By official act of Congress, upon its release in 1990, "Slack Motherfucker" became the anthem of empowerment for all those who ever found themselves earning enough for one, but working for two-- sick of leaving at eight, returning at six, and finding the leech still asleep on the couch, sick of watching that bastard roommate smoke your paycheck away, sick of managers who only manage to sit on their asses; a host is only as good as his or her parasites, but the day will always come when it's time to serve notice. All the bitterness, sadness, sweetness and righteous wrath engendered by those confrontations is given voice in Mac McCaughan's call-to-arms, unifying every good-natured, put-upon innocent who's ever been torn by love and hate and made to feel like dirt for having no choice but to turn out a friend, co-worker, or loved one. To anyone who can sympathize, the cathartic indignation of "Slack Motherfucker" is awe-inspiring.
That's what Superchunk have always done best; all the way back to their self-titled debut, these Chapel Hill overlords have crafted anthems for the ages by anyone's definition, fist-pumping scream-alongs of the highest order. Conventional wisdom cheekily held that every 'Chunk song sounded the same, mostly due to their constant barrage of inhumanly massive power riffs and McCaughan's nasal, forever-thirteen conviction, but as often as not, sheer enthusiasm covered for any perceived lack of musical invention. Since those early days, they've gradually mellowed, trading anthemic peaks for pretty, sprawling pop landscapes. And from fans who just wanted to jump up and down some more (myself included), it's caused endless brow-furrowing and grumbling about concepts like "maturation" and "developing as artists."
I fell in love with Superchunk because of their seemingly inexhaustible adolescence, I guess, or maybe just McCaughan's ability to sing lines like, "I saw a robin's egg/ And it was blue," like they're the keys to world peace (if we would only listen, don't you see?!). With that in mind, though, being the nearly one-dimensional, if extremely devout, fan that I am, I expected this two-disc, decade-spanning collection of B-sides and various rarities to be a somewhat hit-or-miss affair, and mostly miss. Sometimes it's great to be wrong; the bunch of homeless tracks sheltered here hold up as well as many of their best albums and actually thrives on the diversity that I'd once been inclined to frown upon in Superchunk's canon.
The dramatic grind of "The Mine Has Been Returned to Its Original Owner" segues into the heart-tugging "A Small Definition", in turn sulking face-first into the towering "Dance Lessons", and it all sails through a storm of emotions so easily, you don't even have time to know if you ought to be happy, sad or angry at the mine's former owner. "Never Too Young to Smoke" is a grim procession starkly at odds with the hopeful longing of the acoustic version of "Detroit Has a Skyline" off the Hyper Enough single. McCaughan is momentarily stunned on the quiet "shuffle" (band's words, according to some hilarious liner commentary from the members) of "Sexy Ankles", and when he sings, "You swing the truth around, and somebody gets hurt," the person wounded is him. But it's not too bad-- "White Noise" is back to work the next day, rocking as happily and easily as a 'Chunk anthem on a casual Friday.
I hesitate to say that there isn't a downside to this collection, but even the few would-be clunkers included here ("With Bells On", "Reg") are elevated by the carnival-esque tilt-a-whirl of moods on these discs. Arguably, the consistency and simplicity of Superchunk's assembly line formula, even at its worst, produces songs that are individually fine, just too easily overshadowed by similar but improved sound and structure in their better work. The theory is readily supported by Cup of Sand, where no track sounds out of place or unexpected because of the chaotic balance struck out of necessity, by sheer virtue of the dozens of releases and almost as many years from which these songs are culled. Covers of Adam Ant's "Beat My Guest" and Bowie's classic "Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)" forcibly crammed into Superchunk's one-size-fits-all style just add to the gleeful confusion.
Despite it all, two discs' worth of jangly pop and McCaughan's exuberant tenor can defeat even the most steadfast listener (it really is a lot to take in at once), and as mentioned, not all of these tracks bear out the same level of quality. Never let it be said that Superchunk ever turned in a poor excuse for a castoff, though-- the least that can be said of any one of these tracks is that it's formulaic, and that means reliable, folks. It's hard to say if the brilliantly random shifts in mood and tempo that work so well here could even have been preserved had Cup of Sand been pared-down further. Also, while I'm complaining about getting too much in this collection, I'd like to bitch about pretty girls, the sun, and free money. Okay, here's to shutting up.
