Photos: Erin Boland
I wish I’d found Sebadoh at the age of fourteen when I was wandering the streets of Pittsburgh feeling like a dejected Lou Barlow. While he was estranged from Dinosaur Jr, I had self-evacuated from my house as a rebellious runaway. Both of us looking for some sort of approval, “started smoking pot, thought things sounded better slow,” trying to escape the battle in our brains that told us to keep running, far far away from the disconnect and disapproval we perceived.
I wish I’d found Sebadoh three years later, curled up on a sweat-stained bed in a dingy basement apartment stoned out of my mind listening to The Swans’ “The Golden Boy that was Swallowed by the Sea” on repeat, goth phase in full force. I’m glad Barlow and Lowenstein found themselves in Sebadoh because they have made some damned good music.
Eventually, I found Sebadoh in waves. The music would creep into various corners of my life, playing in the background of some band crush I never clicked with because I didn’t latch onto the whole grunge thing. I liked Nirvana, but I didn’t dive much deeper than that. I didn’t have the luxury of an older sibling to introduce me to good music, and so I relied on friends to shove sounds at me as fast and furiously as they shoved 40’s at me. They gave me punk mixes, and eventually I found Nick Cave. But sometimes, I think “Freed Pig” would loop on a tape as we drove through the night at 3 AM, over hills and through back alleys, the “bare introspection framed in melody.” We drove aimlessly until the gas ran out or we found ourselves back where we started.
Standing in line waiting to see Sebadoh, the anticipation is palpable. A strange dude in front of me in line treats me like an old friend, as if he were in the backseat of that car when I was seventeen. “Are you excited, are you ready to ROCK?” he asks. We obviously share a bond. And now, I am faced with this mysterious band that always lurked on the sidelines.
The Black Cat is smoked in nostalgia, as if the ban had never been lifted, and a fog fills the room along with many local musicians, music lovers, and random geezers tugged at by the seduction of their former youth. I am rushing up the steps because Sebadoh have already started, my breath reeks of nachos and cheeseburger, and the upstairs is absolutely packed.
I wonder how I’m going find my friends, likely in the middle to absolute front row. I grab a beer and snake my way through the crowd to find them. Sebadoh are playing, and I am distracted. I start to wonder why I never did get into this band, as the psychedelic swirls, angular guitars, and self-aware introspection could have guided me through some tough times. Many of my friends seem to agree that they’re one of the greatest indie bands of all time. I get it. They fuse elements of psyche, punk, and folk into something that is all their own and are really quite inventive.
This music is making me introspective, and I’m not really in the moment, so I find myself drifting off. They seem like they are going through the motions. I’m not really connecting with them live. There’s a brooding darkness coming from Lowenstein that I find rather appealing, but Barlow keeps coming off as bored and kind of a dick, qualities I always found quite attractive in many ex-boyfriends. In fact, Barlow looks like my ex in ten years. Perhaps therein lies my disinterest? I get the whole cynical thing Barlow is trying to do, but the songs are starting to mesh into one long suburban whine.
Where is this disconnect coming from? I’m getting pretty drunk, and I’m not disliking what I’m hearing, but I’m not blown away. Perhaps I’m distracted because my best friend is visiting from Richmond. It’s not like me to talk through a performance; I’m usually the first to be up-front, center stage.
“Your postmodern folk-core saviors, Sebadoh” are not blowing my mind live right now. Is this because I don’t have that nostalgic connection? It’s not that I don’t like this band. I see the brilliance in many of the essentials: The Sebadoh, III, Bakesale, Harmancy, all of which I’ve given a good listen to. Maybe there are too many sound-a-likes at this point? My attention is peaked for a moment, when a couple thrash punk songs are played. Just when things start getting interesting, I’m lost again. I can’t even stay till the end. We leave before the encore, “searching for a reason, just like you.”
