- 1000 Hurts - NME (www.nme.com)
The
official line on the 11th record by Shellac is predictably terse and to
the point: "This record is more mean-spirited." For it to have spirit
of any description comes as a relief, following the sucking letdown that was
1998's pristine, emotionally stillborn 'Terraform'. But from its title
inwards, '1000 Hurts' marks the rekindling of Steve Albini's soul.
Far from the misanthropic brat his legend maintains, Albini has always
seemed motivated by moral outrage at the horrific capabilities of humankind. In
his best work - and '1000 Hurts' is just that - this unflinching desire
to probe and expunge evil has ignited in revolutionary assaults on the
conventions of that which is called rock.
Because Shellac rocks here like absolutely nothing else. Packaged, as
ever, with an erotic eye for the process of manufacturing recorded sound - the
vinyl comes in a 12-inch reel-to-reel audio tape carton - '1000 Hurts'
makes its intentions clear from the opening 'Prayer To God'. In a voice
bereaved by malice, a cuckolded Albini invites divine retribution for his
woman and her lover. She, he says, "can go quietly, with disease or a blow",
but he demands humiliation and pain. As the inestimable Todd Trainer/ Bob
Weston engine room rains down the life-sapping hammer blows, Albini
screams his death mantra: "Kill him/Fucking kill him/Kill him already/Kill
him". Tellingly, for those who recall the previous album's introductory
folly (12 minutes, three notes, no cigar), it's all over in less than 150
seconds and conveys more authentic rock'n'roll savagery than a swarm of killer
bees unleashed on Satan's pecker.
And then matters get really serious. 'Squirrel Song' is a self-proclaimed
"sad fucking song". With its shrieked "And I miss you!"
coda, 'Shoe Song' invokes the similarly hysterical denouement of Slint's
'Good Morning, Captain', possibly the only group or song that Shellac
deem worthy of such a comparison. There's even levity, particularly Albini
offering an adversary out for fisticuffs on the closing 'Watch Song'.
Evidently, jamming was not on the agenda, and for that relief much thanks.
Peerless players they may be, but focus becomes Shellac. One superfluous
instrumental aside, not once do the principals lock in and merely admire the
pornographic beauty of the noise they make. Instead, one is forced to conclude
that there are few more startling sounds than that of Steve Albini
producing a band in which Steve Albini plays. Of course, having the best
rhythm section in the world helps. Trainer even sings on a couple of tracks,
while Weston's scything bass is all-pervasively brutal.
As a group whose anti-heroic ethos rejects the music industry's avaricious
impulses, Shellac's presence will always be elusive to an extent. In the
context of The New Nice consensus, however, their alternative perspective is
more efficacious than ever. Albini himself says it best: "This
isn't some kinda metaphor/Goddamn! This is REAL!" Because sometimes it
needs to be. Because the truth fucking hurts.