Sunday, 29 March 2015

Song For The New Breed


I’m Jeanette. This was me, a few years back, reading from my first book Seasons They Change: The Story of Acid and Psychedelic Folk.

 
As you may make out from the picture, Seasons was a whopping tome: it began with Shirley Collins and ended with United Bible Studies. And on page 213, I wrote this:

In 1991, a photograph of four youngish men submerged in the lake of a derelict Kentucky quarry, with only their bemused faces visible, announced a new phase in the American underground. It was the cover of Slint’s Spiderland, the album that began post-rock.

 
Why was I writing about Slint in a book on acid and psychedelic folk music? Well…

The arresting photograph on the front of Spiderland was taken by an actor currently questioning his future. Will Oldham had gained acclaim for his role as a young preacher in Matewan (1987), but the years since had not been kind. He had come to realise that not all roles would be so stimulating; that movie sets in general were not supportive; and that he would struggle to gain creative fulfillment from acting.

 
Will Oldham was hugely important to my Seasons purpose. There Is No-One What Will Take Care Of You, the Palace Brothers debut from 1993, was an uncompromising version of folk. It was clearly punk- and hardcore-indebted (or, at least a record that couldn’t have been made without their influence) yet consumed with the brutality of the American religio-folkloric tradition. It sounded modern, and ancient, all at once, with nothing backhanded or ironic in its expression. Shit was real.

 
There Is No-One What Will Take Care Of You featured Brian McMahan, Todd Brashear and Britt Walford of Slint. As I was writing about Oldham in Seasons They Change – which was difficult, the man is supremely self-mythologising and inconsistent in interviews – I began to think more about ‘post-rock’. What did the term even mean? Did it describe a sound, explain a philosophy, or was it just something that journalists cooked up ‘to put a label on us, man’? (© every band ever).

I tried to describe 'post-rock' in Seasons (rather clunkily on reflection, as was my earlier blinkered assertion that Spiderland was some sort of 'beginning'):

Post-rock took elements of previous genres and artists – the expansiveness of The Velvet Underground circa White Light / White Heat; My Bloody Valentine’s dream pop; the erratic post-punk of Scritti Politti and Public Image Limited; Can’s Krautrock rhythms; the No Wave detachment of Ut; the belly-fire of hardcore – but did not combine them in any recognisable way. Instead, it sucked it all into that derelict quarry, stripping away clichés and comfort, and left behind a brooding abstraction derived from rock but absolutely aloof from it.

(I made sure PiL and Ut were mentioned, because they have long been two of my absolute favourites.)


AMAZING.


AMAZING.

Anyway. Something about the way I struggled to write about post-rock intrigued me. It meant either (a) I didn’t know anything about it or (b) it was an ill-fitting term or (c) its very elusiveness was a source of fascination to me. I can eliminate (a) – while I haven’t spent the last fifteen years listening to Explosions In The Sky knock-offs, I do have a good knowledge of post-rock dating back to the 1990s. (b), possibly: although (as I shall perhaps explore in a later blog post) I think the term became more ill-fitting as time went on, and I’m largely a supporter of its original intent. Thus, (c) seemed the most likely.

I found my post-Seasons period a chaotic one, both creatively and personally. Eighteen months ago, when the turmoil was at its very worst, it was post-rock that made sense to me. And I think it was elusiveness that was the key factor. Often, the music gave you space but it would also suffocate you with its very potential. As if you were atop a skyscraper, the tremendous city vista below, while coping with thinning oxygen and aggressive vertigo. Like a therapist, the best tracks would always chuck your interpretation back at you. Post-rock never explained anything.

 
Marvellously ironic, of course: I’m now trying to write a book explaining post-rock.