I’ve been a fan of Unwound since 1993 when Fake Train rocked my post-punk world like Nirvana could have but didn’t, and Fugazi used to but wouldn’t. Like Fugazi, these formerly concise rockers have stretched out into increasingly abstract instrumental noodling, the vocals more obtuse and buried. Just like the post-punkers before them, these indie rockers secretly want to be King Crimson. Unwound’s evolution seems to have coincided with the rise of “math rock,” sometimes meaning interesting experimenting with time signatures, other times just ripping off Slint, Bitch Magnet and Drive Like Jehu. Unwound still makes the cut because they are passionate, and they are one of the best at what they do. They have done a fine job in progressing from album to album, but are teetering close to edge of boring on this album. After six albums, one can’t blame a band for continuing to stretch out and experiment. But to my ears, the touches of horns and harmonium are merely cosmetic. The album is a decent bookend to a great body of work. But I can’t help but hope for better.
January 13, 1998 by A.S. Van Dorston
