We could pretty much call this the first album of the nineties, or at least one of the first, given that it was released in January 1990. And why not?
You knew this would work (didn't you?) when the first song, "Skin & Bones," kicked in and one of the lyrics was about "the dress I've been sick on." By that time the Sundays had already built up their Cocteaus/Smiths/Sugarcubes reputations via a single or two, but the big advantage from that line was an unexpected concreteness, something not merely a music press wank fantasy. A bit like what Arthur Lee was doing way back when when he sang "Oh, the snot on my pants has crystallized," with the same straightforward sweetness -- way different context, but still all works.
"Here's Where the Story Ends" pretty much had KROQ sewn up for the first few months of the first year there, and a great single it is, all David Gavurin's strumming rush and Harriet Wheeler's singing about the little souvenir from that terrible year. Again, I think that's the secret why they connected, to the point when by the time they toured again for Blind in 1993 they had about 3000 people at the show. Somebody was listening, and Wheeler just might have been the least affected, most precise lyricist out there; given criticism's miserable bent towards 'wordsmiths,' predominantly male, it's perhaps no wonder that she's been ignored, seen as too frivolous or 'pretty' even when coming up with lines about England's miserable weather and that 'desire's a terrible thing…but I rely on mine!' Capturing a perfect uncertainty was what "Can't Be Sure" was all about, knowing that the answer 'will come to me later,' but otherwise just riding with it now.
Gavurin turned out to be the perfect foil, perfect. Maybe the guy did listen to nothing but Johnny Marr fills and Robin Guthrie solos all day, but the biggest and best lesson he learned was not to play, to simply do what needed to be done without seeming rote about it. The rhythm section wasn't any slouch either, Paul Brindley on bass and Patrick Hannan on drums, polite but driving, restrained but not sleepy. And that's why "I Kicked a Boy" had a sweet waltz-like swing to it, why "I Won" had a great instrumental break with the simplest of guitar solos, almost not even there, why "My Finest Hour" surged and flowed, not mention capturing a perfect moment -- 'finding a pound on the underground,' the type of small triumph most of us end up with, or the near-equivalent. And then there's ending with the soft then (for them) loud "Joy," and what a fine way to bow out it was. No back-and-forth here -- just one big, notable change, fine and effective.
Prosaic and middle-class, I heard them called, but such complaints were motivated by jealousy. In a realm of over-the-top stupidity and silliness, the Sundays captured all sorts of perfect and imperfect moments with deftness and precision. More should wish they could be so spot-on.