I took this long and fairly zany trip last year. Wow, good guess! It was my post-college "oh fuck, what now" trip. During the course of travel, my itinerary morphed into something that bore absolutely no resemblance to The Plan; I wound up spending most of my time in the Middle East, OD'ing on hummus and crapping gravy. For one senseless reason or another, I refused to rid myself of the ludicrously heavy Europe On a Shoestring book I'd so thoughtfully packed-- a book I felt like such a joke for owning when I became aware that every directionless twenty-something traveler was scripting their grand adventures by the same corny tome.

Regardless, I kept it. A few weeks after coming home to Florida, I was leafing through it, reading up on countries I didn't and never intend to visit, when I came to the chapter on Iceland. I skimmed until I got to the part about what passes for Icelandic cuisine. It turns out it's a hardcore delicacy over there to eat shark meat that's been buried in gravel and left to putrefy for a few months. No joke. (Hey, champ, it's okay if you wanna rethink that Björk make-out fantasy).

In a roundabout way, this brings me to Unwound's A Single History 1991-1997. But first, allow me to let you in on a little Pitchfork secret: we like to keep things fresh around here, just for you. We've noticed that releases older than a few months tend to go stale, or sprout furry and noxious fungi, or start to smell aggressively rank. Like shark carrion.

Naturally, it was with trepidation that I put A Single History in the CD player with intent to review it. See, I bought this album a full year ago; as in 1999; as in before both "Y2K bug" and that swell Prince song fell into sad, dusty obsolescence. Before this week, I'd listened to this disc a grand total of one time the whole way through. In 1999. I must not have been particularly impressed with that first listen, seeing as how I let it sit there until, basically, today. And I really, really love Unwound. Like "please call me if you need an organ transplant" love. The fact their last full-length came out in early '98 causes me actual grief.

But after a whole year's time, much as I dig the band, I can't say my take on this disc has changed at all. It has neither aged well a la Icelandic fish rot, nor has it really dropped in my esteem. Nope. This one's got shelf life. That isn't a compliment.

The tracks on A Single History were all previously released as singles or on compilations, and the general guideline applies: if you're fiendishly into Unwound, you'll want this sort of thing in your collection. But to the unfamiliar, I say steer clear. These songs span Unwound's career, from 1991 to 1997. The earlier stuff that pre-dates Sara Lund's induction to the band is, with the exception of "Caterpillar" and "Stumbling Block," belligerent, angst-ridden, and instantly forgettable. Pin that on original skins-man Brandt Sandeno, an energetic but mind-numbingly uninteresting drummer.

The later material is a frustratingly mixed bag. First, the bright side. The lead-off track, "Mile Me Deaf," was recorded around the time of Repetition, and is one more example of what makes this band incredible; it managing to balance being painfully jagged yet dancy and sing-songy at the same time. Other standout tracks include "Mkultra," (New Plastic Ideas-era), "Seen Not Heard" (circa Fake Train), and "Census," which features the same musical base later utilized on Repetition's "Sensible." Only here, with the addition of Dustin the Roadie's trombone, it comes off like Dixieland music from hell and/or space.

The award for Best Title, Most Interesting, but also Most Irritating goes to the second-to-last track, "The Light at the End of the Tunnel is a Train." This is a sadistically long, super-atmospheric, effected-out, medley kind of song that aims high but never quite gets the shot off. After an endless expanse of jungle drums, things quiet down for a bit until the addition of looped samples from Repetition's "No tech" and New Plastic Ideas' "All Souls Day." Over all this, the jokesters play an answering machine message of a hippie-sounding guy rambling on about a music/mediation retreat in this horrible pseudo-ethnomusicology kind of way. You know. Just, for like, kicks. It reads funnier than it actually is, believe me.

I can't say I'd rather eat decomposed fish than listen to this, but neither could I much recommend it. If you pray at the pew of Unwound and can't wait the five months until their next release, go for it. For my part, I think I might just stash this one away and check in again a year from now. Maybe it'll have gained some flavor.

-Camilo Arturo Leslie