Maybe it was the death of Robert Quine, or just the long string of Tuesdays that brought nothing but crap in shiny packages to the new-release bin, but in the weeks leading up to the release of Sonic Youth's latest album, anticipation was mitigated by a sense of wistful retrospection. Where had 23 years gone? What had happened to the austere young aesthetes who shrieked their way out of NYC in a haze of (partially) Quine-induced guitar skree? What was left now that he was gone and youth had given way to modern maturity? When did the raucous three-chord shimmy of AC/DC become the three-chord boredom of Jet, and why did one set nuts afire while the other... More >>>