Steve Albini: The last genuine punk rocker

Steve Albini

     "That hits hard," a college classmate texted from Los Angeles. "Albini always seemed like someone who would be eating pancakes on our graves."
     When the paper called with the news that the influential Chicago sound engineer had died, at work, of a heart attack at 61, my reaction was shock, followed by doubt. Were they sure? Because faking his death, well, if anyone was going to do that...
     Yes, it was confirmed. Did I want to write his obituary? No. I hate writing obituaries for people I know — it seems like seizing their corpses and trying to dance with them. The highest tribute I could pay to Albini was not to presume to explain him, not to look through my keyhole perception, colored with nostalgia and affection, and pretend I had any special insight into his essence. Let someone who listened to Big Black for pleasure do that.
     Last August, Jeremy Gordon, writing in the Guardian, nailed Albini's complicated personality:

     Albini – and I can’t say this without it sounding a little silly because of the way the music industry has conspired for decades to sand off the edges of any once-transgressive cultural movement, but more on that later – is a genuine punk rocker. Not because he plays music with distorted guitars or exudes contempt for pretentious establishment figures – though he has done plenty of that – but because throughout his career he, perhaps more than anyone else, has attempted to embody the righteous ideological tenets that once made punk rock feel like a true alternative to the tired mainstream.

     Chicago musical historian Mark Guarino did a fine job encapsulating his life for WBEZ. 

     I had my swing at his life three years ago, reaching out during the long COVID slog. I'm not sure why — we hadn't communicated in 40 years. But I read a quote from him, and I missed his fearless intelligence — most people have nothing to say and, besides, would be too timid to say it if they did — and went to visit him at Electrical Audio, his Belmont Avenue studio, and then to lunch. 

     I ended up writing two pieces — the first, about his work as a sound engineer — he sneered at being called "a producer" — that ran on Labor Day. I deliberately did not mention that he had, his feelings notwithstanding, produced Nirvana's last album, because everybody cites that, prominently, and it was, I guess, either an attempt to honor his non-starstruck integrity, or just as a way of kissing up. The second, we discussed life and success and the future. I found him softened, kinder, humbler. There was much I left out — he's a professional poker player, and we discussed the high stakes poker scene in Chicago. I mentioned my former roommate, who had a band at college — they practice in our dorm room for a while — and he said some generous things about him, his music, and his brother's music.
     "You're not going to believe what Steve Albini said about you..." I told my friend, in the car leaving the interview. Albini cast a cold hard light that showed the ugliness of a lot of what passes for culture. But it could also warm the few he approved of. I won't claim that Steve Albini was a nice guy, though he could be kind — he probably wouldn't want me to say that. But it's true.