By Tyler Everest
When Slint announced late last year that they would be reuniting after a 15-year absence, indie-rockers across the world rejoiced. However in Louisville, the band’s hometown, the accolades were mixed with grumbles from various sections of our fair town’s music scene. Not only was the only announced concert in Britain, but reuniting after so long seemed mercenary.
Slint would be allowed to headline both nights of the acclaimed music festival All Tomorrow’s Parties, as well as pick all the bands that would perform. As details unfolded, it was revealed that Slint would be touring Europe and the U.S. Without an announced Louisville concert, local music fans began to feel disrespected. After all, we were the city that spawned such rock and roll greatness. Finally, a hometown show was announced for Tuesday Feb. 22, just before the All Tomorrow’s Parties festival. Tickets went slower than expected (as opposed to selling out most other cities within hours) and many saw it as simply a warm-up gig for the U.K. shows.
Perhaps I should back up a bit and explain why people care so much about this band. For those of you who may not know, Slint was a band from Louisville, active from around 1986 until 1992. In that time, they recorded one atrocious album, “Tweez,” and one quite good and influential one, “Spiderland.” After their breakup, “Spiderland” became a very important record for what would eventually become what we now call “indie-rock”: slow, dramatic soundscapes, spoken vocals alternating with passionate screams, odd song forms and chord progressions, and obtuse lyrics. They have influenced everyone from Modest Mouse to The Blood Brothers.
Over the past fifteen years, Slint has become legend not only because of “Spiderland,” but also because the members have distanced themselves from what is considered their greatest accomplishment, moving on to other things. The members’ unwillingness to discuss their former band (plus the beautifully perplexing nature of the songs themselves) has lent their records an alluring mystery. This sort of scenario often breeds rumors and occasionally legend; with Slint it is both. I once had a hipster in Halifax, Nova Scotia tell me that Slint recorded “Spiderland” in a completely dark studio, and that singer Brian McMahan sang the last lines of the record so violently that he threw up blood. I doubt it’s true, but no one is saying otherwise, lending some credibility to the myths.
On the night of the show, you could cut the anticipation, the Slinticipation if you will, with a knife. The Brown Theater was not sold out but was packed with both the doe-eyed and the cynical. After a stunningly bad opening band and what sounded like a radio stuck between channels coming out of the PA speakers, it seemed that Slint were trying to either lighten the mood or mess with our heads. Either way, the crowd was already tense.
There were some people who wanted it to be some deadly serious, sit-down rock experience, like a 70s progressive rock band coming to the Palace Theatre. They wanted Jethro Slint, or Emerson, Lake, and Slint. This part of the crowd was gravely disappointed by the older ex-punkers, happy to see old friends, whooping it up and having a grand time. By the time the lights went down and the five musicians (Guitarist David Pajo, drummer Britt Walford, singer Brian McMahan, bassist Todd Cook, and an unspecified guitarist) climbed onstage, I thought the theatre could explode at any minute from the sheer Slintensity of the crowd.
As for their set, Slint played very, very well. They were in top form, flawlessly playing song after finely-crafted song. They played nearly 90 minutes of Slintrospective wonder. All of the classic “Spiderland” material was top notch. Highlights included the slow, bruising “Breadcrumb Trail” and “Washer,” a gorgeously creepy love song. So it wasn’t the music that I had a problem with.
Not once did their singer, Brian McMahan, address the crowd. He seemed overly annoyed at the absurd and good-natured heckling, siding instead with the Jethro Slint part of the crowd. In a way, the band almost seemed wrapped up in their own myth. For four or five boys bred in the Louisville punk scene, pandering to the seriousness of the event was shocking.
Also, none of the five musicians onstage seemed to really be into the music they were playing. The abruptness with which they left stage after the final notes of “Good Morning, Captain” was obscene for a show that fans had paid almost $30 a ticket for. I didn’t know if I was disappointed, but I sure didn’t feel great about the show.
Later, standing in my kitchen reflecting on the evening, it suddenly hit me that it wasn’t the performance that was in any way flawed, annoyances with non-musical aspects of the production aside. The problem was the way the band has been so blown out of proportion, that everyone seemed to expect some sort of magical experience, something out of this world. Of course, we were let down: Slint aren’t magicians, they’re a rock band, for crying out loud. As much as their songs mean to anyone, you can’t just passively sit and let them affect you. The audience paid for a concert, but had the expectation of much more than that.
It almost seemed subversive for a moment: had Slint reunited simply to disprove their own legend? I’m sure the money also had something to do with it, but perhaps Slint had come to prove that they are a band, pure and simple, and a very good band at that. If that was the case, then they did so in spades. The magic part was left up to the listener.
