Unwound
Fake Train

I don't know where the urge came from to rummage through what people throw away. Maybe it was the disdain for people themselves, or perhaps the desire to never be proven right. We don’t look for beauty. Aesthetic concepts might have mattered in a world divided into castes by axioms. Here, we just seek the truth. Honest, non-nothing. Hyper-subjectivism that softens in the crafting of a momentary rightness. Collective subjectivism out the window, I don't feel strange.

Unwound take what they have and imprint it on a record. Stop creating masterpieces but be masterpieces, and so it was. You can’t pass by "Fake Train" with indifference because you feel that it pulses, that it’s alive. Maybe you don't understand what attracts you, whether the merging of the old Hardcore verb or the new post-rock that is unleashed in the world, but there's something. It moves. Now it’s here, later it's not. I can feel the heart in it, a massive heart, the heart of three kids from Olympia who really gave it their all until they sublimated their sensations in the least didactic way I can imagine.

"Fake Train" was brought to the world in 1993, by the hands of Kill Rock Star. Second album, first for the world. An obsessive concentrate of everything the American underground and beyond had produced, a starting point for the sound to come. Sonic Youth, Fugazi, Slint, Mission Of Burma, Black Flag, Joy Division, Wire, Gang Of Four, Velvet Underground, and many more for this record. All packed tight in a van to be driven around the world. I feel OKEI.

Forty-five minutes of absolute music that grabs and shakes you. The pure, hard Hardcore of "Gravity Slips" against the post-life-post-everything of the thirteen minutes of "Valentine Card-Kantina-Were, Are And Was Or Is"; the Evolian nightmare played by Unsane in "Star Splanged Hell"; the emotion of "Dragnalus" and the stop'n go of "Lucky Acid"; the journey from here to who knows where in "Nervous Energy"; all the imperfections of this world that create allure. Not a note, not a whiff of air imprinted on the tape that creates this album is out of place. Everything seems to have the gift of meaning. Everything makes sense.

1993: the world lends an ear to the cries imposed on Corgan, and Unwound play hide and seek. There is no better calling card. A crowd spreads out before an objective and three kids hidden under the table. The world is a very ugly place, populated by horrendous beings. The only ones, of those beings, that I like are the ones who do nothing to change it.