Aural Aggravation

Christopher Nosnibor

I arrived at University in York in September 1994 with around £700 of savings. Even then, it wasn’t a lot, and I blew the majority of it on vinyl in my first term. A friend back home wrote to me (yes, we had to wrote letters then) with some recommendations, and the list included the newly-released Shellac debut album. It’s one of the few albums I’ve had to buy a second time not because of a reissue with bonus tracks or a remastering, but because I managed to wear it so hard.

I remember walking into the record shop near work and spotting it behind the counter. I said ‘New Shellac album?’ and the woman behind the counter asked if I wanted the vinyl or CD. Obviously, I said vinyl, and she beamed and said the CD came with the vinyl anyway. I was overdrawn, and went another £11.99 overdrawn, but it was still a bargain.

These albums have been significant features in the soundtrack of my adult life, and I consider Steve Albini and Shellac as a band are inspirational in many respects. If you want to know how to operate as a band – a vinyl-selling band – in the 21st century, they’ve got the operating model nailed: build your own kit, load and unload your own gear, concentrate on technique and sound over anything showy. Work the band around the day-jobs. Keep everything that can be kept in-house in-house: it’s paying everyone else to do stuff that renders most bands ultimately unviable. Oh, and no guest-list.

And the state of their gear is something: Steve and Bob’s guitars aren’t only worn to the wood but have massive gouges out of them, and Todd’s snare is edged with rust. They travel with a surprisingly compact backline, too, especially considering the colossal racket they kick out.

Anyway: it’s the night after half the population experienced a devastating blow to everything they believe in as fridge-hiding racist posho Boris Johnson led the Conservatives to an overwhelming majority in the election that put paid to any hope of remaining in the EU, of keeping the NHS intact, or restoring any sense of humanity to daily existence in an increasingly harsh world. It means ‘m not alone in seeing tonight as a source of solace: what better way to forget the world for a bit that with some mighty musical immersion in the best venue on the planet? The Brudenell always feels like home, and the fact Shellac keep coming back whenever they visit our sorry shores speaks volumes.

Having opened for Shellac on this UK tour, tonight sees Beige Palace back in front of a home crowd. It’s probably something of a relief following the mixed reception they’ve had. If the on-line criticism has bothered them, they’re not letting on, and good on them: they’re not instantly accessible or easy on the ear, and that’s every reason to like them, and also every reason why they’re a good fit on tonight’s bill.

Beige Palace

There’s also a certain personal pride here: having been present at their first performance back in 2016, I reported that ‘Beige Palace make sparse-sounding music that’s jarring, dissonant and hints at a clash between early Pram and No Wave angularity.’ They still do, only now, instead of playing to 25 people in a poky DIY venue on an industrial estate, they’re supporting Shellac in front of a good 300 people.

Shellac don’t piss about, and crash straight in with the thunderous rhythm section and scratchy guitars, and while they may not play any of the fan favourites (At Action Park is represented solely by ‘A Minute’ and ‘Squirrel Song’, which gets an early airing is the only song from 1000 Hurts, meaning no ‘Prayer to God’ or ‘My Black Ass’ or ‘The Admiral’), they nevertheless deliver a set that slays from beginning to end, with ‘Dude Incredible’ and ‘Wingwalker’ (with an extended narrative forming the mid-section) being obvious back-catalogue standouts. It almost goes without saying that they’re as tight as fuck, loud as fuck, and an absolute joy to watch – and the chat, when it happens, is sharp, witty and entertaining.

Shellac

‘Scrappers’, delivered alongside a long, rambling introduction that becomes the first of the evening’s interactive sessions, is one of a handful of new songs and again presents all of the best elements of the trio’s work in distilled form: a thunking, repetitive rhythm section and nagging stop/start guitar that bursts into sharding noise, and if it, ‘The Girl From Outside’ and ‘The World Series of Dick Sucking’ are representative, the next album will be an absolute blinder.

Shellac

Of course there’s no encore, and Bob Weston is plugging the new orange T-shirts he’ll be flogging from the boxes on stage next to his amp while Steve packs up afterwards. And that’s cool: encores are fake and half the time are about ego rather than anything. Yes, we want more, and we’ll always want mote. And that’s why we’ll be back next time.