I remember at the time thinking that these guys reminded me of Galaxie 500. No disrespect to that bunch, but what was I thinking?
Because Galaxie 500 was charming indie-rock with high points. Low is a constant high point, and they plumb way deeper depths with a lot less, even with the unavoidable connection of G500 veteran Kramer producing this particular album. I first encountered Low by chance a month before their debut came out, when they ended up playing a benefit show for our radio station by default -- well, maybe not a benefit, just a little celebratory thing. They stepped in at the last minute because they happened to be in town, and from the first song "Words," also the first song on this thing, I was rapt. I had to have that album when it came out. And behold, and they crashed on my floor for a night six months later too. Put them up when they come through your town again.
I shouldn't have been too surprised in retrospect when that show before they crashed on my floor they did a version of "Transmission" by Joy Division, but slowed down to a beautiful, narcotic pace, the guitar riff in Alan Sparhawk's hands becoming an ominous chime rather than a forceful snarl. There's something of that same beautiful space on this album, so call them an American Mogwai in semi-retrospect if you also like, in a way (Mogwai themselves worship Low, so I'm not far off). But there's no amped-up explosions here, more like strange cascades. So when "Words" floats along and then out of nowhere Mimi sings along with Al, the effect is a stunning blend of, well, so much with so less, as sort of indicated above.
John the bassist here has long since been replaced by Zak the bassist, but this is mostly Al and Mimi's show anyway. The way Mimi steadily drums, just so, just right, the way Al's guitar sneaks around the riff, the music, still carries it, the way their voices come together and contrast. The way everything slowly wants to sneak up on you like "Fear" or just ominously suggest a certain something like "Rope" or gently call attention to something, we know not what, on "Sea," say. It all automatically hushes you, like you can't talk or say anything, it's all very quiet, very just so. You need to listen closely, figure out what's next, an echo into nowhere (again that Joy Division detail, like if Martin Hannett decided that coming back from the dead was the right idea).
"Lullaby" is what clinches it, of course. I can't imagine any other band trying this, or coming close, actually. For the space of ten minutes, Low is the universe, and Al's guitar smashes it, a chorus of beauty and yearning and ache, something that for once finally makes you realize there's a bit of comforting hope in the mire, even when you weren't complaining too much when you came in the door and heard the opening note. You never want it to end, or even come close to slightly ending.
I was always tickled by the fact that they ended with a version of "Sunshine," as in "You Are My Sunshine." In its own wistful way, it is very right, is it not?