Don't be misled by the band's name, Galaxie 500, in perfect 1980s synth-pop style, and don't pay too much attention to the album's title either, "On Fire," as you won't find any sonic blaze. If you're looking for a clue, you might want to note their origin, Boston, contemporaries and fellow citizens of the Pixies.
"On Fire" is the album of artistic consecration for these three now former youths, who, after graduating from Harvard, sparked a small revolution by going back to basics—as always in rock history—with a bass, a guitar, and a drum. The album reveals itself upon first listening, hiding no secrets in its simplicity, with three chords per song played without any particular quirks, a bass weaving melodies, a drum soft as a cloud carpet upon which a dazed and dreamy voice cradles.
The predominant mood is one of melancholy and intimacy, tracks with weak shades and unclear contours, with a repetitiveness and slowness with a typically psychedelic flavor.
It is the kind of album one can sink into, wrapped in the liquid and expansive emotions of Tell Me or Snowstorm, where the wah-wah and New Zealander Wareham's falsetto seem to evoke the nostalgia of a dream that's now vanished, then make way for the distorted insistence of When Will You Come Home, or the sax-flavored alienation of Decomposing Trees. There's even room for a tribute to George Harrison with Isn't It A Pity to close the album, so deeply internalized that it seems a natural outlet of the previous tracks.
Many will give credit to Galaxie 500, artistic fathers of slowcore and shoegazer, genres that will see much recognition in the '90s, with bands like Slowdive, Low, Codeine, and others. However, they are no more; Galaxie 500 ceased to exist after only 5 years in 1991 due to profound misunderstandings and personal differences. Dean Wareham would go on to form Luna, while Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang would continue to play together, with Kramer (the historic producer) often appearing in both new projects.
It's a pity, we know that for every galaxy that disappears, the universe becomes a bit poorer... at least we are left with this indelible photo.
"All that remains of the fire are its ashes, the smell of smoke."
"That bloodless and stern voice, a ghost wandering among precarious and creaking harmonies that seem like they might fall apart if looked at a little more closely."
This “whining” is indispensable to me because in this record... are all my weaknesses, my insecurities, melancholy, sadness, my adolescence and youth.
We must prepare to prevent the transition from happening in catastrophe, and only aware individuals who understand the situation will be able to defend themselves.