it's always done: release albums of strange and beautiful music that reflects the interests of the individual members, creating a body of work that runs parallel to all those movements but never seems to be of those movements. Sonic Youth has managed to survive and remain vital because it always remains Sonic Youth, regardless of the whims and vagaries of current pop culture.
It's long been a favorite critical parlor game to categorize Sonic Youth's albums along thematic lines -- Dirty is the grunge album, Bad Moon Rising the Manson album, Sister the science-fiction album and so on -- but Sonic Youth has never been as interested in playing along with the game as the critics and fans have. Until now, perhaps. Murray Street, the new album, is purported to be the second installment of a trilogy that interprets the cultural history of the band's Lower Manhattan home.
Purported to be, but not really, Ranaldo says: "Any history is made up of equal parts dream, memory, reflection and wish fulfillment. It's inevitable. And the filter of personal experience -- our NYC would not be someone else's. Although the rumored NYC trilogy we're meant to be in the midst of is actually a fiction dreamed up by our biographer Byron Coley, it is certainly true that our last record [NYC Ghosts & Flowers] was quite consciously a meditation of sorts on cultural activity in New York City over the past century, and particularly from about mid-century onward."
Ranaldo goes on to clarify what the album might be about -- or not. "The new record is not, to my mind, so New York-centric, although the title certainly is." (Murray Street is the location of the band's studio.) "Maybe that alone grounds the record in a specific time and place, which is our city -- both before and after the events of last September. So right away, between these two albums, we've got NYC past and NYC in the present tense. Possibly the next record will be a look ahead? Nobody knows ... or maybe Byron does, but it's generally not the kind of conceptual conceit we work from. Sometimes, though, someone on the outside sees these things more clearly than we on the inside, so it may yet come to be. Certainly on some level all our music could be related to our lives in the city, its fast pace and constantly shifting nature, its noise and chaos and artistic achievements."
That fast pace and shifting nature, along with the noise and chaos and artistic achievements and historic retrospection, are evident throughout Murray Street's 42 minutes, but they're best exemplified in Ranaldo's song "Karen Revisited." A scratching guitar riff, off-kilter in the way all of Sonic Youth's custom-tuned guitar riffs are, chugs under Ranaldo's beat-poetic memories of Karen, a girl who's "not in our history books/lost her mind but not her looks." Propelled aloft by feedback squeals and amp warbles, Karen is remembered in the fantastic moment of a long-ago summer kiss, pricked and prodded along by Steve Shelley's impatient snare. A lazy guitar drone becomes a repetitive figure that whirls through gauzy layers of hum and static, eventually coalescing into chiming guitar-bells and rolling drums. The movement is seamless, unconscious, wordless, a flow of sound that dissipates in a smattering of spectral applause and peters out like the end of a receding cloudburst. In eleven minutes of music, Sonic Youth has traversed the imaginary gulf separating pop structure from avant-noise -- but then, that's what Sonic Youth has always done. "Karen Revisited" would not sound out of place on, say, EVOL or Daydream Nation because it's a continuation of the music Sonic Youth was creating fifteen years ago. If the music is more crepuscular now, well, there's more past to look back on now. The sense of reflection that infuses Murray Street and its predecessor may be a thematic hook to hang critical hats on, or it might be a sign of a wiser, more thoughtful Sonic Youth.