Look, I don’t like being pretentious. I’m no snob. I’m not one of these people who’s about to tell you that that thing you love is totally artistically bankrupt in comparison to my artist of choice, an avant-garde harsh-jazz pioneer whose output less resembles music than it does the sound of a buzzsaw being rammed through a xylophone. To put it another way; I like the Beatles. You understand me?
But what I do think is that, sometimes, the fan consensus about their favourite band’s greatest album is just plain wrong—and I can think of no better example of this phenomenon than with one of the best and most underrated indie bands of a generation, the inimitable Superchunk.
Generally speaking, a plurality of Superchunk fans would probably agree that the band’s best effort was their fourth outing, Foolish. And it certainly is a strong album, made all the more compelling by the fact that its subject matter is a breakup between two of the band members (frontman Mac McCaughan and bassist Laura Balance). But I believe that Foolish—exceptional record though it is—casts an unfair shadow over another, better Superchunk record, the band’s fifth release, Here’s Where The Strings Come In.
There are a wealth of fantastic, gushing, borderline sycophantic points I might make in defense of Strings, but the very first is one that requires some understanding of its context. Despite coming into being at the same time as—and being a major influence for many during—the 90’s alt-rock explosion, Superchunk never quite found themselves completely and firmly allied to any particular strand of it. Their first few albums made it clear they were more than capable of writing snotty, upbeat punk rock, but to mention them in the same breath as punk trailblazers like NOFX or Green Day doesn’t quite fit. At the same time, Superchunk had common ground with grunge and proto-grunge acts like the Pixies and Smashing Pumpkins via their dreamlike haze and droning, wall-of-sound guitars that also appeared in their songs; but to call them “grunge” hardly feels accurate either.
In the opening years of the decade, when North American indie rock was finding its form and beginning to more commercially flourish and “alternative rock” became a household phrase, this may not have been a terribly big deal. But, in 1994—the same year Foolish was released—lines were drawn, quickly and stubbornly. This was the year that saw the quadruple-whammy of Green Day’s Dookie, NOFX’s Punk In Drublic, Bad Religion’s Stranger Than Fiction, and The Offspring’s Smash, releases that heralded a definitive paradigm shift in guitar music toward an angsty, melodic, and (of course) pleasantly commercial kind of punk that would dominate until at least the early ’00s. At the same time, grunge had begun to fall to pieces; bands that were linchpins of the movement were breaking up, or becoming engulfed by internal politics.
What, then, was a band like Superchunk—sort-of punk, sort-of grunge, and sort-of indie as well—supposed to do? They straddled the divide with a fluidity and effortlessness that allowed them to avoid being both pigeonholed and properly understood by the presiding cultural framework.
Well, public thirst for one-third of their triumvirate was mounting rapidly. Had they been motivated purely by commercial success (even at the expense of authenticity), it wouldn’t have been a tall order for them to pursue it. Tracks from earlier albums like “Punch Me Harder” or “Flawless” demonstrated that thrashy, snotty punk was clearly within their wheelhouse. By the time 1995 rolled around, the parameters of the new world order had clearly been put in place. The question was, would Here’s Where The Strings Come In be an album that rejected, or embraced it?
As it turned out, the answer was both, and neither. Because Strings is one of the most powerful, thrilling, adrenaline-pumping, explosively emotive albums I have ever heard. It’s also one of the sweetest, most gentle, and delicate. It’s a gripping whirlwind of frenetic disorder and directionless passion; an album that sets out to prove that Superchunk could have written “Basket Case,” Green Day wouldn’t have written “Silver Leaf and Snowy Tears.”
It’s not just that Strings offers an impressive variation of songs; it’s that even the tracks on the heavier, more electrifying end of the spectrum have clear and vital elements of melody and delicacy that run concurrent to the thrashing angst and power—highlighting it, lifting it, but never muting or numbing it—and the same is true of the album’s softer tracks, whose twinkling serenity serves to reinforce—not restrict—the pulsing emotional reverberations that start crashing through this album right from the rollicking opener, “Hyper Enough,” and don’t settle down until the last note of triumphant closer, “Certain Stars,” has long since faded into nothingness.
Take “Iron On,” for example, a song whose choruses feature a huge, pounding drumbeat as the backdrop for a beautiful, cascading guitar riff, rising and falling with a captivatingly sweet simplicity over the robust, primal percussion. McCaughan’s vocals complete the picture as they sail between the two; “Will you send me a picture / So I can remember?” he asks, wrapping up the two strands of lightness and force with a question that itself is steeped in duality, offering both a celebration of the good times, and a terrible fear of forgetting them. The introduction to “Sunshine State” gives us a riff that’s mellow, understated, and yet composed of a firm, rhythmic thrumming that suggests a latent tension that comes to fruition later in the song with its climactic chorus. And “Detroit Has A Skyline”—probably the closest thing the record has to a cut-and-dry punk track—still has a gorgeous lead that shimmers and glistens on the periphery while a driving, distorted thunder takes centre stage, propelling the song forwards.
The ability to synthesise elegance and energy—vulnerability and power—together so perfectly is something that feels quite uniquely Superchunk, and is part of what makes the record so special. Strings could have seen an alt-rock band simply defaulting to alt-rock trends; instead, it is brimming with character. Every riff, every beat, every strum, every lyric, feels like it matters—that it means something—like it’s a message to somebody, somewhere. It’s impossible to listen to McCaughan’s reckless recollections like “We got so drunk that night / I hardly remember driving you home,” (“Iron On”), or his desperate begging to “Take my shaking hands” (“Sunshine State”) and not feel like he’s talking directly to someone with whom he has a sincere, almost frustrating compulsion to find connection with.
The fact that such sheer, ragged, vibrant emotional intensity can be sired from one of the most stripped-back set-ups in all of rock ‘n’ roll—two guitars, a bass, some drums, and some vocal cords—further adds to the astonishment. Indeed, I almost wonder if the album title itself is some kind of joke on that very point. Despite indicating the presence of, well, strings, Here’s Where The Strings Come In is conspicuously lacking in them. Absent is any sense of epic, orchestral climax; the album opts only for a heady mix of pummeling beats and power chords right up until the very end. No strings here.
It’s hard not to read into this. What does it all mean? Is it a snarky comment from the band on the nature of expectation and disappointment? Or a statement, declaring gritty, DIY music can be just as emotionally dazzling as anything from the classical pantheon? Or, is it a clever misdirection? After all, strings do feature quite prominently on this record. The guitar is a stringed instrument, isn’t it?
Ponder this if you will, but don’t bother searching for clarity, because there isn’t any. “Here’s the part where it all comes together,” McCaughan assures us on the album’s title track. “Either that, or it all falls apart.” Here’s Where The Strings Come In isn’t the kind of album that has any answers to give. It doesn’t have to; it would be disappointing if it did. Because, ultimately, it’s not a record that wants to tell you how to live—it’s far more interested in telling you how it feels to be alive.
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