PATH OF WELLNESS
6/11/2021
I'm so old, I remember when AIDS meant the ruination of sex.
I'm so young, I remember when technology meant the ruination of music.
Sometimes I like to act as though I were just born yesterday.
Sometimes I like to act as though I've been here forever.
A new Sleater-Kinney record makes me happy as a horny hare.
Lion and lamb, looking to curry favor from the main attraction.
1-2-3, stop counting, not the point.
"As-is" or "as-you-were." This ain't no Sheetz, this ain't no Chipotle, this ain't no life in the round.
"Path Of Wellness"--Wherein the "you" isn't up for debate. Thoughts (hopes, fears) that Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker would rush back to the tried and true are squashed, pretty quick. This isn't: what came before, nor is it what came before that. This is: cutting up dynamite sticks like boiled carrots.
"High In The Grass"--Queen Harvest time!
"It's what we want to do."
Pointless joy is always in season. Corin's vocal game, like her hair game, never calls a timeout. Disappointed fans, do well by discovering the new ways the ladies play off one another in songs these days.
"Makes no sense to you."
The intro is Homer bursting into Bart's bedroom with fresh brownies.
"Worry With You"--First single. Stealthily creative. Pandemic life demands one new wonder for every new worry. Glue rocks together. Tear the fridge apart. Update your goddamn Goodreads.
"Method"--Carrie's more "me/I," Corin's more "we/us," and of course the line separating precious and pretentious wobbles with every note.
"Shadow Town"--How could any S-K fan not fuck with "Shadow Town"? Hot Rock rendezvous with No Cities To Love, it's a quarter to midnight and Ray Bradbury is cobbling together the last few paragraphs of his latest killer story involved a supposedly-interred local legend.
Run a 5K five days a week for five weeks, and lose both baby toenails in the process, that's what's happening here. The siren blare, the shadow of imminent impact, it's here, and it's at once.
"Favorite Neighbor"--Stone-throwers, your 9:35 is here. Another angle to exploit, doesn't it start to stink after awhile? Do yourself a solid, kill your idols and order a Ledo's sub. Or save money and OD on butter. Try and matter, you'd do no better.
"Tomorrow's Grave"--Reminds me of those mornings I can't decide what Snoopy shirt to wear 'cause they're all so awesome. So instead I throw on the armor of slain gods, one piece for each pound of flesh.
"No Knives"--You know, how kids eat.
Initially the album intro, and essentially two women letting everyone know the "never let 'em see you sweat" credo is kinda bullshit. Another day of the kitchen. No paunch to pat here. Everybody happy? Bye bye, good night.
"Complex Favorite Characters"--Pitchfork's 6.8 review laments the lack of "bleary-eyed rage." Where oh where the songs that make us want to strike brick walls, and spit in stranger's faces? What's the appeal of a punch anyway?
Suck it up and hold it in, 'cause letting it out is bad. Especially if women do the shit. (Why is it so irritating when we do the shit?) Ease up, please. Enough of women catching blame we don't deserve. Incels exist because women won't lower their standards? The entire human race exists only because women lower their standards! Sleater-Kinney don't sound angry enough anymore, the riffs are rollicking, the beats aren't organ-shifting, the screams aren't squirm-inducing...in other words, they aren't borrowing as much from the well marked "masculine moves," so they're suddenly lesser than. That's the gist, yes? Introspection, inhibition, these are bad things, or if not bad, inferior to the other options.
Point being, for all her thesaurus-taunting self-dissection, Carrie lands upon the lyric of the land.
"You can't escape my imagination."
Oh no, it's true.
"Down The Line"--It's in all in my heart. Katie Harkin's all heart, hear her here. A minuscule pickle lost amid fat leafs of lettuce, daunting circles of fried onion and a tomato wheel. Placates my stomach, anyway.
"Bring Mercy"--Heartfelt, so you know it's Corin. She's the owl and the tree, wise as fuck. What falls, rises. What rages, rests. What lives, dies. Questions are only as valuable as the answers they inspire, and even the silliest query is less of a time-waster than weaponizing your entitlement.
Twenty-six years in/on/of, old enough and still too young.
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