To All Trains

Album review

Shellac true believers, unlike fans of so many long-standing rock bands who tease reunions or putter around with different lineups, knew Steve Albini, Bob Weston and Todd Trainer would  return. We knew because they always did. It wasn't clockwork as there were no festival date announcements of new material or social media teases, no award show promises. There was merely a date handed out every few years to fans still standing and then, like magic, a record appeared. There was no celebration of the mighty return, just a simple three piece making another record—no guest stars or tribute albums. Albini's recent death was the only way to stop Shellac's inconsistently consistent release schedule.

The short opening blast of To All Trains offers an invocation: guitar repetition and a punchy, brilliant Weston bassline. Then Albini shouts one verse and offers a meditative call to action—"get that man a medal"—before an explosive, wordless chorus ends the song as quickly as it arrived.  It's classic Albini, offering sarcasm as a reward for dim-witted behavior. An unhinged rant awaits listeners around every corner, as if Albini were wearing rags and shouting about Jesus in a small-town square. Except instead of the popular Savior, we get heroes like "Scabby the Rat"—an inflatable animal that signals to union members that a business has hired replacement workers instead of coming to the table to negotiate. Scabby's personification is Shellac perfection; an IYKYK for folks who would never use the abbreviation.

As always, it's not just Albini who gets their licks in. Weston joins in the fun on a call-and-response, "Chick New Wave," while "How I Wrote How I Wrote Elastic Man (cock & bull)" offers a necessary break from Albini's scream-shouting. Truly, though, this is Albini's show, as he delivers lines from the perspective of ruling class dicks and broke losers alike on closer "I Don't Fear Hell": "If there's a heaven I hope they're having fun/ Because if there's a hell I'm gonna know everyone." He peppers these quasi-philosophical lines like corner stores in city limits. He knows they unlock absolutely nothing but a belief we are all brilliant idiots ruining our own cleverness.

The key, of course, is that the subjects of each tortured rant are given leeway to speak. This isn't therapy rock or causation for governmental overthrow, it's Shellac. It's meaning in meaninglessness; an invitation to top-of-lung decry the outlandish folks who speak for the enfranchised. So, rally up and place tongues firmly in cheek and speak-sing along to "Days Are Dogs." This brief record, an incredible reunification, will no longer come again unless the outtakes are released. Like with all things Shellac, we don't know anything about if/when that might happen. Their unspoken promise to do this once in a while forever has unexpectedly hit the brakes but here's what we know: To All Trains delivers. © Jeff Laughlin/Qobuz