| Nobody was taking notes any more when
Sebadoh finally reached the final station of its prolonged grind to
a halt; the only collapses that get documented are the ones that are
fun to watch. There was nothing fun about Sebadoh’s fade from
view. We had to hear from a bunch of self-congratulatory baggy-pants-clad
potheads rattling on about how behind-the-times guys with guitars
were; there was a Downs-and-Burchill didacticism to their sneering.
That this sneering was rhetorically indistinguishable from the posturing
of Santana or Yngwie fans pooh-poohing heavy metal -- well, this was
a point more irritating than comforting, and one entirely lost on
the wearers of the emperor’s
new clothes. Nor was it the case that the people who never wanted
to hear any more indie rock again -- ever -- didn’t have something
of a point; they did. In one sense, if we honestly want to hear exciting
new music, it is always already time to move on. |
