Bleep

This math rock classic was almost lost to time. A recipient of the rare Pitchfork perfect 10 for its welcome remaster in 2014, the second album from Louisville’s Slint was shrouded in mystique when it dropped in 1991. With the band’s breakup prior to its release, Spiderland sought minimal press, but the album slowly built its web, creeping into success over the coming decades and inspiring countless bands in the post rock and post hardcore scenes. Its cult classic status was enough to reanimate the band for multiple reunion gigs, and bring their experimental rock legacy back into circulation.

Spiderland switches at will from abstract spoken word to screaming passion, all the while setting a benchmark for 90s rock and beyond with its complex instrumental arrangements. Produced by highly regarded studio man Brian Paulson, it was borne out of a reputedly difficult recording session, with band members allegedly being institutionalised along the way. As such it is a difficult work, yet leans into those feelings with its turbulent subject matter, making it no less enthralling more than three decades after its release.

‘Breadcrumb Trail’ starts with glittering harmonics in 7/4 time, a curious spoken word narrating from limbo, before distorted high pitched guitar tears through the track’s swaying veneer with stop start shreds. ‘Nosferatur Man’ lurches onwards, its deadpan vocals joining the rhythmic thrusts of strums and drums, its overdriven guitars charging through with a jagged pulse, then simmering down for the solemn whispers of ‘Don, Aman’, mythologising a lonely smoke break at odds with society as opposing guitars cause friction. The album constantly slips in and out of these tensions, most notably on ‘Washer’ with laconic passages pit against crashing peaks, while ‘Good Morning Captain’ tosses drum hits in all directions of its raging inferno.

The quality of Slint’s Spiderland ensures it will remain a central piece in post hardcore and math rock history.