Bubble and Scrape marked the point at which Sebadoh's aesthetic evolved from "quick, where's the four-track?" to reasonably well-crafted indie rock, arguably, the defining sound of that perpetually slippery genre. The band's previous full-length, the scabby, schizoid III will always have its partisans-- as will Lou Barlow and Eric Gaffney's early collections of sound collages and song scraps-- while casual fans typically gravitate to the post-Gaffney pop and polish of Bakesale. But this fourth official album, originally released in 1993, may be the band's holistic best. With actual arrangements, tracks longer than two minutes, and, partly courtesy of Bob Weston, reasonable production values (it's relative), B&S isn't as shiny and commercial (hey, I said it's relative!) as later records. Released on what was then the flannel-shirted nation's flagship label, Sub Pop, (on Domino in the UK), B&S is where Sebadoh began to sound like an actual band-- a sniping, self-mutilating three-headed hydra of a band. But a band nonetheless. A handful of live cuts, including Necros' cover "Reject", several alternately worded album tracks, and other rarities augment Domino's deluxe re-release, along with three sets of (naturally) contradictory commentary. Fifteen years on, Barlow, Gaffney, and Jason Loewenstein are still performing their dysfunctional-family roles in the liners. Gaffney makes repeated credit-grabs; Barlow rationalizes Gaffney's exile from the band's fragile democracy; and Loewenstein offers what probably comes closest to verisimilitude in his account of Sebadoh's prickly dynamics. Welcome to the indie rock version of Rashomon. Whatever the players' disputes, the original record is pretty fairly partitioned. Barlow is credited with seven tracks, Gaffney with five, and Loewenstein with four. Barlow's songs, though, were almost always the promotional focus (certainly after Sub Pop got the band on contract) and, for better or worse, became Sebadoh's defining sound. Album openers "Soul and Fire" and "Two Years Two Days" are prototypical: preternaturally melodic, verging on sing-song (I once heard someone refer to Barlow as a "tune machine," which exactly nails both the catchy genius and mechanical nature of his songwriting), and stacked with plangent guitar clang, flag-waving choruses, and 16-wheeler loads of romantic baggage. Barlow named an actual track for girlfriend, then ex-girlfriend, then wife, Kathleen Bilius on III, but almost every song of this period directly or covertly negotiates that relationship's volatile power balance. Acoustic duet "Think (Let Tomorrow Bee)", boasts one of Barlow's most-affecting melodies, dexterously handling his signature subject ("Let tomorrow be/ I can't be so impatient/ Pushing every answer/ When there isn't any question"). As we learn from the reissue's extras, final studio takes emerged from much sappier drafts of high school poetry magazine fodder. The album version of "Soul and Fire" brims with self-esteem compared with Barlow's acoustic demo (one of the deluxe issue's few really intriguing add-ons). Like the most pathetic answering machine message you've ever heard, it swaps the original refrain "I think our love is coming to an end" for "call me if you ever want to see me again." The only thing missing is, "please pick up, I know you're there." Needless to say, Barlow's hurt/angry/sensitive/manipulative personality matrix worked like catnip on indie girls back in the day (not that I'd know anything about that). He may have been reluctant to admit it, but Barlow was lucky to have a ballast in Gaffney, whose avant-garde impulses, skin-peeling screams, and unsentimental sentiments-- served up blunt and bruising on "Elixir is Zog", (Capricornnn rising!), "Emma Get Wild", and the hardcore via rockabilly of "No Way Out"-- dissipate any lingering self-pity fogging the windows. It's Loewenstein, though, who turns in the most surprising, most effective songs on B&S. "Happily Divided", a spare, dour, affectless folk-pop number is the best Barlow song Barlow never wrote. And the anthemic "Sister", with its incestuous insinuations and massive riffs, plays angry, cathartic id to "Soul and Fire"'s superego. Loewenstein also gets the last word when he pays thunderous tribute to band mascot/Northampton, Mass. scenester Mike Flood. Plucked from the detritus of 90s independent music, B&S may noy be the generational touchstone of Slanted and Enchanted or Exile in Guyville (and if Liz was shadow boxing anything, it was exactly this strain of guy culture), but relegating it to the Indie Rock Era nostalgia ghetto, where a band's "cred" usually dictated the reception of its records isn't fair, either. These songs hold up just fine to repeated plays, particularly if you stack them next to today's Mac-enabled faux-low-fi. And if the bonuses to this reissue aren't exactly revelatory, the original album remains a critical document in the evolution of underground DIY. Don't listen to it for its historical value, though; listen to it because it's awesome.
Wavelength
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