Mortality is a fragile thing and, when keeping the company of animals, knowing the inevitability of death feels all the more acute. This kind of relationship can buoy a life; its ending is a kind of bone-deep pain that is often misunderstood but fertile for vulnerable expression. For over 20 years, Blonde Redhead’s Kazu Makino has been writing songs about horses. The band’s 2004 4AD debut, Misery is a Butterfly, excavates a riding accident that left Makino trampled with a broken jaw that prevented her from singing. Despite the maudlin title, it is an album about enduring, and ends with the danceable “Equus,” a nod to the equine that shares a name with a play from the 1970s about a teen boy with an evangelical obsession with horses. On stage, it is the animals who are hurt—the boy’s love is beastial and perverse, leading him to blind what he can’t physically hold—but there are overlapping sentiments about what gets lost in translation when the human and non-human collide.
Makino’s ambitions as a rider never faltered and subsequent Blonde Redhead records are rife with references to her horse, Harry, whose death she mourned with “Rest of Her Life” on the band’s 2023 Sit Down for Dinner. “I had this image in my head as I was writing it that I’m on top of [a] mountain screaming and singing, and then [I] hear [an] echo back, but the echo is somehow in a different voice. It’s singing back something that I didn’t sing,” she said about the song in an interview with Tone Glow. “I wanted that to happen to me.” Enter the Brooklyn Youth Chorus, who join Makino and her bandmates, twin brothers Amedeo (guitar/vocals) and Simone Pace (drums), on a re-imagining of the track that makes her vision real. The collaboration front-loads the first half of The Shadow of the Guest, a collection that iterates on Sit Down for Dinner, houses ASMR tracks made for an Isabel Marant runway show, and twice refreshes “For the Damaged Coda,” an accidental hit serviced by a Rick & Morty sync.
This kind of revision has been part of Blonde Redhead’s practice for nearly their entire tenure. Their catalogue is punctuated with EPs and expanded singles that make material from their full-lengths brand new: French and Italian re-lyricizing of Melody of Certain Damaged Lemons tracks; David Sylvian karaoking Butterfly’s “Messenger.” Hell, they recorded a slicker version of Fake Can Be Just as Good instrumental “Futurism vs. Passéism” on its follow-up, In an Expression of the Inexpressible, with added vocals from the album producer, Fugazi’s Guy Picciotto, waxing philosophical en Français.
On Shadow, choir versions become investigations into Sit Down for Dinner’s expansiveness: The Brooklyn Youth Chorus shout and falsetto alongside Makino’s mourning; harmonies cascade in controlled chaos on “Before”; “Via Savona” is buttressed by the lush arrangement of young voices. Close listening suggests that the vocals are additions to the older tracks, and this distracts on “Savona” but especially “Coda.” The juice isn’t worth the squeeze. How much more can be taken from a bonus track that’s a quarter century old? And yet! It reprises again as “Oda a Coda” in which the band is totally absent, replaced by mariachi players who bring to it joyous melancholia.
Call them curators, if that suits you, but it doesn’t make their sweeping cultural production any less real. In “Extreme Realism,” the affect theorist Brian Massumi offers in his many definitions of the real that it is “an enactive speculation on its own production, as a complete proposition.” Blonde Redhead is a relational project. Their music is a threshold that can be crossed variously and sometimes leads to new rooms that didn’t previously exist.
Bruce Springsteen was right. At the risk of simplifying the value of this impressive box set, giving away the main storyline of his new biopic, and flattening decades of mythmaking, the reality is just what Springsteen always claimed. Even when he tried the material with his closest collaborators, using some of the strongest songs he had ever written, the most powerful version of Nebraska is still the one he recorded at home in Colts Neck in January 1982. Just a lonely man in his early thirties with an acoustic guitar, a TASCAM PortaStudio, and an Echoplex, capturing solo demos for what he thought would be a full-band project. Everything that came after was an experiment.
But what an experiment it turned out to be. For those who don’t know the story, here it is in brief. After the success of his upbeat 1980 single “Hungry Heart” and a long streak of relentless touring and critical praise, Springsteen entered one of the most creatively intense chapters of his life. He began by writing the grim ballads and shadowy lullabies of Nebraska, which he then tried to recreate with the E Street Band and in solo studio sessions before ultimately choosing to release the home demos. He did no press and no tour, which left him free to keep writing, and that work became 1984’s massive commercial hit Born in the U.S.A. During that time, he tossed aside enough songs to fill multiple albums, later shared through collections like Tracks and Tracks II: The Lost Albums. He also found time to help revive the career of early rock’n’roll icon Gary U.S. Bonds, co-writing and co-producing two comeback records, contributing a Grammy-winning song to Donna Summer, and hitting the gym with enthusiasm.
It might sound like a golden moment, but for Bruce, it felt like a creative cage—the kind of brooding, restless chapter that inspires a filmmaker to cast Jeremy Allen White to play you on screen. The twist is that the most crucial moments, from the original Nebraska to the electric and explosive version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” happened quickly and naturally, before anyone could complicate the process. Unlike anything else in his official catalog, Nebraska 82: Expanded Edition offers a clear window into that moment. Within this tight collection is a sharper, more complete image of one of Springsteen’s most legendary and personal records—still the one he treasures most—along with rare insight into his creative rhythm.
The set includes a newly remastered version of the album, a disc of solo acoustic outtakes carrying the same raw emotion, the legendary Electric Nebraska sessions, and a live album and film capturing Springsteen performing the record start to finish in an empty New Jersey theater earlier this year. The live material feels reverent, with beautiful support from former Bob Dylan bandmate Larry Campbell. The remaster reveals that, despite the album’s association with the birth of lo-fi, the sound is richer and more intentional than much of what followed. Listen to the last half minute of “Atlantic City” through headphones and focus on how the acoustic guitars, mandolin, and background vocals fade away layer by layer. It’s a reminder of how much careful craft went into creating such stark beauty.
Unlike his earlier box sets for Darkness on the Edge of Town and The River, this one isn’t about showcasing how many different paths he could have taken. It’s about sharpening the vision. Where Nebraska is known for its unbroken mood, Electric Nebraska jerks between heartland laments and roaring rock songs across its eight tracks. These takes feel like rough sketches more than finished recordings—mostly Springsteen on electric guitar and vocals, Max Weinberg on drums, and Garry Tallant on bass—hinting at an album that could have been more accessible and mainstream in 1982. And yet, this raw version of “Downbound Train,” with its clanging rhythms and unsettling bridge, may be one of the strangest things he ever put to tape.
It’s easy to see why Springsteen thought these sessions didn’t work. Versions of “Open All Night” and “Johnny 99,” which on the original album burn with desperate energy, sound here like something a bar band could fall into with a casual count-in and some good-natured rockabilly riffs. On one hand, it highlights how his delivery gives shape and gravity to his songwriting. (Compare the early acoustic “Thunder Road” to its triumphant album version for proof.) On the other hand, slipping into different musical skins was a key part of his process then. He could turn something as playful as “Pink Cadillac” into a moaning, shadowy reflection of itself, as if the character had returned to earth wrecked and hollow, fixated on one thought.
For devoted fans, these shifts are what make the box set essential: witnessing how songs like “Working on a Highway” transformed from a chilling ballad called “Child Bride” into a loud, laughing, raucous number. Some of the outtakes, like the quietly devastating country song “Losin’ Kind,” have been passed around unofficially for years. But this set also reveals two entirely unheard songs: “On the Prowl” and “Gun in Every Home.” In the first, he ends with a dizzying repetition of “searching,” drenched in slapback echo that mimics the sound of a live band. In the second, he paints a nightmarish portrait of suburban life and ends with a bare, defeated admission: “I don’t know what to do.”
Within a single song, Springsteen might take the role of a killer hiding in the dark or a runaway on the move, either escaping or facing the question of whether being caught is actually a strange kind of salvation. That’s the point of sitting in the dark: you can’t see the exit. Yet sometimes he caught brief glimpses of where it all might lead. Along with the original demo tape, Springsteen sent a letter to his manager, Jon Landau. He went through each track, detailing the grim subject matter, floating arrangement ideas, and occasionally letting a sliver of optimism shine through.
He scribbled a note next to “Born in the U.S.A.,” which appears here in two early forms: a heavy acoustic blues and a full-band rocker stripped of its later synths, leaving no doubt about how the narrator feels. “Might have potential,” he wrote. That small spark of belief carried him through. He knew these songs would take work, and that truly understanding them would take time. But he also trusted that at the end of each hard-earned day, there would still be magic in the night.
