Afghan whigs – Gentlemen (1993)

What the fuck happened to Cincinnati? First we get the goddamn deal and now Greg Dulli’s selling his soul-baring confessions to major label suits. But hold up before you write this off as another indie sellout story.
The Afghan Whigs always operated on the fringes of our scene anyway. While bands like Bitch Magnet and Slint were reshaping post-hardcore around them, Dulli was crafting something darker, more personal. These guys cut their teeth in Cincinnati’s grimy club circuit alongside Ass Ponys and Fudge, but they were always the weird ones obsessing over Al Green records and heroin-addled soul music.
“Gentlemen” sounds like it was recorded in a fucking opium den. Jack Endino’s production gives everything this suffocating warmth that makes you feel complicit in Dulli’s confessions. The guitars are thick as molasses, Rick McCollum’s riffs oozing with distortion while John Curley’s bass holds down grooves that would make Stax Records jealous. This isn’t the angular precision of Fugazi or the explosive catharsis of Rites of Spring – it’s something more insidious.
Lyrically, Dulli’s examining toxic masculinity before anyone called it that. These aren’t political manifestos but brutal self-examinations of manipulation and abuse. He’s the anti-hero confessing his sins, not asking for absolution.
“Gentlemen” opens with that menacing guitar crawl, Dulli crooning threats like a lounge singer from hell. “My Curse” strips everything down to desperate vocals over minimal instrumentation – it’s uncomfortable as fuck and absolutely riveting.
Yeah, they’re on Elektra now, but this record proves major labels occasionally stumble onto something real. The Afghan Whigs have created a masterpiece of American darkness that transcends scene politics. Essential listening, corporate backing or not.