Sonic Youth nyc ghosts & flowers Geffen VH1 online review 5/00 At some point soon after 1964's epochal "A Love Supreme," saxophonist John Coltrane's rapid musical evolution began to leave many of his admirers behind. Its increasing freedom of length, freedom from any central melody, and freedom to rhythmically bend and flow at will tested the patience of even his most ardent (supposedly progressive) boosters, those who had supported his initial shift toward greater improvisational freedom. Making it even more beguiling was the fact that while Coltrane was throwing his old rule book away, his robust, fluid soprano and tenor tones could still be unmistakably identified. Many years later, Miles Davis would blame it on the acid. And what can those left behind by Sonic Youth's journey into sound cite as the cause of their heroes' hyper-drive out of their long-defined indie-rock stratosphere, leaving them in the alternative dust. Should they even bother? From the sheer holy terror of "Expressway to Yr Skull" and "Schizophrenia" more than a decade ago, through countless guest turns banging on distorted strings with downtown jazzbos and Far Eastern noise merchants, to covering two LPs' worth of modern classical compositions, the Youth never disguised the outward road they were on. If you were following the wrong signposts ... sorry, bub, you're sh*t outta luck. Nyc ghosts & flowers is the album on which the Youth happily drown in their "Diamond Sea," gladly overdose on "Hits of Sunshine," and knowingly wave goodbye to the 20th century by embracing the Big Apple's sonic-extremist word-perjurer post-beat-generation punk tradition. Following the footsteps of Coltrane, Ginsberg, the Dead, Television, and Patti, the Youth have gone looking for the interstellar on the inside. I'm pretty sure they don't give a damn whether you make the journey with 'em. Songs, per se, do not exist here; with a couple of exceptions, these are composition jams in the most beautiful sense, free verses adding imagery to the mix. The band softly intones lines, stretching out almost as soon as the music commences, allowing space to drift between the guitars, producer Jim O'Rourke's bass and electronics, and additional percussive textures, until the whole magillah either coalesces into the big bang or drifts on into silence. Exceptions: The two-part "Renegade Princess starts out as dissonant horror-film music, before forming like Voltron into a fierce punk ride a la "Silver Rocket"; and Kim Gordon's "Nevermind" is one of those dissonant yet hummable "tunes" she's been perfecting for a while. Otherwise, nyc stirs with the gorgeous waves of '95's Washing Machine and '98's Thousand Leaves, beating against the quiet shore of some faraway beach, rising like sonic beatitudes. As is natural with such high-falluting voyages, there are pockets of pretension lurking. At times, the spoken verses, try as they might to transcend, weigh the music down instead. But by the point you reach those ill associations, they will be no longer be a major distraction; you shall either be happily flying along or back on the ground blaming it on the acid. PIOTR ORLOV