now i'm not a neurotic or my business spasmodic, and my only excuse is: everything comes from chaos

71.

colossal youth
young marble giants [rough trade, 1980]

if punk was a reaction to the gaudy ostentation of popular music in the 1970s - the soppy hoariness of AM radio, the overwrought bombast of the stadium, and the coked-out decadent sheen of the discotheque - this record may be the purest example of the counter-mainstream D.I.Y. approach punk suggested. recorded cheaply, all first takes and few overdubs, and released on a then-unknown independent label, Colossal Youth opts for stark minimalism over grandiosity, reflective contemplation over brash confrontation. this is unmistakably a catchy, accessible pop record, yet its tenor is foreign, unfamiliar, and defiantly singular. whereas points of reference Suicide and Silver Apples were noisy, if not hostile, Young Marble Giants are somber, quiet, and as austere as an abandoned bunker or a desolate provincial cemetery. even within the context of an era that abounded in creativity, Colossal Youth is genuinely sui generis. the structural components are consistent throughout the record: the jaunty, punctured throb of a bass, the ghostly lub-dub of a primitive drum machine, the twang and scratch of a Rickenbacker, the carnivalesque drone of a homemade synthesizer, and the deadpan near-monotone drawl of vocalist Alison Statton. just as important are the gaps, the spaces, the reverberations; Young Marble Giants aren't hoarders of sounds and Colossal Youth is as uncluttered as an obsessive compulsive's desktop, creating a near-claustrophobic tone of immediacy. the record has many revelatory moments, from the corroding calliope swirl of "the man amplifier" and the slasher film build-up of "n.i.t.a." to the sardonic, ennui-ridden bourgeois critique of "eating noddemix" and the aching poignancy of "salad days." however, the highlight - and the most pristine distillation of the record's minimalistic aesthetic - is opener "searching for mr. right," which contains Statton's most elegiac vocal melody. though it may bear little sonic similarity to the majority of British punk, Colossal Youth is a quintessential illustration of the true mission of the movement: allowing disaffected, disillusioned youths and weirdos across the nation the opportunity to create distinctive, engaging, gorgeous music.

burn out, rather than fade away moment: aside from a collection of early singles, and an EP released before their disbandment, Colossal Youth is the only Young Marble Giants record. this, of course, adds to its mystique. incidentally, it was one of Kurt Cobain's favorites and Nirvana planned to cover "credit in the straight world;" Hole ended up doing so, rather horribly, on Live Through This.

give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld, so i can sigh eternally

72.





in utero
nirvana [dgc, 1993]

this is the sound of mental collapse and caged dog desperation; after the unbridled success of Nevermind, the boomer critical establishment - and millions of adoring fans - foisted the world onto Kurt Cobain's back. he was the Savior, the Voice, the Icon, the counter Jon Bon Jovi and Nirvana was the ferociously "authenic" antidote to the bloated excesses of hair metal, obliterating crass, teased-hair insincerity with righteous punk indignation. In Utero is the intrepid response to all the unwanted adulation, noisily confrontational and as caustic as a beaker of hydrochloric acid funneled down the gullet. the Freudian fury of rumbling opener "serve the servants" scorches the earth for the bulldozing "scentless apprentice" where Cobain massacres his throat over blitzkrieg guitar and Dave Grohl's panzer drums. the "loud-soft" dynamics of "heart-shaped box" and the sly allusion to "smells like teen spirit" on "rape me" acknowledge Nirvana's past before staggering off into more ominous territory, while Cobain self-deprecatingly equates his mental state to that of a deranged film starlet on "frances farmer will have her revenge on seattle." the eye of the hurricane quiet of the precocious "dumb" and the bittersweet "pennyroyal tea" counteract the sonic assault of the ironically titled "radio friendly unit shifter" and the unapologetic squall of "tourette's." "milk it" is the record's highpoint; a maelstrom of grotesque lyrics, schizophrenic guitar, mastodon-sized drums, and a creeping sense of impending doom. in the wake of Cobain's suicide, closer "all apologies" has become an elegy, and indeed the closing lyrical round of "all in all is all we are" [perhaps appropriately misconstrued as "all alone is all we are"] achieves a wistful aura of corporeal finality. this is an idiosyncratic record, off-putting and charming, defiant and droll, and an effective demonstration of why Nirvana is such a universally beloved band, regardless of critical hyperbole and misapplication.

teenage angst has paid off well, now i'm bored and old momenet: hi, yeah, i'm back. due to a computer death, multiple distractions, and my inability to complete any list-based project i start, i know it's been awhile [cue Staind song]. also, i was reluctant to write this entry. it's difficult to approach a group as "universally beloved" as Nirvana, and i didn't want to fall too much into the pitfall of focusing extensively on Cobain's death. it probably shouldn't have taken me three months to get around to it, but, oh well. i AM going to finish this project. even it takes years, damnit.