Into the Woods With Sleater-Kinney

by editor Michele Catalano

I was introduced to Sleater-Kinney by my ex, who was a big fan. I’d heard of them, of course, but had never really listened. That all changed when my ex brought home a copy of the band’s The Woods. I became fixated on the album and Sleater-Kinnney. I did a deep dive through their catalog and spent a good portion of the next two weeks submerging myself in their music. They were one of the few bands my ex and I had in common at that point.

For me, The Woods is a vibrant, audacious album. It is so obvious they put everything they had into this. This was the band’s seventh album, and not only had they not become tired at this point, but I think this is the best they ever sounded. It had swagger. The opening note itself tells you everything you need to know about what’s coming. 

Ten years after The Woods came out, Sleater-Kinney burst back onto the scene with the critically acclaimed No Cities to Love. They were touring on the album, and there was no way we were going to miss this. We managed to get tickets, and I started counting down the days.

We got the tickets in October 2014. The show was the following February. That expanse of time would turn out to be my downfall. I had too much time to think about all the things that my generalized anxiety disorder would put into my head. The show was at Terminal 5, a place with the worst vibes of any venue. I would have to deal with a tight crowd, and with being away from home for many hours. These things may not seem like a lot, but for me, they were a big deal. My anxiety always kept me from doing things. 

I was determined to not fall prey to my brain this time. I kept listening to Sleater-Kinney albums, psyching myself up for the show. February seemed both too far away and too close. Every time I thought about it, I could feel the trickle of fear and panic making its way through my body. 

In 2015, we were living in an apartment in a family-owned house while we saved money to buy our own (we eventually bought the house we lived in). Things were going well enough. We had recently gone through a rough period; in 2013, my husband had relapsed after ten years of sobriety. He pulled himself together and quit again, but not before he lost his job. We were slowly climbing back from that ordeal in all ways: financially, emotionally, and physically for him. We had settled into a nice groove. He found a new job that he liked. We started going out again instead of spending our days in a basement apartment accompanied by the sound of beer cans opening. Life was okay. 

I listened to No Cities to Love a lot. But I listened to The Woods more because it was a comfort album for me, and I needed comfort. I was starting to feel the anxiety ramping up. I thought listening to my favorite album of theirs would soothe me, make me excited for the show, but I kept slipping into moments of “I can’t do this.”

December and January flew by. I no longer had the option to say that I had plenty of time to prepare mentally, because the date was rushing at us. And then my old friend dread showed up. Instead of eagerly anticipating what should have been a fun night, I started fearing it. I did not let my husband know. He was so excited for this show, his first concert since moving here from Californian in 2006, and his first major outing after getting sober again. I couldn’t let him down again (ask me about the Conan O’Brien Show drama). I tried talking myself up. I tried meditating on it. I figured I would have to just suck it up and go. I’d take a Xanax beforehand, and it would be okay.

“I’m going to have a beer at the show.” He announced this to me matter-of-factly the morning of. I stood there with my mouth open. Why? Why would he do this? 

“It’s just one beer,” he laughed when I expressed my dismay. He was a person of excess. There was no way he was going to drink just one beer. I begged him to reverse this decision. He would not give in. I went into the living room, put on The Woods and cried. I had been inching toward backing out of going. I just had to find a way to tell him. But this put an entirely new spin on the problem.

My anxiety was at an all-time high. My hands were shaking, my head hurt, I was short of breath. Panic-attack city.  We definitely could not go. We would stay home and not drink and not spiral into alcoholism again. We would play it safe. I took a Xanax and approached him.

As you can imagine, the reaction was not great when I told him I couldn’t go. I explained the situation clearly. I didn’t blame him, didn’t even mention the beer. I just told him that I was in the middle of a panic situation, and the thought of being in Terminal 5 in this condition was out of the question. He told me he was really disappointed. Not at the situation. He was disappointed in me. He grabbed his car keys and left the house. 

I didn’t know where he was going. I had the tickets, so he wasn’t going by himself. But of course I knew where he was going. He was going to get that beer, one way or another. 

I sat on the couch, sobbing and shaking. Then I did the only thing I could think to do. I put on The Woods, again.

I listened deliberately, taking in each song as a whole, but also letting the album wash over me. I cried through “The Fox” and worked my way up to “Modern Girl,” which I sang at the top of my lungs, people upstairs be damned. By the time I got to my favorite song, the 11-minute “Let’s Call it Love,” I was depleted. I lay down on the couch and waited for him to come home. I stayed still for the entire song, which is no mean feat. 

Eventually, he came home, beer in hand. He didn’t say a word to me. I didn’t say anything to him. I said I was going to bed. I plugged in my headphones and put on No Cities to Love, wondering what I was missing at the show (incredible setlist), hating myself for missing it, for being an anxiety driven mess, for disappointing the man I loved.

What usually happens at a point like this is  that I associate the music with the event and never want to listen to it again. I thought I’d stop listening to Sleater-Kinney, that it would just give me anxiety and make me sad. But it didn’t happen with them. I don’t know why. I still saw the band as comfort music. I still felt soothed by The Woods. I took that as a small victory.

The Woods will be twenty years old in May. It’s been ten years since that night. Time marches on, and while it doesn’t really heal all wounds, it has a way of making them vague, like looking at an abstract painting. I remember the night with clarity, but what followed for the next two years is fuzzy and smudged. Which is fine. 

I will never listen to Sleater-Kinney without thinking of that night. I long ago stopped feeling any guilt about it, and now I just look back at it as a microcosm of our marriage. I mostly shrug and say, Well that sucked. It’s fine that I associate The Woods with that event. This album makes me feel empowered. It makes me feel good. That’s a wild thing to me. By all rights I should want to throw it out the window, but it’s a testament to the power and the magic of The Woods that I haven’t.

Michele Catalano is a writer and retired civil servant who runs I Have That on Vinyl