“Winner’s Blues” is quite the about face when considering Sonic Youth’s catalogue of elongated guitar rock experimentalism. A group known for strong opening  tracks on their albums was inviting hundreds of thousands of kids to listen in on a song with more melancholy and confused reflection than anything they had done before.   It’s worth mentioning at this point that this slapdash item of a recording is my favorite Sonic Youth song.  

Invoking the inside of a room on a weekend evening, “Winner’s Blues” perfectly encapsulates a feeling beyond melancholy: an emptiness in what they had found after success.  It is Sonic Youth’s most emotional and potent recording.  A band infamous for its lack of sentimental music recorded something that would sit alongside their younger peers, such as Sebadoh or Guided By Voices.  They got to experience the feeling of finding out what success was truly like.  Whether you’re the smartest guy in the room or the most naive of actors, the message of “Winner’s Blues” is that exact prize of success they had found.  

“In right away, go out not today

Move back along wait a long, long time

Nothing running free, gotta time it all”

At the risk of falling over the same Gen X retrospective thesis, it seems to be the one song about their peers—a total reflection.  Sonic Youth were put upon narrators of their own world, whether they were snide, sarcastic, or honest about it.  “Winner’s Blues” is a disjointed, yet poignant perch of a song placed bare at the front of an album that was coming off of their largest commercial  successes.  While the rest of the album would feature more of the same arty experimentation and noisy riff rock they were known for, the lead off track was a detour into what might’ve been.  

The track is only Thurston’s hushed, compromised vocals and guitar. The now commonplace strange guitar tuning is heightened with just the use of an acoustic guitar and it’s open strings.  Thurston does his best ability to follow the guitar, bringing to mind the tradition of singing with the riff à la Black Sabbath with Ozzy.  The end of the song, completely absent of vocals, showcases Thurston’s best guitar playing of the era.  Sublime melodies and passages flow from each beat and string, ringing out for the right amount of time, foreshadowing the acoustic work he would do justice with on his solo work, such as the underappreciated Demolished Thoughts.  

Even newbies Eric’s Trip were crafting entire albums out of this very feeling, that potent early 20s snuggle love on hushed instruments that Carrisa’s Wierd and Death Cab would mint entire careers off of starts with the young Gen X’ers realizing that even the hardest of art bands could have emotional chewy centers.  Evan Dando leans in the corner smirking saying “I did this first.”

If one was to wonder what might have been had Sonic Youth made an entire album like this, it’s not as hard to imagine with their peers , as they were creating entire careers out of it.  A similar opening track was delivered by peer Liz Phair.  Her song, “Chopsticks” from the lovely Whip-Smart, feels like viewing a couple in their furnished attic bed watching television in the early 90s through the keyhole while the song plays in your head.  While Liz knew exactly what she was doing with that track, with “Winner’s Blues” it felt like an accident.

It’s truly quite a compliment to rank this piece out of their catalogue in 1994 as Thurston’s best guitar playing and writing, considering the work they had done up to that point includes some truly excellent guitar pieces like “Teen Age Riot” and “Schizophrenia”.  “Winner’s Blues” is a minor musical opus.  It reflects something that had been building within the home recording world for years,and showed the suburban teens that they too could have a career recording like this.  Most of that young audience's songs felt like this too, one to two riff lo-fi songs with a stream of consciousness lyrics.  

“And it's out

And it's not what you thought it was about

But a life, that you know

Will keep you bound in

Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose”

Virtually everyone I knew or had known who recorded acoustic songs wrote pieces just like this.  The first two lines are totally written off the dome and almost clumsy, but they just happen to work so well; I know tons of tossed off demos and pieces that are just like it.  Never was an audience more in tune with how their favorite band wrote a song—how exciting is that?  It works wonderfully in Sonic Youth’s favor, just a testament to how lucky they were as a group.  Maybe they were echoing Stephen Malkmus who seemingly wrote all his songs like this, and would even deliver a similar song on their album Wowee Zowee next year with the track “We Dance.”  While less  lo-fi and more oblique, it was a glance into a specific part of their world like “Winner’s Blues” was.

Why would a group as multifaceted as Sonic Youth deliver such a message only to never  return to it’s feeling?  They were into their peers, Sebadoh and Guided by Voices; maybe  they were spurned onto this sound spontaneously and put it on the album.  Maybe they knew if they did it too much they’d be seen as trend hopping and not following their own path.  Whatever the case may be they captured something integral, a shard in the mirror to see into their own reality.Even the highest of poses brings  muscle pain and the need for  relief.

“Burn out your eyes, burn out surprise

Look out today you know it's not the same

It's all the rage, it's every day”

Experimental Jet Set, Trash, and No Star was their final album as a large seller and cultural flashpoint in the age of alternative rock and the slacker.  Once their appearance on the indie-fied Lollapalooza 95 met with the release of  Washing Machine they were firmly elder statesmen, something they had more or less been since Goo.  They watched as slacker and alt rock movements were fading, and they no longer had to speak for anything.  Maybe they were relieved.  Sonic Youth were always in the unfortunate position to critique and discuss what went on within their circles due to their reputation  and success.  Musically, they were always willing to narrate the underbelly of american sociologies, and as minute celebrities they did so through various forms of media.  “Winner’s Blues” was a candlelight vigil for what was to come—they had seen it coming for years, they just decided to give it the best funeral it deserved.

“Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose”

College exposed buried insecurities and turned them into a paralyzing prospect—condescending professors and an unreliable profession, a dorm with four stranger roommates far from parental shelter, the crutch ending up in a form of an equally anxious partner. Naïve faith could not hush my worries about the uncertainty of the future, and, having no coherent insight or worldview, I could only believe in what I identified with. This is when I discovered the music of Bark Psychosis, which I appreciated for its sonorous qualities and somber atmosphere, but its absence of resolution is what really struck me, since there was no resolution to be found in my own existence. Post-rock had become an object of identification and projection, not just pure release.  

Even the weirder, independent strains of pop music I grew up with carried a logical progression most of the time. The parts of a song were clearly demarcated, especially the ending, often announced in various ways.  The “fade-out” had been an exception, banal in its frequency, not notable unless timed timidly or recklessly, but even that gesture itself signified a closure. Hex built the impression that its compositions went nowhere. Not only was this influenced by their ability to stop abruptly during a loop or a ringing of an unresolved chord (as in “The Loom” or “A Street Scene”) but also the sole nature of musical events and their  flow throughout the song.  

Where other adjacent post-rock acts were obsessed with innovation and reinvention, Bark Psychosis were interested in reduction. The Bomb Squad-influenced dense and dissonant sample collaging of Disco Inferno  and Moonshake and the “intelligent”, electronic pulses and convulsions of Seefeel and Insides had a nervous if not logorrheic strive to them. Bark had gradually evolved from spitting out every frequency in the audible  range to saying as little as possible by means of the resigned sibilance of a near-whispered vocal and minimal  instrumental duties. The latter figured as an essential component, allowing the music to be ambivalent in refusing to rely on usual structures and evoke plain emotional categories.  

Imagine a sentence spoken not by a single person, but each of its words dedicated to a different voice—a  fragmented structure devoid of its logical swings in intonation, of its ‘sung’ quality and the continuity it produces. The focus shifts from the meaning to the seeming, from the semantic to the sonic. This is what the musical language of minimalism had brought into picture, epitomized in the works of  Steve Reich and Philip Glass. The words would certainly overlap in favor of obligatory cohesion, but the dominance of a single voice and its utterances were gone. With it, an implied or virtual hierarchy of a composition was gone as well. 

Whether a piece of information is redundant or not is determined by the importance it carries to its recipient. When a system is devoid of hierarchy, it means that each of its constituents is equally important, hence, their resultant cannot be redundant. This is the consequence of minimalist compositional tactics, which Graham Sutton too strived for in his own work with Bark Psychosis during their initial run. It is also highly analogous to a typical experiential glitch found in a life burdened with anxious disorder—the dispersion of attention, which gives way to constructing an unreasonable, overbearing importance of each living aspect. 

Luckily, in the case of Bark Psychosis, this mimetic quality was made possible through an inversion of life: where an everyday experience would be overbearing in stimulation, the songs on “Hex” would be economic and spacious enough to vacuum out the daily accumulation of traffic turbulence, wearing walla, the amplified gravity of meaningless encounters and unnecessary dwelling. In Absent Friend, one of the two  masterpieces on the record, a brittle tremolo guitar chime would fall an eighth note after a piano had placed its chord in a different register, the meaning of their correspondence changed by the bass brooding which shifts the song key at the moment of its introduction. The reflections of St. John's Church, a recording space  chosen by the band for both sonic and financial reasons, tossed the drum hits into the background and made them sound wet, the modest ride cymbal velocity spilling resonances over the acoustically disjointed, but harmonious ensemble. The closing track, Pendulum Man takes this economy even further, removing percussion entirely and placing its functionality in the hands of two muted, breathtakingly tranquil guitar  ostinatos.  

Beyond this concept of conciseness, there are two significant minimalist methods, which Bark Psychosis brought to striking results. One is the reliance on an uneven number of bars or bar groups for a strong repetitive effect. A certain type of symmetry in meter (bars of two, four and eight), which allows a phrase to have its cadence—or, in other words, its logical conclusion—has dominated pop music. On a closer inspection  of landmark pieces such as Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians or Glass’s Music in Twelve Parts, one can  trace a weird type of meter that is easily understandable and countable, but does not conform to an average listener’s need for a resolute process. It allows the composer to insert an additional phrase or chord into a looped pattern, which does not resolve the preceding events but problematizes them and ties fluidly into the loop’s beginning, making the repetition much more entrancing and captivating.  

The seamlessness of this procedure removes the feeling of resolution and is further intensified by means of repetition—things go on and on without any prospect of ending, unless one looks at the duration of a track  or the progress bar in a player. Pendulum Man takes these tricks and places them in the hands of a  disintegrated, sonically serene but emotionally agitated three chord ouroboros, which comprises the  record’s final three minutes. When the ending was due, it happened in a personally disturbing way—it never  went back to the first chord in the sequence, anticipated by the organ ringing with equal intensity during the  final twenty seconds. It never resolved. 

The other method is the use of polymeters, found in the final section of Absent Friend. Different voices are  written in different meters, which results in incongruous timespans necessary for each of them to finish  their part and start it over. The guitar lead would play in 4/4, but one of the layered arpeggios would be in  5/4, therefore the looped phrases would interlock in different ways throughout time. It gave the music an  elusive, fleeting quality since, deceptively, none of the parts had the prevailing rhythmic gravity (it is actually  that one, unobtrusive piano note that determines the dominant meter of the section). The music managed to capture a moment in time informed only by preceding events (not suggesting where it could lead next),  rather than presenting a closed structure, a chain of events, a narrative or causality one could use for further  reference. It felt very present-tense, as if both the song and I were sharing not the same fate, but the same circumstance within which we were developing. 

I can evoke a number of evenings and nights, spent solitary or in the presence of a dear person, trying to  process why these songs from “Hex” resonated so strongly with me. My relationship with music has been  such that I would rationalize its qualities in an acousmatic manner and their generating mechanisms, moving from my preferences of melody and harmony, which I perceived to be most prone to manipulation via cultural code, to the idea of a “pure” musical territory found in timbre. A very unsentimental relationship towards music, one could notice, deriving from a generally unsentimental  perspective that deconstructs everything and preserves it by giving it a name in order to preserve a sense of security. To have been both struck and relieved this much by a musical piece was a highly odd prospect and  it took me a lot of time before I rationalized what caused this sonic impression of incertitude that  superimposed with my own uncertain feelings. It was through a structural congruence discovered in a song that I found refuge.

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Ultimately their legacy was cemented with underground pop fans when Spilt Milk was released. Spilt Milk was their magnum opus to pop music young and old starts with the opening salvo of “Hush”, a contemplative parental whisper filled with California harmonies intercepted by Queens multi-layered oozin aahs. It is some of the best vocal harmony interplay this side of a D’angelo mix minus. Wonderfully recorded and mixed and not to mention the poignant lyrics dedicated to someone who is heading off to a dreamland that is the entirety of the record to follow. “Hush”, in all its lullabyeland moods is nothing but a fakeout for the sucker punch that is “Joining A Fanclub.” 

“Joining A Fanclub” is a multipart rainbow tiered musical paeon to singersongwriter-isms of the mid 70s, to rock tropes of the 90s, and to harmonies of the boardwalk variety. Hard rocking in its intensity and layered to make Jeff Lyne blush, its unabashed rocking swagger, specifically in its midsection (which ironically almost points to it with its pun laden sexual reference points of selling out) shows their former tour mates The Black Crowes just how hard to swing. After a solo section that blazes faster than you can keep up (and with brass to boot) finally it comes crashing into a half step key change bringing it all back home in multi-laden vocal glory. The dawn chorus of the Jellyfish singers left jaws dropping in dorm rooms all across America I’m sure. 

The lyrics are a playful nod to the fanclubs of the 1970s, for investing in the spirit and celebrity of the rock group, often perched higher than religion in some small suburban towns children grew up in. To Jellyfish, wearing a KISS mask while watching their films and then playing air guitar to Black Diamond was the Homily and the Communion all in one, and with enough semi-sexual release to require two Hail Mary’s and at least four confessions. The lyrics discussing music obsessiveness combined with the intense emotional investment towards music, an artist, let alone the memories of heartbreak and happiness associated with the listeners life with the song, comes crashing down in this bittersweet reminder of just how far music fandom and love for an artist and the times spent with them go. 

However, the most impressive feature of this track isn’t even on the original release. No the ever evolving Jellyfish couldn’t stick to the script and started improvising. In their live show once they hit the final verse multiple lines in, they have their instruments drop out and the vocal harmonies take over, allowing the audience to hear the closeness of the vocals and just how much thought the group put into the harmonies. But its just a wink because as soon as the line is over, Andy Sturmer’s drums come crashing back in, but the harmonies don’t stop there.

For the “and I’d wish I’d loved him” line, Andy sings the first half alone before the rest of the group joins him on “fate crashed his car” extending the last line like a barbershop quartet on its last set of the night just about to fall over before finally taking a breath to finish the final line of the song and ending on a magnificent crash. 

This track alone would be impressive if anyone just sang that last part let alone put it in with a song filled with four other wonderful and independent musical sections. Much like their own musical listening habits, we’ve gone from piano led vocals to a hard rocking verse and chorus to a swaggering middle eight to a thrashing solo section worthy of a Dinosaur Jr solo and back down to earth for an F Major chorus. I absolutely never tire of this song, its buildup and its message. Every time each syllable hits its just as powerful as the first 20 times I heard it. The harmonies reveal themselves to me upon each listen of each iteration of the song I choose to listen to. 

To even attempt all of that in the alternative world of grunge and indie rock was something to be marveled at. It was something worthy of the then bubbling neo-soul world, something Black Men United would’ve jumped off the couch for. Hell it was something worth for Van Dyke Parks and Harry Nilsson (who they almost met before he died). It was music for musicians and music fans who appreciated every facet of the record collection whether cool or lame. Jellyfish didn’t care. They were celebrating it and celebrating you for joining them. Jellyfish were one fanclub worth staying on the newsletter for a little while longer.

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These are songs for spectators; for those that feel a necessity to simply bear witness to life, to gaze sphinxlike outside the window, to live in the wash of repeating memories. I’ve often felt that  Burial’s early work functions on this notion of separation, of removing some vital quality from a whole. Maybe you’ve felt it in his music, too: the feeling of rain without dampness, cold without its bite. Voices  echo and drift to nowhere in particular. Keys jangle, guns cock and bullet casings ricochet off the floor  over and over until they’re drained of their original context. So where else would Burial shine if not in a  public setting turned artificially private? Around people, putting on headphones transfers you to a liminal state; for others you’re “there”, but not really. Meanwhile, you’re caught seeing what can’t be  heard and hearing what can’t be seen. If you can buy that separation and distance are important to how  this music functions and is experienced, then you can understand why “Shell of Light” is such a strongly  hit note on Untrue. 

Appearing well into the back half of the album, “Shell of Light” offers the first real expression of  warmth in Burial’s discography, and it couldn’t come at a more necessary point. I understand why the  record’s first real song, “Archangel”, can scan as the tearjerker of the bunch; every time the dub  equivalent of a Greek tragedy’s chorus swells while the vocals are tweaked to the point where “couldn’t  be alone” morphs into “let it be enough”, there’s a strong chance that an ugly black pit roils in your  stomach. But for my money, it’s the title track that offers the bleakest moments. Where “Archangel” is  expressive to the point of drowning in tears, “Untrue” is more subtle. The percussion is noticeably  sharper, only to make way for an inscrutable, cold bass rumbling the track’s low end. The vocals, sampled from Beyonce and pitched down to the point of no return, are even keeled as it lets you know “it’s all because you lied” in the most ambiguous way possible. It’s clearly emotionally charged, but there’s no telling if it’s coming out as an accusation, a sudden realization, or some form of acceptance. I want to stew on it every time I hear the hook, but the surprisingly straight 2-step beat carries the song  along so quickly that it feels like I’m not meant to - like I’m supposed to be kept at arm’s length. Even  the sample of Ernie Halter suggesting “we could be friends” shoves you aside with a command to get  “away from my heart”. A synth, gently moaning against the agitated rhythm, is the most expressive part  of the track. Ironically, it’s an expression of a lack; an expression of apathy. Of something desolate and  hollow. 

After experiencing this emotional wasteland for about six minutes, “Shell of Light” opens with a  whispered voice asking for a hug and pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the song. Space and  echoes still color the music, but someone finally turned on the space heater in the empty room. It’s not blistering, but the kind of warmth you feel after coming in from the cold. The bass hums a four note  melody, and the percussion is softer, more clipped in order to hit closer. Burial’s flavor of intimacy has those voices from nowhere now ask you to move in closer and sing-song “I love you so”. I really need to stress how satisfying this turn is: up to now, you’ve been barraged with thirty minutes of wounded, bleeding heart music. The longing and desire in each song is palpable, but where the hell are you  supposed to expect satisfaction? Here, you’re finally getting that love and attention you’ve been starved  for. 

However, the real heart of the song comes in its closing minute. The only way I could describe it  is, like with the rest of Burial’s output, with weather. An overcast sky breaks for a brief moment and  sunshine finally touches your face; the synths twinkle and shimmer like rays of light as they reach you.  Halter’s voice makes its return in a profoundly moving way that relies on “Untrue” for its full effect.  After invoking a prayer to God for a chance to be heard, it feels like the awful iciness and hurt of the  previous track is alluded to apologetically by admitting “I wasn’t sure”. Then, after the slightest  hesitation, a hatchet is buried while organs soothe: “we could be friends”.  

Emotionally, it’s the only point in the album where every pretense of separation and space is thrown out, and all for the simple, beautiful notions of reconciliation and understanding. It’s the kind of moment in art that can only convince you of the worth of such things. Of course, just like any break in  the clouds, it’s seen for the briefest of moments. Those big, wonderful feelings are just as quickly replaced with the plaintive sigh of the synth motif from “Untrue”, a return to the private and sullen. The loss of that warmth and understanding is sobering, maybe even enough to draw your head into your  hands. You’re left feeling the weight of standing alone, remembering what was once there that’s now -

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