by Chris Coplan (@CCoplan)
I don't want to say that we're on the verge of a '90s-flavored cultural cascade, but I will say if I hear any more Nirvana-inspired guitar lines, I'm going to eat my balled-up fists. I'm aware a lot of this stuff comes in waves — we're at a time when '90s art and politics are being rediscovered and repurposed accordingly by younger folks. Plus, that decade’s overt angst and disillusionment seem to be perfect for our current dumpster fire era.
The problem, then, is that it seems like bands/artists are mining the same ideas (dissonant guitars, slacker wail-singing, Dave Grohl's "I aped that from The Gap Band" drums, etc.) I want more nuance and variety, and to see artists pulling fresh energies and viscera from the past. I want the ‘90s as a living organism and not some monolith. I want to see more stuff like Crispy Crunchy Nothing.
That's the latest album from PACKS, the nom de guitare of Toronto DIY rocker Madeline Link. The fourteen song, thirty minute LP is clearly indebted to the larger ‘90s alt/indie rock movement, but it celebrates that lineage with a renewed sense of passion, efficiency, and inventiveness. There's certainly heaps of obvious inspirational fingerprints across the record, especially if you're consuming this on the surface level (which I'd totally advise — this record flows in a way that makes it perfect for parties, romantic entanglements, and eating a sandwich over the sink at 3 am).
That includes the lyrics — "4th of July" has this lyric that screams "1994" for some reason ("Eagles fly, catch themselves some dinner/Rivers dry and look so skinny"). Or the proper sonics, be it the Liz Phair saunter of "Abalone," the Superchunk-channeling vibes of "Not the Same," and an understated Hole rendition in "Smallest One." It is a record obsessed with distinct bands and sounds but more so this larger idea of the '90s as this existential entity.
Of course, the specific lyrical content feels hugely appropriate. It’s like a quarter-life crisis (without as much robust melodrama and cheese) as Link grapples with the beasts of doubt and listlessness to eke out some kind of path forward. In short, it’s this very ‘90s notion that we’re struggling for time just to get living. Yet all the mega-‘90s energy aside, it's still wholly unfair to say that Link and company are just another band obsessed with whatever that decade is and/or was culturally, politically, spiritually, etc. If anything, this record defines their efforts in the same vein as a Courtney Barnett — someone who touches on these ideas and energies but doesn't make a big deal about it.
"Dishwater," for instance, has some telltale slacker vibes, but Link commits to the "act" to make it land with far more depth and emotionality. "Late to the Festivities," meanwhile, plays with certain structures and tempos in a way that they capture this spark of '90s-adjacent, freewheeling experimentation. "Always Be a Kid" does some of the same — that alt-country vibe is no gimmick, and it really delivers an effectively somber mood. These represent decisions that check certain boxes, and yet are quick to leave behind the safety and shimmer of those hallowed grounds for something altogether inventive and playful.
A huge chunk of that process, in fact, is Link's dynamic role as songwriter, narrator, and protagonist (not necessarily in that order or conceptual value). "Brown Eyes" is another instance of how a little something new — Link's voice reaches daring heights (or is that lows?) of longing and anxiety — makes a massive difference. "Dishwater" is more indicative of her vocal performance across the LP, and even then it blurs ideas, energy levels, gender lines, and temporal positioning to feel like this perfect instrument of emotionality and storytelling.
The aforementioned "Abalone" and "Say My Name" couldn't be more different — the former's a spitball jam and the latter's a mournful ditty — but together they highlight the scope and nuance of Link's powers of performance and connective potential as the star of this indie rock off-Broadway production. It’s not that they’re necessarily the most dazzling things ever, but rather that a sense of presence is vital to informing how these "borrowed" aesthetics and nostalgic tendencies ring all the more true, organic, and essential.
It's when you look at how Link operates this record, and the decisions made, you get to the heart of why this record truly works: accessibility. The '90s were perhaps the very first time that we could all access rock stars in a genuinely significant way. Here, Link makes herself accessible in every conceivable fashion. As a musician exploring ideas for something earnest; as a person revealing themselves in a magically ordinary world; and as a voice for ideas of human connection, dismantling indecision, and finding a purer life.
Maybe all these ‘90s vibes are going to be a distraction, or maybe they’re the reason that some people come to the table in the first place. To a really noticeable extent, Link recognizes the "trap" that comes with being an artist and finding your own footing during this retro-tinged sea change. In response, this record actually tries honoring the past while moving forward, and embraces something fundamental while striving toward an ever uncertain future. Maybe the whole thing aligns with a moment (or two), and an ongoing obsession with nostalgic ego-stroking, but it's also just a dang fine record.