Sleater-Kinney - Call The Doctor (LP)

Sleater-Kinney’s second album, Call The Doctor, hits with the kind of focus bands usually find much later. Released in 1996 on Chainsaw Records and recorded with John Goodmanson, it took the charged, DIY spark of their debut and honed it into sharp, impatient songs that still feel freshly barbed. The setup is famously lean, two guitars and drums, no bass in sight, which clears space for Corin Tucker’s siren wail and Carrie Brownstein’s nervous, nimble lines. Lora Macfarlane’s drumming snaps and swerves underneath, never just keeping time, always poking at the edges. That triangle became the band’s signature, and on this record it lands with real intent.

The title track opens like a warning siren, Tucker riding long vowels while Brownstein darts around the beat. It is the band’s thesis in miniature, desire and dissent bundled together, guitars that dance and argue at once. Then the punchy “Taste Test” steps in with call-and-response vocals that feel like a late-night debate, the kind that leaves you wired even after the needle lifts. What I love here is how physical the sound is. You can almost see them facing off in a small room, amps eyeing each other, no low end to soften the blows.

“I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone” is the obvious entry point, a cheeky, electric flip of punk fandom that’s become a setlist staple. It doesn’t just name-check a pantheon, it claims space inside it, which mattered then and still matters now. But the deeper cuts keep calling you back. “Good Things” carries a bittersweet ache, chord changes that tug while Tucker searches for a foothold in the mess. “The Drama You’ve Been Craving” moves like a tightrope act, one guitar ringing, the other needling, Macfarlane holding the line with crisp snare cracks. Even after so many listens, it’s the interplay that keeps unfolding. Brownstein’s parts are as much commentary as accompaniment, pushing and pulling at Tucker’s lead until sparks fly.

Context helps. The mid 90s were noisy with promises about what “women in rock” were supposed to sound like, and Sleater-Kinney spent this period calmly ignoring all of it. Call The Doctor sits in the movement’s bloodstream yet still sounds like three people carving their own lane, precise about power and voracious about melody. You could hear the leap they would make on Dig Me Out a year later, but what’s striking here is how complete this record already feels. It isn’t a blueprint. It’s a home.

Production-wise, Goodmanson gets out of the way and keeps the edges intact, which suits the songs. The guitars are close and glaring, vocals right in your ear, cymbals bright but not fizzy. On a good pressing, that clarity makes the no-bass mix feel intentional rather than austere. If you’ve been collecting Sleater-Kinney vinyl, this is one you want in the stack for nights when you need urgency without bloat. Call The Doctor vinyl has been repressed a few times over the years, and every time I see it on a wall at a Melbourne record store it pulls me in. There’s something about flipping it over, resetting the needle, and letting that opening riff spark again that never gets old.

A quick nod to Macfarlane too, whose presence on this album and the band’s debut often gets overshadowed by what came next. She’s an Australian drummer and singer who later returned home to play in Ninetynine, and that detail always makes me smile when I’m digging through vinyl records Australia side and spot a copy. Her touch here is a big part of why these songs twitch and bite rather than just sprint.

If you’re new to the band, start here or with Dig Me Out. If you already know the catalogue, you know why Call The Doctor keeps its grip. It’s concise, it’s fearless, and it’s full of tension that resolves not with tidy answers but with choruses you’ll hum on the tram. For collectors, it pairs nicely with other Sleater-Kinney albums on vinyl, and if you’re planning to buy Sleater-Kinney records online, make sure this one is near the top of the cart. Some records age into nostalgia. This one still raises your pulse.