Salutations.
There are times, as I reflect on what I've written, that I cringe just a bit. I should clarify, I always cringe at what I've written - that's a natural part of reading anything that comes from my own head. What gives the extra little cringe is the realization that I have just given a long, apologist diatribe on something that no doubt will bring scorn from the more discerning or developed part of my readership. I can write all I want on the merits of Haruki Murakami or inspired bits of art that I come across but I still end up sharing just as many words about Cyndi Lauper or some obscure, neglected video game. My imagined response to these pieces is that of upturned noses and scoffs, but thankfully I have yet to hear them.
So I persist.
Today's subject matter is not of the exception but the rule. It is another in a long line of albums and artists from the 90s who have either been brushed aside or given a bum rap. No matter the circumstances, there is so much awesome stuff out there in the world that we just zip right past, never stopping to reflect on. I know I can certainly be as misanthropic as anyone on a bad day but I really do try to give every artistic endeavor the benefit of the doubt before weighing in on it, to see if I can fit it into my ever-growing series of pieces of positivity in an otherwise vitriol-polluted cesspool of negativity we call the internet. So it is with a cautious optimism that I write today's post about a much maligned band's quirky effort to follow up a smash debut, Bush's Razorblade Suitcase. The whooshing sound you hear is any remaining indie cred flying right out of my head.
Bush was huge in the 90s, much to the chagrin of music critics everywhere. Their debut album, Sixteen Stone, was full of radio-friendly grunge-lite, coasting in on a wave of distorted guitars, long hair and growling vocals. Hits like 'Comedown', 'Machine Head' and the huge 'Glycerine' made them famous. So when the time came to follow it up, the did exactly what their progenitors Nirvana did - make a messy, muddled album with Steve Albini. The band's choice rode the thin line separating inspiration from imitation, but the similarity is undeniable. Depending on who you asked, the choice was either fantastic or dreadful - withering reviews from big names called it watered down and messy, while everyone I've asked liked it (at least when it first came out). Simply from the fact that I'm devoting the words to Razorblade Suitcase, it should be obvious I was a fan. To look back on it now offers interesting hindsight. It was a high point for the band, commercially and artistically. Much like my piece on Garbage's excellent Version 2.0, Razorblade Suitcase was the high water mark for Bush. Ensuing efforts (1999's The Science of Things and 2001's Golden State) never came close to repeating these efforts, with only the odd modest hit to keep the band going.
So what makes this album work? To pin it down is no easy task, but it seemed to be the familiar case of a band making it big and having room to play, but then later being unable to replicate what broke them in the first place. Sixteen Stone was all fuzzy guitars and radio friendly hits. It would be understandable, then, that when doing a follow-up the band would want more edge, more teeth to their sound, as if to scare off claims of being safe or watered down. Indeed, even the biggest hit 'Swallowed' is a loose, jangley mess of broken riffs and lead parts left to wander the song. It's a great song, but felt broken from the get-go. 'Cold Contagious' was another modest hit, but it feels like the band was too indulged in meandering through a dreary and bleak set of chords and melody. Still, there are some bright moments among the missteps, like the distilled pop-purity of 'Strait No Chaser' or the creepy-crawly vibe of 'Greedy Fly'. There's this intense and dangerous build to 'Insect Kin' that has a great dramatic flair to it. The crumbling and head tilting riff in 'Synapse' is haunting. In fact, the off kilter and at times eerie mood of the album make it a nice fit for the cool fall weather approaching, a Halloween-esque tone pervading the air.
I know it feels like I just spent the last 700 words kicking an album when it's down but I really do have a soft spot for Razorblade Suitcase, forsaking any indie cred I would have left. It's an interesting bit of music from a divisive band that really spread it's wings a bit on this release. It's too bad they never really found their footing again. Word is they've recently gotten back together to work on new stuff, but I'm not optimistic, to be honest. I dig this album, warts and all.
There are times, as I reflect on what I've written, that I cringe just a bit. I should clarify, I always cringe at what I've written - that's a natural part of reading anything that comes from my own head. What gives the extra little cringe is the realization that I have just given a long, apologist diatribe on something that no doubt will bring scorn from the more discerning or developed part of my readership. I can write all I want on the merits of Haruki Murakami or inspired bits of art that I come across but I still end up sharing just as many words about Cyndi Lauper or some obscure, neglected video game. My imagined response to these pieces is that of upturned noses and scoffs, but thankfully I have yet to hear them.
So I persist.
Today's subject matter is not of the exception but the rule. It is another in a long line of albums and artists from the 90s who have either been brushed aside or given a bum rap. No matter the circumstances, there is so much awesome stuff out there in the world that we just zip right past, never stopping to reflect on. I know I can certainly be as misanthropic as anyone on a bad day but I really do try to give every artistic endeavor the benefit of the doubt before weighing in on it, to see if I can fit it into my ever-growing series of pieces of positivity in an otherwise vitriol-polluted cesspool of negativity we call the internet. So it is with a cautious optimism that I write today's post about a much maligned band's quirky effort to follow up a smash debut, Bush's Razorblade Suitcase. The whooshing sound you hear is any remaining indie cred flying right out of my head.
