It’s not that time has been cruel to Salem 66; it feels like it has erased them. Formed in 1981 by guitarist Judy Grunwald (a veteran of a litany of local bands including the Maps) and bassist Beth Kaplan with first-time drummer Susan Merriam, the band was representative of Boston’s thriving indie rock scene in the 1980s: one of the original signees to Gerard Cosloy’s Homestead label, Salem 66 played with everyone from R.E.M. to Dinosaur Jr. to Flipper. But for decades after their 1989 breakup, Salem 66’s discography sat untouched, never given a proper digital release, while many of their peers received lavish boxsets and accolades for their continuing influence. Now, with the band’s catalog finally on streaming, an underrated discography finally gets a proper entry point: SALT, a new 10-song primer that draws chronologically from their four studio albums and two EPs.
From day one there was something disorienting about Salem 66. “Across the Sea,” from their only 7", exemplifies their off-kilter energy: Grunwald’s staccato guitar lines curl like steel wool and Kaplan’s rubber basslines bounce between center and background, their vocals layering but not necessarily harmonizing. “I’m not afraid of living on my own now/I’m not afraid of being far from home,” Kaplan sings with knowing confidence. Salem 66 never sought attention for being one of the few female-fronted bands of their era, but their songwriting ventured beyond the apathy, righteous anger, or puppy love that often seemed to dominate the ’80s underground, like the wife turned vengeful spirit in “Widow’s Walk” or the deeply protective love Grunwald feels for an ex-partner on “Playground.” By this point they had expanded to a quartet with guitarist Robert Wilson Rodriguez, who helped them move beyond scrappy jangle pop to more raucous and driving proto-indie rock.
Salem 66 refined their sound with each successive release, so it’s slightly frustrating that SALT is slanted toward the latter half of their career. The compilation truncates their first six years to just five songs, unintentionally presenting the young band jumping between styles as opposed to sinking into its own version of post-punk before expanding further. Admittedly their best material comes from their final two albums, 1988’s Natural Disasters, National Treasures and 1990’s Down the Primrose Path. By this point they’d undergone another lineup shift, bringing in guitarist Timothy Condon and drummer James Vincent to push for a bigger, darker sound. The twangy, almost heavy metal riff that opens “Isabella” and the pummeling bassline of “Thaw” demonstrate the creeping influence of Sonic Youth and the slower, uglier sound emanating from the likes of Sub Pop’s Green River. Grunge was right around the corner, and while Salem 66 were too witty and obtuse to slot neatly into that world, one might have imagined them decamping for the Pacific Northwest and taking up the mantle of a band like the Gits. It was not meant to be, as the band split in ’89 and their legacy faded.
Yet today you can hear Salem 66’s zigzagging guitar in the likes of Helium or the halting melodies of Scrawl, who both would have better luck with Salem 66’s sonic components in the more musically adventurous ’90s. Decades later, Horsegirl’s mix of fuzz, layered vocals, and unexpected hooks continue their legacy. So why such a long wait for recognition? Maybe it’s partly how Salem 66 never seemed to fit neatly into any one sound: Their inclusion on Captured Tracks’ 2020 American jangle pop compilation Strum & Thrum served to highlight their use of musical tension and conflicting melodies, compared to other bands’ bright, harmonious hooks. Maybe it was just gender bias; a recent interview recounts a record label’s rejection on the grounds that “women in bands is a trend, and it’s a trend that has peaked.”
Maybe there was no good reason, and Salem 66, like Angst or Native Tongue, were simply awaiting rediscovery. Through lineup changes and stylistic evolutions, Salem 66 maintained their offbeat harmonies and unexpected narratives, Grunwald and Kaplan so in sync with each other’s askew style that by the end of the compilation it’s hardly worth separating who wrote which song. In Salem 66 one hears a band allergic to being locked into a specific subgenre or sound, yet still capable of connecting the dots. Maybe now they’ll finally, fully be appreciated.
