Ten years past the end of Sonic Youth, Lee Ranaldo takes the stage at a low key festival in northern New England with just a couple of guitars and a few microphones. He strikes a note, hard, on an aging acoustic, cocks his head a little, and seems to contemplate that reverberating sound. From an iPhone lying on a stool next to him, the sounds of urban life flicker—an indistinct voice, some running water, the sounds of faraway traffic.
A few days after the concert, we connect by phone to talk about Ranaldo’s experience of the pandemic, how . . .
Only the good shit. Aquarium Drunkard is powered by its patrons. Keep the servers humming and help us continue doing it by pledging your support.
To continue reading, become a member or log in.
