Music Writing by Carson Arnold
SONIC YOUTH: THE DOCTOR WILL SEE YOU NOW
(Photo credit: Michael Levine, courtesy of Geffen)
It's impossible to write about Sonic Youth without becoming nostalgic because the four members (now five) refuse to give up, give in, or get out. So for the record: yes, I am one of those fans who've remained cryogenically frozen since Dirty, with blindfolds on unless somebody talks about "Kill Yr Idols," which irrationally has become an excuse for a young audience to now yell out, "Hey, Sonic Youth, go kill yourselves!!"
And those birds probably won't fly south for their new album, Sonic Nurse.
Me nostalgic? Of course. They're the main reason why I ever had an interest in rock music, and at times (Washing Machine, A Thousand Leaves), the main reason why I declared it all sucked. It's become pretty clear to me, though, those who lately criticize their work extend from a simple envy in watching people approach their fifties who continue to stay initially young, loud and sexy (my friend at a recent show thought Kim Gordon was no more than thirty), without coping indie-rock's sardonic attitude. Granted, it's been a steady rumor that circa Experimental Jet Crash they haven't dealt much guitar-anarchy (partly because they've since learned how to play, perceiving punk into more literati zones). A reviewer in The Village Voice ripped the band apart for Murray Street's non-committal to their formative punkalities, calling for Kim to quit and de-characterized the very existence of no-wave "isms."
If Murray Street was all I had to go by, yeah. But then again, what's your idea of modern sounds? The Strokes? (Yep, map your way through retro New York. Fun!) There's no such thing anymore as "experimental rock," because just plain "bad rock" can be now considered experimental (y'all get yr fifteen quickies). The only divisive career move Sonic Youth ever made was appearing on The Simpsons (who didn't?), and even then, official Sonic analysts (they exist) could add it was their way of agitating pop-culture. Selling out? I doubt it. Well, unless you've never flocked past Evol, in which case I suggest you probe your ears on a 24-hour loop to their SYR noisedom label, and then see if you're still itching for improv. Early in 2003 I asked Thurston Moore via email if he felt they'd undermined their roots:
"Well we're adults now, grown up -- none of us are the same people so much and also it's not a new band anymore -- all those things are wholly definitive in a band at the beginning, and they transmute into new behaviors given the extent of the bands trajectory."
Common sense...You either got ears, or your fingers in 'em.
Sonic Nurse is an album I very much enjoy (an unusual description). Some people are even saying alumnus Richard Hell had a part as an uncredited producer, although I can't confirm this unless side-project Gumball had something to do with it (though it could explain the album's "spark"). I give it a B (note: they've never cut an album past a B+: Sister et al). I like the conceptual Richard Prince cover-painting. And I pretty much like most of the ten songs, though they seem shy in ever climbing to wild orbits (e.g. Dirty's "Theresa's Sound-world"). But I trust them. They're vulnerable. And I thank Jim O'Rourke, who artistically seems to have prevented the band from totally mutating into post-rock Sun-Ras, adjusting their guitars into "micro" designs, which early mentor Glenn Branca once criticized them for not honing (again, see Sister's anthem "Schizophrenia," where the guitars were more about supplying a riff-for-rhythm, whereas today they're more complex, if not classical: yessir, just relax). Sound-wise, it's as close as we'll ever get to Daydream Nation, and if I'm not mistaken, both these albums possess the same lulling qualities of acid/jazzaroo/noodling art-rock (and invariable ape-shit moments = their live shows). I hear some Wire, a little Miles Bitches Brew (of course), a lot of textural Television-- and an open road:
"Pattern Recognition." Strong opening. Breeders-esque backup harmony; catchy as hell. Steve Shelley won't drum his maracas but I guess his hi-hat service does the deed. Typically, the number has three endings: Kim's verses (which according to the promo-sheet takes "Justin Timberlake's hand and sticks it in a tendon-shredding meat grinder," though I've always wondered if Kim just uttered "girl" if she'd be called a feminist), the middle, and the last minute and a half, breaking like Neil Young Weld-era and vanishing into severe noise. It'll be the only time you'll hear any long explosions, so get good seats.
"Unmade Bed." Conventionally the best song here. I don't know why, I just dig its tone. Imagine Ravel's String Quartet in F played by the Quicksilver Messenger Service (& on a relative side-note: compare the guitars in QMS's "It's Been Too Long" and Television's "Marquee Moon," very similar). It may not rub well with Sonicologists, clocking at four minutes, and aims for people who recognize Thurston's songwriting capabilities before the group butchers it in the studio. About a face-from-the-past for him (and another), and, possibly beholding the first concise "feedback" guitar-solo in twenty years.
"Dripping Dream." One that meanders. Psych-delay. The Ramones were just a bunch of losers. A bit of surreal Ghost Flowers in it. Continuous guitar effect over lyrics traveling from "mother Africa" to the closing "drops from your hand and it cracks." It stops. What do I remember? Guitars. Duh.
"Mariah Carey And The Arthur Doyle Hand Cream." Fun live. They announced the title and everybody's like, Mariah Carey? Where? Kinda hardcore (par Mike Watt's Phantom Opera). Kim returns. Her voice. (Ouch.) From a whisper to a serious case of strep-throat. Obviously people have had problems with this, but it's at least used here to claw apart jailbait divas & a jerk-off nation (Can you get some satisfaction/How much are you willing to pay for?), and will serve as good gossip for Mariah and her girlfriends at the mall. If they shop at the right place.
"Stones." Thurston and Lee Ranaldo are attracted to more subconscious instrumentals as opposed to Kim's feminine attacks...and I honestly have no clue what this song's about. The Rolling Stones? Trains? It's a bit like the oldie "Sugar Kane," bolstered by a moodish chorus where Thurston admits the dead are okay for him. Like much of Sonic Nurse, it's almost a prototype for their live shows which would otherwise take up the entire album in doodling velocity. Note your feet tapping. It's been a while!
"Dude Ranch Nurse." Kim in her voodoo. Hypnotic/erotic production. A cryptic hit. Lyrically (I think) about cowboys coming in from the range and being operated on by some geisha nurse-heroine hatching for an escape from the clinic (interpret it your own way. You have six minutes).
"New Hampshire." An odd rocker. Reminds me of Shimmy-Disc material. Thurston mentions Buddy Guy and Johnny Winter, narrating Steve & Joe/gone beyond doing it for life, who I'm pretty certain he's referring to those teens who abruptly knifed two Hanover professors in '01 (linear to their Manson spin-off in "Death Valley '69"?). But why B.B. King? Well, New Hampshire's a pretty weird place.
"Paper Cup Exit." Lee Ranaldo. Out to lunch. Back in five minutes.
"I Love You Golden Blue." More like it. Soft Machine beginning. Lasts long enough to play along. Ambient, slow rhythm (thank you Krautrock). Will it get loud? (No.) Kim whispers about being senseless with clear vision. A medicated Daydream Nation? Where do I get my prescription?
"Peace Attack." A dud. C'mon, if this is a kick to those pigs in the White House, then it's the most sedate, antiwar song I've ever heard east of Lou Reed. Spring-time is wartime. (Rewind to beginning.)
...Satisfied? Not every song has to be good. Sonic Nurse taps a particular sound from a far less self-conscious yet exploratory band. They're not fighting their intellectual other-half and not forcing anything that the music can't answer. In fact, they've become a legacy. It's more about them than us. And that's fine with me. The doctor has left the building. Here's our chance to escape.
--Carson Arnold - May 28th, 2004