Shellac, Excellent Italian Greyhound (Touch And Go)

Oh yes, there was that time I went to the Shellac ATP…when was that?  2002?  Five years ago?  Wow, the spider-legged freak dog that is the whippet of time really is racing off round the track these days, nose hard pressed to the hare’s bum, ears flapping like a pair of winning betting slips being presented to the bookie by a gleefully giddy old man.  I’m just looking back at the line-up now, and I swear to god I don’t remember of those bands.  Which is kind of where I was heading, before I got sidetracked by the dog thing – I didn’t see Shellac play once.  Not for the want of them trying though – they were playing every day, and putting themselves on first so as not to clash with…ummm, all those other bands I don’t remember seeing.  It kind of felt like they were trying too hard.  I felt a bit bossed around really, like I was somehow obliged to go and see them, and I didn’t like it.  Stupid, yeah, I know.  Those same feelings kinda extended to their records – clearly a lot of effort went into them, and I appreciated the drumming, and I appreciated the guitars made out of corrugated iron and nails, but it all felt a bit too worthy and left me slightly cold. 

But I did see them the year after.  I think someone must have tricked me into it, probably had me following a piece of shiny paper to the venue (damned magpie hypnosis!).  And Shellac did a song about the end of radio, shouting “is this thing on?” at a microphone which to me at least was rather obviously on, a song which may have just been about the creep of mind-numbing commercial radio, but seemed to have another meaning, maybe something about a disconnection between the artist and listener…between me and them.  Was I hearing them now?  What about NOW?   The song’s incredible tension bounced a loose screw into place for me, and I began to see something about what make people so devoted to a band whose record release cycle is so gappy that they have even now gone as far as to name an album in tribute to the whippet of time itself.

 

And, speaking both as a late convert and a canine-fixated fool, it is rather fine indeed.  The feline-fixated amongst you – this means you, kittypants – can purchase from Boomkat.