“The revelation that you didn’t need formal training to start a band in 1977 and the realization that you don’t need to be Merce Cunningham to dance are one and the same.” - Ryan Schreiber, Pitchfork, 2003. 47 minutes. Two sides. A single spine jacket. Confident and deliberate. Lightning in a bottle. The Rapture’s Echoes was and is a clear-eyed kick in the teeth, a band at the peak of their powers and producers with an ambitious vision making. a. point. The whole “indie crowd finally learns to dance” narrative is overwrought and irrelevant in 2023 - perhaps context is no longer king - but what remains clear is that this album, made by a San Diego punk band who had moved to New York via Seattle, and produced by the DFA in their own studio, where time and gear and ideas both good and bad were aplenty, maintains an energy and search for catharsis that could bulldoze even the most uptight. For whatever reason, it’s remained out of print on vinyl since its initial run. (Don’t worry, though, there were a lot of CDR promos lying around.)
And now, with minimal pageantry, it’s back. Recut by Bob Weston, loud and clear.
