Consider this blog post a plea to the former members of Chicago’s greatest hardcore/post-punk/post-rock/jazz band ever, Alex Dunham, Scott Adamson, Craig Ackerman, and Fred Erskine. I have so many questions about this record that need to be answered. I want to know what the hell this album means. I want to know why I can’t stop listening to it, why I’ve literally gone through a dozen CDs over the course of the past five years — though I’m sure several periods of multiple daily listens and giving friends my copies probably answers that — why I keep returning to it. There’s a story here, I think, that needs to be told. Why wasn’t anything recorded after this? Could the simple addition of Erskine magically transform an already fantastic group (see: 2001’s eponymous recording) into something that transcended all the aforementioned genres? Like the transition from Tweez to Spiderland, the transition from Abilene to Two Guns, Twin Arrows defies all logic in the best of ways. Abilene, hear my call. Get in touch. We have much to discuss.
Two Guns, Twin Arrows was released by 54-40 Or Fight back in 2002, and it still resonates with its most devout fans nearly a decade later. Who knows how many others there are like myself out there, who continue to return to this record to attempt the seemingly impossible: analyze the component elements and reach the core of the record’s eight songs. What. The. Fuck.
It opens with “Twisting The Trinity,” all minimalist dirty guitar chops and disjointed drumming tied together by Erskine’s trumpet. A voice, semi-whispering, “Cover saves no loyalty / Twisting on the Trinity / Holy sons have fallen away / Hold on to no decency.” Huh? “Blanc Fixe” rolls in, math-y and angular with its steady bass riff and ascending guitar lead before spiraling into what can only be described as a fuzzed-out mariachi refrain. Surely the middle section of this song is what Sketches Of Spain would have sounded like had Miles held off for forty years (surviving longer than expected, of course), reacted against grunge and alternative rock, and entrenched himself in the Chicago scene? All signs point to “Evan what the hell are you talking about?”
It is the trio of “Fitch,” “Ghost Writer” and “Fellini” that defines this album. It is the heart of the record. Surely if there is a message to be delivered to listeners this is where it lays. The subject of the first track is greeted with ample…what is that? Disdain? Devotion? Each time you hear that guttural cry, “Fitch” you wonder who this character is. Why does the singer sound like he’s uttering the name with his last dying breath each time he intones “Fitch” “Who ate his arms off in days of trial / Through decadence and weeks gone by / he hates his harmful eyes in night’s denial.” The drums slowly disappear, the singer — accompanied only by a reverb-drenched, overdriven guitar — informs us that Fitch took his life. And upon this realization, the drums and trumpet reappear for a dirge-y, shambolic outro. Again, What? “Ghost Writer” is a haunting instrumental that would sound woefully out of place on your typical post-punk record. The drums are near-silent, the guitars — again drenched in reverb — play two beautiful counter-melodies. And then “Fellini,” the album’s most overtly aggressive track, screaming and distorted and yet still somehow restrained. “Your motives have broken my back.” “Go to hell to hide.” Nowhere else on the album does the juxtaposition of trumpet to this style of music sound more perfect.
There are three remaining songs on the album, but somehow “Fellini” feels like the true end, and the final tracks are just the sad aftermath. “Apache County,” is a somber jazzy number that concludes with the phrase “I miss you,” which most likely isn’t meant to sound so Slint-ian, but who the hell knows. Could it be an homage to that group’s legendary “Good Morning Captain?” Probably not. The penultimate tune, “Phase Four,” picks up the pace a bit, but not to the extent of any of the preceding tracks. Brooding, dark, now introducing electronic elements, it seems a bit out of place. It is no less intense, no less dire, it’s ambient aspects simply don’t mesh with the rest of the record. The final song, “Solidarity” stretches for two minutes before the vocals begin. Here two voices, Erskine’s and Dunham’s, ask that a “patriot start selling a hollow unity.” Is it a political statement? I really don’t know. The album was released in 2002, maybe this was a reaction to the War on Terror or 9/11. It’s hard to say. That’s the last line of the album and, like every other line on the album, I want to know what the hell it all means.
I’ve scoured the Internet in search of answers but I have yet to find any. I’m generally weary of lavishly or generously throwing out words like “masterpiece,” but Two Guns, Twin Arrows is a fascinating and unique album that is — at least to my ears — entirely different from anything else released during this last decade. It’s post-rock in a way I think fits with how the term was originally conceived: unusual time signatures, minimalist instrumentation, dramatic dynamic shifts, and a combination of sung, screamed and spoken lyrics. There’s so much agony in Dunham’s visceral vocal delivery, so much bleak imagery in the lyrics (it feels like every song includes at least one reference to “black” or “night”), so much unease in the cacophonous and sparse music that it’s unsettling. And oh, do I love unsettling music. Okay…Two Guns, Twin Arrows is a masterpiece. There, I said it. Agree with me or don’t, my mind is made up. Now I just want to find out the answers to all my questions.
Abilene
Two Guns, Twin Arrows
54-40 Or Fight, 2002
MediaFire DL Link
01. Twisting The Trinity
02. Blanc Fixe
03. Fitch
04. Ghost Writer
05. Fellini
06. Apache County
07. Phase Four
08. Solidarity
