Of all the things Albini ever did, I still find this the most astonishing and inspiring, the most out of step with our prevailing tendencies to commit to our convictions until we die with them in tow. Albini’s early invective was not far from that of the modern incel, really, but he realized it was not too late for the work it takes to change. He was not quiet about it, either, talking about his transformation like some punk-rock Tony Robbins. He knew he wasn’t the only one who needed some self-reflection.
I don’t want to give a false impression of the modern Albini as some shrinking violet, as someone too paralyzed of possibly offending anyone to say how he truly felt. He was a true pioneer of being a hater, naming names worthy of contempt in record reviews and foundational music industry screeds decades ago. And he remained, until his actual last day, one of the funniest motherfuckers on the planet, willing and able to lampoon anyone or anything he thought deserved it—Steely Dan, the Grateful Dead, Sphere, every politician, anyone who came at Chicago.
He could tell a screen-printing conference some jokes about jacking off to a Farrah Fawcett poster and make Bourdain chuckle at “jagoff” while wearing a Jaconuts T-shirt. When he overstepped, though, he was now able to apologize. If the opinion was sharp enough, he seemed to realize, his language needn’t offend to be effective. Albini often ridiculed nostalgia; he knew that to not grow was, in essence, to die.
Next week, Shellac will release To All Trains, presumably the long-brilliant band’s final album. A decade ago, not long before the trio issued Dude Incredible, Albini admitted just how much he loved playing with Bob Weston and Todd Trainer. “Being in Shellac is the single best thing that I get to do every year,” he told The Quietus. “But on a day-to-day business level, I’ve got bills to pay. I have responsibilities I have to uphold.” That is, he couldn’t just play. He had to work.
No one beyond Shellac’s inner circle has heard To All Trains yet. “There will be no advertisements, no press or radio promotion, no e-promotion, no promotional or review copies, no promotional gimmick items, and otherwise no free lunch,” the band wrote in the album’s March announcement. (They meant it, too; I asked several times.) That is perfect. After all the obituaries, tributes, and homilies that Albini might have mocked with some cutting quote-tweet have faded, what will remain is an album free of advanced promotional promises or expectations, captured over four years of long weekends at a studio built entirely by punk rockers. What will be left is the work, just like Albini would have wanted.