The opening licks on ‘Breadcrumb Trail’ do not imply the sprawling jam of ‘Spiderland,’ nor do they show any signs of its nocturnal ambience. This record flooded from the basement of a band not doing as well as they could, while playing with a pointed creative privilege. The introspection means that they cannot flail outwardly. While the vocal performance might register as threatening, it is soon exonerated as helplessness imprisoned in horror. Rage rarely has the thought to crystallize, but Slint’s instrumental and literal yells are paced with such unusually assured mindfulness. It ends, and we are left to consider a captain without a ship.
A favourite: ‘Good Morning, Captain’