Time Capsule: The Sundays, Blind

Every Saturday, Paste will be revisiting albums that came out before the magazine was founded in July 2002 and assessing its current cultural relevance. This week, we’re looking at the odd one out among Bristol band The Sundays’ trilogy of albums, Blind. It's a stalwart alt-pop record that refuses to fall through the cracks.

By Gavyn Green | February 8, 2025 | 11:36am

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I’m going to come right out and say it: The Sundays don’t get the credit they deserve. The zeitgeist of ‘90s dream pop shines brightly but narrowly upon a few acts, so while “Linger” and “Sunday” by The Cranberries get remixed on TikTok for the billionth time (both amazing songs, but it gets overwhelming), dozens of amazing yet uncharted shoegazers remain hidden in the depths of my mom’s CD collection. This is no subliminal shade to the Mazzy Stars of the world either. In fact, “Blue Flower” has been my most listened to song for over two weeks now (it’s the perfect soundtrack on these cold and cloudy February days). No, it’s quite the opposite. I’m writing this in the hopes of bringing much merited publicity to the mesmerizing acoustics of bands like Lush, Mojave 3, Luscious Jackson, and Pale Saints—a notoriety check for a subgenre that is in large part responsible for the tidal wave of bedroom pop and soft-aesthetic indie groups that have flooded my algorithm for years now. That justice begins with The Sundays and, in particular, their sophomore LP, 1992’s Blind.

For those that grew up as young adults in the ‘80s and ‘90s, first of all, I’m envious like you wouldn’t believe. I want to carry around a walkman instead of an iPhone. I want to pay $20 to see a bill with Nirvana, Mudhoney and Red Hot Chili Peppers all in the prime of their careers. Jealousy aside, those old enough to remember the ‘90s know that The Sundays weren’t some niche, underground act. Their first batch of demos led to a major label bidding war and, by the time the dust settled in late 1988, the band had signed with Rough Trade Records. Rough Trade were the brains behind The Smiths and The Fall—an obvious choice for any up-and-coming alt-rock group—and put out The Sundays first record Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic in January 1990 to massive commercial and critical success (and it features on our list of the best albums from the ’90s). Songs like “Here’s Where The Story Ends” and “My Finest Hour” laid the foundation for the band’s entangled patchwork of whimsical dream pop and alt rock—a sound ahead of the curve for its time, and one that would be echoed by bands throughout the rest of the decade.

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By 1992, however, The Sundays’ sky-rocketing trajectory began to spiral back down towards earth. Exhausted both physically and creatively from excessive touring, and coupled with Rough Trade declaring bankruptcy in 1991 and subsequently taking Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic out of physical print, the band not only found themselves at square one, but faced rumors that they had disbanded altogether. Thankfully, in October 1992, this gossip was finally quelled with the release of Blind, The Sundays’ long-awaited follow-up LP.

These time capsule reviews are meant to highlight albums that stand the test of time—records that maintain cultural relevance years after their release, so, you’re most likely asking why I’d choose to talk about Blind and not Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic. After all, it garnered less commercial success, received mediocre reviews upon release and generally locked The Sundays out of any mention during the obligatory “best of the ‘90s” conversations. Except, Blind isn’t some sightless collage of worn-out shoegaze; it’s a refined album radiating with stylistic confidence, a record that defines The Sundays in their most mature and eloquent form.

At its core, Blind is a journal for lead vocalist Harriet Wheeler—an outlet not just for self expression, but a meaningful way to converse with her inner monologue. Look no further than the song titles themselves, from the opening track of “I Feel,” to the ego-id exchange of “What Do You Think?” and the self-loathing of “Blood On My Hands.” Each song is a new entry, another cathartic release of Wheeler’s pent up emotional burdens put to tape. The lighthearted whimsy found across their debut is long gone by Blind, replaced with painful self-awareness and the unyielding drawbacks of maturity. Guitarist David Gavurin, bassist Paul Brindley and drummer Lindsay Jamieson weren’t immune to these changes either. Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic stood out for its double-time drumming and danceable, new wave-adjacent bass lines, but Blind wipes away any and all traces of their carefree attitude. Blind is like the “upside-down” from Stranger Things—all the pieces are the same, it’s clearly still The Sundays, just darker, slower and dejected.

On “Goodbye,” Wheeler and the band bridge this interdimensional gap. Swirling, out-of-phase guitars overlap and interrupt one another until Jamieson crashes in on the drums, focusing the track into a twirl of psychedelic two steps. It’s no surprise “Goodbye” was chosen to be the album’s lead single, as between Gavurin’s hypnotizing guitar work and Wheeler’s poetic delivery, it’s an undeniable alt anthem and a focal point for everything that makes The Sundays so special. While the quotables across Blind warrant their own designated analysis, “Goodbye” stands out for its profound resonance. On the second verse Wheeler sings, “I vow that it’s goodbye to the old ways / Those stories were a good read / They were dumb as well / I could never be seen / Falling down on my knees, crawling …”. Again, she’s clearly talking to herself about herself. She longs for change, swearing off everything she’s done in the past, and vehemently refuses to go back. Just as the song is wrapping up though, Wheeler delivers one of my favorite lyrics of all time: “So, is this what it’s come to? / Am I cold or just a little bit warm? / Oh well, just give me an easy life and a peaceful death.” The words alone don’t do this lyric justice—it’s her delivery, the agony in her voice, and the way the band fades out behind her as she sings it, as if no one was supposed to hear what she said, but they happened to go silent at the absolute worst (or in my opinion, best) moment.

I interpret that motif of “goodbye” a different way every time the song comes on. To a certain extent, it’s a direct acknowledgment of separation—a moment of letting go that is laden with nostalgia. On another note, Wheeler is speaking to the idea of transformation, that every “goodbye” holds with it the promise of a new, hopefully brighter horizon. However, that final line seems to reject everything she sang before. She’s giving up on personal growth and settling for a place of purgatory—content to accept mediocrity if it means she can live an easy life and die a peaceful death. I know we all feel like that sometimes, like it’d be easier to settle, but hearing it laid out as the conclusion to her story makes the line cut so much deeper.

It makes sense why Blind wasn’t well received when it initially came out. The Sundays were known for their cheerful and airy radio hits up to that point, not the melancholic cloud that hovers throughout this record. It pervades every track. Even the lighter moments like “Love” and “Medicine” carry that gloomy ball and chain around. Not only that, but they’re then followed by further pronouncements of Wheeler’s internalized depression, and no amount of jangly guitar work can lighten that mood. Still, I find myself returning to Blind more than any of their other releases for exactly that reason. Blind elevated their ethereal sound into a more mature exploration of the imperatives of existence. It’s more subdued, at least from a production standpoint, but finds its niche in luminant melodies and the band’s elegant yet spare musical arrangements.

Unfortunately, The Sundays seemed to take this negativity to heart, taking five years to release their next album Static & Silence, and retiring from music all together afterwards. That context only puts Blind in a more distinctive place among the band’s discography, however. It’s isolated from the youthful optimism of Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic and the final petering cries of Static & Silence—a forgotten gem that could shine again if given the proper time and TLC to do so. As ephemeral and elusive as the album may be, Blind embraces impermanence with open arms, proclaiming that while life may often seem uncertain or even blind at times, there is beauty to be found in every moment, every breath and every whispered lyric.

Gavyn Green is a freelance writer and undergraduate Music Industry major attending Drexel University. His work has appeared in publications including Paste and WXPN.