Released the same month as Nirvana's Nevermind, Sebadoh's III-- along with Pavement's 1992 album Slanted & Enchanted-- functioned as my preferred scattershot post-adolescent soundtrack. Sebadoh's third, at that time most "polished" album, isn't as universally influential as Nirvana's watershed; for cassette-trading zinesters like my teenage self, though, the scrubby Massachusetts trio nailed a perfect mussed, undeniably cynical, love-struck vibe.
Hardly a lifer, I jumped ship after Lou Barlow's foil Eric Gaffney quit in 1994 before the release of 1994's Bakesale. The "classic lineup" fell apart with the departure of that bong-cracked noisemaker; as a result, Barlow's ballads felt too sugary and, well, ordinary. That's what makes III so great: Firmly entrenched in the band's fragmentary, boom-hiss salad days, the 23 tracks strike a ragamuffin balance between the two songwriters and collaborators at their idiosyncratic prime. That history's been mapped thoroughly, but in 1991, part of the appeal sprouted from a certain mystery. The unknowability's gone; still, reissued with an 18-track bonus CD and new liner notes written by the band, the original indie masterpiece hasn't aged a bit.
Hitting the record bins after The Freed Man and Weed Forestin', III added bassist/drummer/third vocalist/middle man Jason Loewenstein, solidifying the band's prime formation. Song-wise, Barlow was still smarting about his unceremonious firing from Dinosaur Jr.-- along with his anxious relationship with on-off girlfriend and future wife, Kathleen Billus. Accordingly, his best songs call out Mascis ("The Freed Pig"'s insistently angular guitar jab) and/or pine for/praise his lady (the gorgeous "Kath"). Gaffney, on the other hand, displays a darker vibe, documenting his fucked-up family life ("As The World Dies, The Eyes of God Grow Bigger", with his dad fried on liquid LSD, young Eric's head hitting concrete, grandma getting stoned), "Violet Execution", and "Scars, Four Eyes" (co-written with Barlow). Even the covers-- the Minutemen's "Sickles and Hammers" and a warped rendition of Johnny Mathis' "Wonderful, Wonderful"-- comfortably snuggle into the grainy, duct-tapped landscape. There are some Loewenstein-penned stinkers (see "Smoke a Bowl") and average bits (the country jangle of "Black-Haired Girl"), but the lows are so fucked up and indulgent, they become an integral part of its imperfect charm. If you remove one, the structure topples.
I remember seeing Sebadoh live at Maxwell's in Hoboken right around the release of III. Barlow had a big-ass pimple on his cheek, his guitar was held in parts by tape, and he was peddling Sebadoh shirts he'd made with magic markers. Between songs, he bent down and pressed play on a boom-box, launching pre-recorded salvos (including a "three is the magic number" sample): "Turning personal vendetta and small-minded revenge tactics into eventual cult status. The only man in the world who truly appreciated the genius of the Swans, Lou Barlow," "Sebadoh, featuring that guy who played bass in Soul Asylum," "another evening of oppressive noodling," "metaphorically pissing in your mouth," and "Your postmodern folk-core saviors, Sebadoh." These one-liners and non-sequiturs are available on the reissues bonus CD, as a track called "Showtape '91". I approached Barlow at that same show and asked him some dumb teenager question about Mascis and he sorta told me to fuck off.
Today, I miss that snotty, anti-PR indie-- it was both the piss and romanticism that made Sebadoh vital. Once Barlow got over Mascis (see Dinosaur Jr. reunion tour) and tied the knot the band felt hollow. Fifteen years ago, his bile was best, most humorously encapsulated on "Gimme Indie Rock". Beyond its right-on satire, if you changed the dates around a bit, it offered a musical biography of just about everyone I knew at the time: "Started back in '83/ Started seeing things differently / Hardcore wasn't doing it for me no more/ Started smoking pot, thought things sounded better slow..." Then comes the gallery of in-scene disses: "Cracking jokes like a Thurston Moore/ Pedal hopping like a Dinosaur J.../ Taking inspiration from Hüsker Dü/ It's a new generation of electric white boy blues." That fight song, along with the four other songs that joined it on a 1991 7", appear on the bonus CD with a four-track demo of "The Freed Pig", a super flanged almost throat-sung "Stars For Eyes", and a 2004 "Violet Execution" remix.
Reviewing an album that functioned as such a personal watershed obviously presents the opportunity for nostalgia-induced hyperbole, but even after taking a step back from III it still deserves every last bit of praise. Sebadoh followed this effort with other fine moments; nowhere else did they so perfectly meld rickety folk, tin-can guitar, Shrimper-style ambiance, feedbacking "power sludge," eccentric compositional constructions, carcinogenic hooks, and poetic sincerity. Over the years since its release, the "I'm just me! Listen to me! A whole all-American original!" mantra that surfaces amid the trembly acoustic boom of "Downnmind" has become more than just tongue-in-cheek tomfoolery: Even if Lou, Eric, and Jason didn't know it at the time, those stoner fucks created something essential. I haven't heard anything like it since.
