Sonic Truth
by Wells, Steven, McManus, Brian
Are the indie icons shit hot or simply shit?
As every good little hipster knows, the mighty Sonic Youth are set to grace our fair city once more, in celebration of 25 years of ... well, what, exactly?
Depending on how charitable you're feeling, we're talking 25 years of continually pushing boundaries, endless innovation and effortless cool. Alternately, we're talking a quarter-century of inflicting some of the most self-indulgent, atonal art-wank ever unleashed upon an unsuspecting public.
It's a tough call, kids. So we've left it to two of our finest hacks to duke it out in an epic battle of who gives a shit. Let the battle begin.
Sonic Youth
Wed., June14, 8pm. Sold out. With Be Your Own Pet. Starlight Ballroom, 460 N. Ninth St. 215.769.1530.
www.r5productions.com
By Steven Wells
swells@philadelphiaweekly.com
Every music hack worth his salt leaves in his wake legions of spittingly furious fans of shit bands-like the stout lad who shouted out my name while I sat on a tube train. I looked up, smiled, waved. Fatty stood on the opposite platform, pointed to a CD of U2's greatest hits, and roared, "Cunt!"
The shittier the band, the madder the fans. So it should be no surprise that, despite the fanatical attentions of Travis, Morrissey, Stereophonics, Pixies and Belle and Sebastian partisans, hell hath no fury like a Sonic Youth fan scorned.
I once wrote a review that stated the utterly irrefutable fact that Sonic Youth are rubbish. It was like firing a flare gun into a rainforest canopy jam packed with psychotic howler monkeys. Even now, years later, they gibber and froth and toss their fecal matter in my general direction. This might lead one to conclude that Sonic Youth are in fact the shittest band ever. And one would be right.
My first encounter with SY came when the skinny Nietzsche-quoting, bleach blond, black-clad skinny lad who fancied himself the New Musical Express office intellectual reverently placed one of their LPs on the communal turntable.
"This has no tunes," I said.
"It's punk, you deaf bastard!" sneered the po-mo ponce.
"And yet it also lacks polemic, originality, wit, dynamic or indeed anything to suggest this isn't muzak churned out by aliens who, having studied the popular music of earth, reveal themselves as soulless replicant automatons through their inability to recreate an even vaguely passable pastiche. Aaaarghl Fuck! Stop stabbing me!"
For it was then that poodle-boy attacked me with a letter opener. The war has continued ever since.
Sonic Youth are a sacred cow dressed in the emperor's new clothes. They simply put out almost impossibly bad album after impossibly bad album, and are worshipped for it by a vast army of aesthetically insane poltroons.
I once concocted a theory that Der Yoof are in fact session musicians in the employ of some sinister avantgarde musical genius who instructed them to make "alternative" rock music that lacks all the characteristics that distinguish "alternative" rock music from, say, wallpaper paste. But that would just be too interesting.
I met Sonic Youth once. Thurston Moore turned out to be a smug prick. Being a smug prick myself, we got on well.
We argued about art. I pushed social surrealism as an alternative to the tired old ploy of repeating Duchamp's urinal gag again and again.
He looked confused, and said I was insane. At which point I realized I was dealing with an intellectual fetus.
Summarizing the encounter, I wrote that not only was all Sonic Youth's music rubbish, but they were old and smelled of piss. Several thousand finger-sniffing fanatics screamed "Blasphemy!" I've been on the run ever since.
By Brian McManus
bmcmanus@philadelphiaweekly.com
All right. All right.
Are you finished, you old British coot? Sheesh. With all the spittle and fury you've set aside for Thurston and the gang, you'd think Sonic Youth danced the jig on Princess Di's grave, or worse, invented socialized dentistry.
Your thoughts about them are so terribly misguided and poorly informed, I hardly know where to start. Or if I even need to, since you seem perfectly willing to choke on a hairball made of your own snap judgment.
Ah, I'm no doubt sounding like your skinny, bleach blond chum back at the NME office. Let's keep this reasonably civil and take it point by point.
So mega-fans of Sonic Youth are annoying. No shit. What band doesn't claim annoying fans?
But just as I don't hold Jimmy Page responsible for every guitar-teching milquetoast dweeb who's ever fancied himself a glorious soloist, I don't blame Sonic Youth for the tiny bit of their fan base who seem intent on overintellectualizing them.
Why let those asswipes color your entire perspective on the band? The people still condemning Sonic Youth with the "noise band" noose haven't paid attention to them since '85's Gila Monster Jamboree. Some of their music today is downright ethereal.
No tunes? What about "Catholic Block," "Wish Fulfillment" and most obviously, "Teenage Riot," to name just three? Those are, if you'll allow me to don your bowler for a sentence, some solid bangers, mate. Downright hummable, even.
Sonic Youth are true mavericks, innovators and pioneers. Name another band that's been around as long without having to sacrifice an ounce of their integrity or creativity.
They practically wrote the book on how to both succeed on an independent level and deal with a major label. Hell, Geffen is practically their bitch.
And this is all on top of the band's influence, the scope and depth of which is too huge to get into here.
It's fitting that you hate SY, Steven. It wouldn't seem right otherwise. If it were up to you and your pop puppets, every song ever written would sound like a goddamn commercial jingle.
"I Feel Like Chicken Tonight" would be high art so long as they threw in the word "cunt." Such narrow-mindedness should be the calling card of the soulless bean counters who run major music, not those who write about it.
Copyright Philadelphia Weekly Jun 7-Jun 13, 2006
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