Visiting with an old friend
File under things I've been listening to recently: Shellac.
Ahh, those fleeting memories can run, but they can't hide. Shellac—presumably named after the resin-like substance used (along with beeswax) to make old 78 rpm records—made quite an impression on me as a freshman in college. I drove three hours to Chicago to see them play a benefit show in 1995, headlining a bill that included Gaunt, Melt-Banana, and Brainiac (my first time seeing them as well!).
At that point in my life I found Steve Albini to be absolutely fascinating. Elite indie record producer whose touch had turned both PJ Harvey and Zeni Geva to gold; angry little man who birthed Songs About Fucking into existence; skinny, bespectacled, dorky-looking dude that strapped his homemade guitar around his waist with a thick leather belt; DIY purist of uncompromising ideals...Albini was all this and more. Plus, he was "funny". Every song that night, by Steve's admission, was either called "Fuck Canada" or "Fuck Wicker Park"...hahaha! I had little-to-no idea as to what precisely he was going on about, but damn was he witty.
But on that eve, it wasn't Steve Albini that truly wowed me. And as I revisited Shellac's debut album, At Action Park, a couple days ago for the first time in a long time, it again was not Albini who impressed me most. In both cases, it was Todd Trainer, drummer extraordinaire for Shellac of North America. To see Trainer perform live—sweat glistening off his butchered charcoal-black hairdo, arms flailing like an electrocuted octopus—was a thing of beauty. People used to say that Dave Grohl played "hard". I saw Nirvana in 1993, and I agree. Grohl abused his drums. But no one that I've seen live has beaten their drums to death like Todd Trainer. The man simply persecutes his drum heads. And I swear I can even hear how hard he plays on record. (Albini would chalk that up to his mastery of analog recording.) Trainer's playing—so simple and yet so exacting—only adds exclamation to Shellac's already punctuated, propulsive music.
Trainer, along with the rest of Shellac, performs with a business-like efficiency that some have called "cold" or "distanced". But I've yet to find anyone willing to dispute that Trainer finds great joy in pounding the skins into submission, much like a car salesman finds pleasure in selling a sucker the tack-ons: cargo net, rear spoiler, alloy wheels, car mats and an undercoating for good measure. It's not about just going through the motions for Trainer—it's about maximizing the damage.
So, thanks Kipp for requesting (or maybe I forced it upon you?) a copy of At Action Park during our discussion on the merits of Helmet. Listening to Shellac again sure did the body good.
Ahh, those fleeting memories can run, but they can't hide. Shellac—presumably named after the resin-like substance used (along with beeswax) to make old 78 rpm records—made quite an impression on me as a freshman in college. I drove three hours to Chicago to see them play a benefit show in 1995, headlining a bill that included Gaunt, Melt-Banana, and Brainiac (my first time seeing them as well!).
At that point in my life I found Steve Albini to be absolutely fascinating. Elite indie record producer whose touch had turned both PJ Harvey and Zeni Geva to gold; angry little man who birthed Songs About Fucking into existence; skinny, bespectacled, dorky-looking dude that strapped his homemade guitar around his waist with a thick leather belt; DIY purist of uncompromising ideals...Albini was all this and more. Plus, he was "funny". Every song that night, by Steve's admission, was either called "Fuck Canada" or "Fuck Wicker Park"...hahaha! I had little-to-no idea as to what precisely he was going on about, but damn was he witty.
But on that eve, it wasn't Steve Albini that truly wowed me. And as I revisited Shellac's debut album, At Action Park, a couple days ago for the first time in a long time, it again was not Albini who impressed me most. In both cases, it was Todd Trainer, drummer extraordinaire for Shellac of North America. To see Trainer perform live—sweat glistening off his butchered charcoal-black hairdo, arms flailing like an electrocuted octopus—was a thing of beauty. People used to say that Dave Grohl played "hard". I saw Nirvana in 1993, and I agree. Grohl abused his drums. But no one that I've seen live has beaten their drums to death like Todd Trainer. The man simply persecutes his drum heads. And I swear I can even hear how hard he plays on record. (Albini would chalk that up to his mastery of analog recording.) Trainer's playing—so simple and yet so exacting—only adds exclamation to Shellac's already punctuated, propulsive music.
Trainer, along with the rest of Shellac, performs with a business-like efficiency that some have called "cold" or "distanced". But I've yet to find anyone willing to dispute that Trainer finds great joy in pounding the skins into submission, much like a car salesman finds pleasure in selling a sucker the tack-ons: cargo net, rear spoiler, alloy wheels, car mats and an undercoating for good measure. It's not about just going through the motions for Trainer—it's about maximizing the damage.
So, thanks Kipp for requesting (or maybe I forced it upon you?) a copy of At Action Park during our discussion on the merits of Helmet. Listening to Shellac again sure did the body good.