For many years, Sleater-Kinney have acted as a byword for a certain set of indie underground values. Melodies come taut and angular (more pointed determination than art rockin' punk funk). Lyrics adhere to stern personal and gender politics. Hairstyles remain bobbed, perhaps with the aid of a hairclip. With Le Tigre being far too enamoured of day glo disco fun to be considered purists, S-K have emerged as the most visible keepers of the faith.
But seven albums down the line, and their point comprehensively proven by genuine classics like "All Hands On The Bad One", the trio have decided it's time for a change. And much like Low before them, that change is to go rock. Those indie underground values remain, of course, but warped slightly. Melodies now arrive drenched in heavy fuzz. Lyrics find more oblique ways to make the same points while reserving the right to spit pure bile every now and then. And those hairstyles now give The Donnas a run for their money in the grown-out feathercut stakes. If S-K's purism was perhaps as much of a prison as a source of strength and identity, then that problem is long, long gone.
And, my God, but the change suits them. Corin Tucker's vocals still sound like they could strip paint at twenty paces, her righteous howl still one of the most uniquely exhilarating/terrifying things in rock. And the high-speed interchange between Tucker and guitar goddess Carrie Brownstein's voices still fires a stunning momentum. But there's a looseness and a love of sheer, bone rattling rock noise that suggests they've been overdosing on PJ Harvey, Hole, Patti Smith and anyone else the ability to turn gut instinct into glorious cacophony.
Just watch Carrie as she strangles a truly evil sounding guitar solo from her, ahem, axe for "What's Mine Is Yours". A guitar solo! From S-K. Unthinkable. Just listen to Corin as she sneers at fashion victims on "Entertain", hissing "Where's the f*ck you?/Where's the black and blue!" And brace yourselves, friends, for "Let's Call It Love", eleven plus minutes of self-indulgent riffing, grandiose intricacies, and general prog-punk stop-starting that should sound like a band finally fiddling themselves into irrelevancy but actually turns out to be a thrilling, genre-decimating ride.
This could have been a disaster, of course, the long term fans walking out in disgust. But disbelief soon gives away to delight tonight. You'd never have thought S-K would pull a trick like this at this point in their career. Which makes it all the sweeter. Truly astonishing.
