SLINT: SPIDERLAND

MUSIC

LOUISVILLE MUSICIANS FROM MULTIPLE ERAS TALK ABOUT SLINT’S SPIDERLAND

By Scott Recker | leo@leoweekly.com

IN THE SEVEN OR SO YEARS I’ve been in

about it three decades later, is that most town, I’ve been impressed by how local of us are still working on the puzzle. musicians of all ages seem to have an Because of Spiderland’s prominence and encyclopedic knowledge of Louisville infl uence, I spoke with Louisville musimusic history. People who were in grade cians from multiple eras about the record. school or not alive in the early ‘90s will namedrop Louisville musicians from Scott Ritcher, Sunspring (1990-1994), that era into causal conversations and in Metroschifter (1994-2005), owner of interviews. And the stories and perspec- Slamdek Records: tives from the people who were there are In the late 1980s and early ’90s, groups always evocative, painting a picture of a like my band Sunspring were still playing much different scene than todays. One of odd brands of punk rock and just beginthe records that constantly gets brought up ning to experiment with dissonance and is Slint’s Spiderland, which just passed its uncommon time signatures. Slint was 30th birthday in March. The record, which showing us how much could actually is a grenade of creativity that put a mirror be done. They were making the move up to human volatility, was released after from the chaos of punk to something that the band broke up, but, through the years, combined art, forethought and control. It it’s slow-burned its way into the ears of seemed so educated. They weren’t going indie kids across the globe. in a new direction, they were taking a big

Todd Brashear, Slint’s bassist on step up. Appropriately, since they were Spiderland, recently told LEO that it’s up a couple years older, it seemed like they to the listeners to determine what qualities were graduating. The band found entirely fuel the album’s lasting impact, but he said new uses for guitar harmonics and, in hard work and having the right people in contrast to their Louisville contempothe right place made it all possible: “Some raries, they dared to sometimes play as people get lucky and they’re amazing quietly as they could. It wasn’t long before right out of the gate, but we all played in a we were all stealing these new colors off lot of bands over the years. Britt [Wal- their palette. What was most shocking to ford, drummer] and Dave [Pajo, guitarist] us when we were fi rst met with Spiderland were technically great musicians — still was the emotion. We thought of these are — but me and guys as brilliant Brian [McMahan, They were making technicians, yet here vocalist and guitar- they were unabashist] weren’t, still the move from the edly exposing a raw, aren’t, but we had been around the chaos of punk to fragile vulnerability. Our music was block, and, I’d say, something that about emotion, we made the most of the skills that we combined art, thought, but just as Slint had previously had. But, sometimes, there’s… I’m going forethought and shown us how much more was possible to use the word control. musically and sonimagic. You just cally, now they were get the right set of showing us colors people together and sometimes something we could paint with lyrically and emotioncool might happen.” ally. In contrast to Tweez, Slint became ac-

Sonically and lyrically, Spiderland claimed and revered for a whole different lives at the corner of multiple juxtaposi- set of things they did on Spiderland: songs tions: visceral yet technical, emotional yet that are urgent and uneasy, yet methodical; controlled, weird yet accessible, mysteri- lyrical performances that exhibit a bare, ous yet direct, and, of course, loud and undefended innocence; rhythm patterns quiet. It’s undeniably an important and you’ve never heard before, but quickly singular record in rock history, but one of tap your foot with; control over the guitar the reasons we’re probably still talking that can fi nesse it from being delicate and

Image from the cover of Spiderland.

barely audible to the teapot squeal of a hole in a dam that won’t burst.

Heather Fox, Juanita (1993-present): Back in those days in particular, we were very much about DIY and making noise and dressing up and having fun, so we were the opposite of highly-detailed, must-sound-a-perfect-way — I didn’t always tune my guitar and stuff like that. I didn’t have my own gear for years — I’d just borrow other people’s shit. In style, we could not be further from each other… I think the reason [Spiderland] has had such an impact though, is because it’s a beautiful record, it’s an incredible record, it’s really intimate. And I think it really captures a certain — I believe the word angst is overused — but it defi nitely captures a certain uncomfortable quality about being that age. What it feels like to be in your late teens / early twenties. Which, I’m glad I’m at the age I am now. I wouldn’t want to go back and be 20 years old.

John King (Operator of the label Louisville Is For Lovers (2000-present), musician in several bands): It is no small coincidence that Slint’s Spiderland was released the same year I announced to my mother that I had decided to be a musician and demanded a drum set immediately. I was just 14, but was already well rooted in the local music scene. In those days local music was everywhere. I could walk from my house in Germantown down Preston Highway and see Sunspring, Erchint, and Ennui at Audubon Skate Park, or take the Eastern Parkway bus to Bardstown Road and see Rodan and Crain play matinee shows at Tewligans. Sometimes Jeremy DeVine’s grandmother would drive us to Lazer Blaze in the East End to bands like Evergreen. I could never fi gure out the nation’s infatuation with the Seattle music scene at that time because it seemed like Louisville was inventing new bands and musical genres on a daily basis. It was exciting to head out to a show to discover the newest sounds. But, with all that creativity, Spiderland was something no one had heard before. It didn’t seem to fi t in the normal trajectory of musical evolution. It seemed no matter what scene you were in, someone was talking about Spiderland. It had the aggression of hardcore with the fragility of lo-fi folk, and the attitude of shoegaze. It was simultaneously a dozen different genres and none of them, and it was all ours. We knew it was an important album, and it didn’t come from New York, or L.A. or Seattle. It was Louisville through and through. And for me the best part was Britt Walford’s drumming. It doesn’t matter if he’s playing on a Will Oldham record, a Kim Deal album or a raucous Squirrel Bait record, you know

it’s Britt. He has a distinctive style, which as a drummer I can say that isn’t easy to pull off, and nothing represents his full talent more than Spiderland. The way he is able to seamlessly move from loud to quiet, change tempo and make the most sparse sections of a song intriguing and full of emotion is nothing short of genius. The entire 40 minute album is tied together by Britt’s beautifully-crafted beats culminating with the exquisite “Good Morning, Captain.” And, before the world knew what hit it, it was over.

Jamie Colvin (Kentucky Chrome Revue, 2009-present): I didn’t listen to Spiderland until a couple of years after it came out and I stole my older sister’s cassette tape. It took me a bit to get into it, but ‘Good Morning Captain’ was the song that hooked me in. Something about that bass line... Today, it’s complete and total nostalgia of those carefree lazy days and laying on the fl oor of your room listening to an album while staring at the ceiling and getting just utterly lost in it. It holds up and will never lose its appeal.

Scott Carney, Wax Fang (2005-present): I think that is the hallmark of a great piece of art — that it stands the test of time, that it continues to infl uence people across generations. And that album certainly has. I fi rst heard it in high school, probably when I saw the Larry Clark fi lm ‘Kids.’ It wasn’t really my cup of tea at the time, and then I kind of circled back around as I was transitioning into college… It’s kind of this magical thing they created that hadn’t really been done in that way, shape or form before… It’s kind of a more artistic approach to music and it’s not necessarily music produced for the masses. That really resonated with me because, when I fi rst started hearing those bands, it really kind of introduced me to the idea that rock music could be more than just a handful of power chords that you play for three minutes and you move on to the next song.

Nick Wilkerson, White Reaper (2014-present): They are just so singular. When I think of Louisville, I think of Slint. And vice versa, pretty much. It’s a weird thing, I don’t know how to explain it thoroughly… If I learned anything from listening to that record, or listening to Slint in general, I learned to be as you as possible, basically… The whole scene back then was just so cool. Their trajectory of being in punk bands before Slint — I feel like I did all of the same stuff growing up, playing shows, without even being aware of that. It’s cool there’s an example of some guys that thought the same way I did back then. I think it just captures the sense of growing up, the record.

Doug Campbell, The Sleeping Bag (2018-present), Melanchoir (2020-present): The very fi rst time I heard Spiderland was not a life-changing moment. It took me years to form a full opinion on the album, and while I ruminated on it and continued making my own art, I was certainly becoming infl uenced by it more than any other favorite album of mine. As I would continue to pick out new things I had missed on repeated listens, I found myself more focused on creating thicker layers of detail in my own work. There is an indescribable quality to its plain presentation and production style, and how that’s contrasted by the ever-evolving passages of tightly-performed and forward-thinking music, and then (because maybe those two things aren’t enough, and traditionally sung vocals would be too predictable) there’s this seriously fucked up narrative running through a good deal of songs on the record. This story of sorts deals with themes of paranoia on “Don Aman,” child abandonment on “Washer” and the hair-raising horror of dying alone, full of regrets, on “Good Morning, Captain”... pay even closer attention and you will realize that this story creates a perfect loop as the very fi rst lines of the fi rst track make reference to the last track. When I fi rst put all of that together, it didn’t just change the way I approached music, it changed my life.

Tallulah Lynch, Shark Sandwich (2020-present): Every time I listen to it, I fi nd something new, which is weird because it seems so straightforward the fi rst time you listen to it. It’s like, this is just a really relaxing, low-energy thing but there are a lot of layers to it, which is why people keep coming back to it… I think one of the reasons that I like that record so much is it changes with whatever head space I’m in. Anytime I listen to it, in whatever mood, it changes the whole perspective on the album, which is really great. Not a lot of music does that, for me at least. •

Editor’s Note: To dive deeper into the history of Spiderland, check out Lance Bangs’ documentary “Breadcrumb Trail” or Scott Tennent’s 33 1/3 book on the record.

FREAKWATER: IRWIN TALKS DANCING UNDER WATER

By Erica Rucker | leo@leoweekly.com

FREAKWATER seems an unlikely band to be popular in a town known for its hardcore and punk scene but with simple chord structures to their songs and the wide regional appeal of old country songs, band members Catherine Irwin, Janet Bean and David Gay managed to make it work. LEO caught up with Irwin to discuss what is was like being in a beloved country band in a punk rock town.

“I think that like the reason that a lot of punk rock bands were into that music was partly the simple chord structure, for one thing,” said Irwin. “Like, we could play this but I think that kind of nihilism of the lyrics and stuff is really appealing. I think it has a lot of similarity in the content, you know — there are a lot of country songs about really gloomy subjects, right?”

Irwin believes that the accessibility of playing simple songs made sense to their fans. It was easy, as she mentioned, to fi gure out how to play something from the Carter Family in a much greater way than perhaps trying to learn songs by progressive rock bands like Rush with more complicated songs.

Cover art for Freakwater’s “Dancing Under Water”

“The way that, especially the Carter [Family] put the songs across, it’s just like certain kinds of punk rock, in this incredibly sort of fl at affect. They just, they don’t change their tone. They could be singing about a dead baby or singing about a fl ower, you know, and it’s just like almost the same delivery. It’s really fascinating to me.” In 1991, Freakwater released Dancing Under Water, an album that Irwin remembers as if it didn’t really happen. “I was thinking about it yesterday, cause you know, that record, it kind of like always sort of seemed like it never even happened because when we made the record, we were on this little tiny label in California called Amoeba,” said Irwin. “It was the second record that we made for them. And the guy that was in charge of that label, he just put it out with the fi rst record on the CD cause it was the beginning of Catherine Irwin and Janet Bean of Freakwater CD times. And so,

the record never came out on vinyl, so it seemed kind of fake for that reason.”

“Janet’s husband Rick, that was his roommate at UK. He was a chemical engineer and lived in Los Angeles. And then, so he just started putting out people’s records and, uh, I guess he must have been in Louisville in Chicago or something like that and Janet gave him a tape that we recorded and he put on a record for us. So that was it. We didn’t work very hard to get that done. Yeah. We just got lucky.”

The re-issue of Dancing Under Water was released by Thrill Jockey in 1996. Freakwater’s association with Thrill Jockey happened because of Janet Bean’s connections with her other band, Eleventh Dream Day. One of the tracks, called “Scratches on the Door” was written by Michael O’Bannon, a Louisville punk pioneer who passed away in 2016.

“I was thinking about what was Louisville-related about that record is that Michael O’Bannon wrote one of the songs on there,” said Irwin. “He wrote a song on there called “Scratches on the Door,” which is a really, incredibly, creepy song about the children who died in a fi re because LG&E shut off their power.”

“It’s so very like him to have focused in on this little deep grim detail of the story.”

In 1989, six children perished in a fi re in Louisville after having their electricity cut off and had been using candles for light and heat. O’Bannon’s song is an homage to this incident.

It is the frankness and honesty that Freakwater songs sometimes nest in, and their simplicity that made them work. It’s kept fans interested for over 30 years and counting. •

Irwin is currently working with Tara Key of Antietam on a memorial project for Wink O’Bannon, a local musician who passed away in 2020.

ANTIETAM — EVERYWHERE OUTSIDE

By Tara Key, Josh Madell | leo@leoweekly.com

Antietam at the New Music Seminar in 1991. | PHOTO BY BRUCE WARREN.

ANTIETAM WAS FORMED IN LOUISVILLE in 1984. By the ’90s, they had moved to New York City. However, once a local band, always a local band. They released their album Everywhere Outside in 1991 after welcoming new member Josh Madell. They talked about how the album came together.

Tara Key: Post-Burgoo, while deciding which zig or zag to follow, Tim and I waited for what was next. A call came from a NYC kid, now a bike messenger in San Francisco. Josh Madell, 20, was willing to come home and try out for our band. He had heard us and owned Burgoo and liked us. One December Sunday morning he pulled up at our corner, and we piled into his car, establishing a ritual that has gone on for over 30 years now, headed for the Music Building where we practice to this day. We jammed for literally 30 seconds and knew it was right.

Josh Madell: I left New York for college in ’88, and left college for rock and roll in ’89. I ended up in San Francisco because I wanted to try someplace new, but after a couple of years, my band seemed to be at a dead end, and I was sort of burned out on SF too. Ken Katkin told me that Antietam needed a drummer; he knew that I loved Burgoo, and I fl ew back to New York for a few days to see the parents and audition.

I quit my job, packed my apartment and headed east on Christmas day in my creamsicle-colored VW bus, my drums and everything I owned piled behind me, on the southern route across I-40 to avoid the Rockies and the winter snow. No such luck, I hit blizzards at every turn, the bus had no heat or defrost (literally none, it had been disconnected), and it was rough riding. I fi nally slid off the road and fell over outside of Amarillo, but the giant snowdrifts padded my fall, and I was rolling again in a few hours. On New Year’s Eve in North Little Rock the bus gave out, and I spent a couple of long, empty days waiting for a mechanic, and a part. Days later, I limped into a friend’s place in D.C. and stole out of town on the Amtrak with just my drums and a knapsack; the Everywhere Outside sessions were already booked, and I had a lot of songs to learn.

TK: So with Madell in, we practiced fi ercely and fi ve weeks later found ourselves recording Everywhere Outside at Water Music in Hoboken. We worked with John Siket, who would go on to helm many noteworthy sessions. John was probably the fi rst engineer I tortured as I gained confi dence (or arrogance) in the studio. There was a tightrope spirit to the sessions, with the ink still wet, that was turbo-charged and exhilarating. And listening to the tempos, it would seem we all had hearts that beat at a hummingbird’s pace. To fi nish, I kept John up 24+ hours straight: a 20-hour mixing session followed by him driving Josh and I Grand Prix-style, very late, to the mastering studio where, fi nally, I passed out in front of the monitors on the fl oor (quite professionally) while John and Josh mastered the record. •

Endpoint’s Duncan Barlow talks about how Endpoint came to be and what they wanted to do with their music.

THE BIRTH OF ENDPOINT

By Duncan Barlow (coordinated by Rob Pennington) | leo@leoweekly.com

ONE COLD JANUARY NIGHT, we huddled around television sets at The Zodiac bar on Market Street, watching in disbelief as bombs began to streak the early morning skies in the gulf coast. What had begun as a night of friends playing music together, quickly turned into a night of discussion and tears. With those blurry moments, we knew we’d seen people die. That moment left an impression, and as Operation Desert Storm marched on, we began to see T-shirts and trading cards sold at stores celebrating the military effort, our conversations and cultural contexts began shifting.

In that same year, we would release our fi rst full-length recording on vinyl. Endpoint’s debut LP, In a Time of Hate, suffered from many issues. First, we were asked to record with an engineer who expressed outward contempt for our music, then the label experienced countless delays. By the time In a Time of Hate saw its release, the songs felt dated and out of touch with who we were becoming as a band. Despite the frustrations we experienced with the record and the timing of its release, 1991 was an important year for the band. We were seeking new infl uences, becoming vocal in political discussions, having necessary conversations with our peers and our contemporaries about gender, class, sexual orientation, race and working to create a safe space. We continued to play the older songs, but we found the more we toured, the more people began requesting unreleased songs they’d heard on bootleg soundboard recordings. By the time 1992 rolled around, we’d developed a fulllength to be entitled Catharsis, which would contain the political, cultural and emotional veins that would run through the band’s fi nal years. •

duncan b.barlow is the author of A DOG BETWEEN US, THE CITY, AWAKE, OF FLESH AND FUR, and SUPER CELL ANEMIA. His fi ction has appeared in The Denver Quarterly, The Collagist, Banango Street, The Apeiron Review, Calamari Press, and Meat for Tea. He is currently revising a novel, a memoir, and a collection of short stories. He is the publisher at Astrophil Press and the managing editor at South Dakota Review. Before teaching, barlow played in punk and indie bands, releasing over 25 records and touring North America and Europe. His latest record, COLONY COLLAPSE, is a dream pop LP. NEVERMIND that 1991 experienced Nirvana’s were destroyed in a fl ood 10 years later. sophomore LP, which launched grunge (and I was working at Kinko’s and was able to ultimately punk) into the mainstream and that print the covers on pale green cardstock that we Metallica would release an album our parents folded in half and slipped into plastic sleeves. would listen to. We On the front would didn’t need any of be a 19th century that. We had our woodcut of a own music scene in “bushman” dancing 1991 that brought us beside the name Slint’s Spiderland, BUSH LEAGUE Endpoint’s In a Time turned sideways of Hate, Kinghorse’s in bold safari text. eponymous album, On the back would Oblong Box’s Pull be printed the My Finger, Crain’s lyrics to sides A Rocket, and Bush and B, “Fetor” and League’s Fetor. Band Photo of the Original Bush League: Mike Borich, Buzz Minnick, Rusty Sohm, and Dave Pajo “Dimension Red,”

Nothing else respectively. The mattered. insert would include a photo of the band: Mike

Clubs like Tewligans, The Zodiac club, and Borich, Buzz Minnick, Rusty Sohm and Dave Uncle Pleasant’s could host a line-up of local Pajo, standing in Pajo’s driveway in front of bands including those mentioned above as well Mike’s father’s Dodge Ramcharger. Chad Krauss, as Bodeco, Undermine, Erchint, or Sunspring who served as executive producer, surprised us and have to turn people away at the door because with a deep red vinyl as a tribute to the B-side, their maximum occupancy had been met. Green which Maximum Rocknroll called a roller coaster Day, 411, Endpoint and Christ on a Crutch would ride. I never knew whether this was a compliment play at Audubon Skate Park, but people really or insult. wanted to hear Endpoint; touring bands would “Fetor,” the slow, tortured song became a open for Kinghorse; and St. Francis High School trope among fans who would clamber toward would host a battle of the bands that featured the stage during live performances to share the Bush League, Indignant Few, Shutout and several mic. “Pouring into my room / Making me crawl others that could be heard from the Brown Hotel pissing me off… Beating into me like my ol’ / a block away. Louisville Slugger baseball bat.” At six minutes

The Louisville underground music scene was and 17 seconds, it was four times longer than the punching its fi sts through the soil and making standard hardcore fare. itself visible (and thunderously audible) to 1991 was not the beginning. And it was cereveryone. Of course, there were many remarkable tainly not the end. It was burgeoning. An explobands before 1991, and they were instrumental in sion that would in the succeeding years culminate the development of the explosion that took place in The Machine, a 10,000-square-foot laser tag that year — bands such as Babylon Dance Band, facility in St. Matthews, that would be packed The Endtables, Squirrel Bait, Maurice, Malignant with 1,500 teenagers to hear hardcore music and Growth, Solution Unknown, Brain Dead, Spot, make out in the many dark corners. And it would Cerebellum, and Big Deal. continue to grow. The next year Bush League

I was asked to write not only about the music would open for Public Enemy and tour the southscene in 1991 but also my band’s fi rst release, east with bands such Loppybogymi and Load. Bush League’s Fetor. Ben Jones, the owner As I write this, I am looking at my copy of of Better Days Records, asked me if he could the Fetor 7-inch and notice that it is slightly release our 7-inch to kickstart his own label. It warped from years of neglect. And, in many was hard to say no to the man who since the early ways, even though I can’t play it, it matters more ’80s had turned me on to Herbie Hancock, Chaka after 30 years than I thought it would when it was Khan and Buzzcocks. released in 1991. •

Bush League went into Mom’s Recording Studio to record with Howie Gano, who is largely Norman “Buzz” Minnick was the lead singer of credited with the “Louisville sound.” I still don’t Bush League. He is the author of three collections know exactly what that means. We recorded live, of poetry and has edited several anthologies. no overdubs, digital manipulation or any trickery. He teaches literature and writing at Indiana We recorded straight to actual tape. However, nostalgia is not always gracious. Those tapes University-Purdue University Indianapolis.