Sonic Youth的最后一場(chǎng)演唱會(huì)，于2011年11月14日在巴西圣保羅舉行。

這是他們演出的最后一首歌《少年騷動(dòng)》的視頻。

金后來(lái)在她的書(shū)《樂(lè)隊(duì)女孩回憶錄》中寫(xiě)道:

“當(dāng)我們最后一次登臺(tái)演出時(shí)，整個(gè)夜晚都是屬于男孩們的。瑟斯頓拍了拍我們的貝斯吉他手馬克·伊博爾德的肩膀，大步跨過(guò)舞臺(tái)，后面跟著我們的吉他手李·拉爾多，然后是我們的鼓手史蒂夫·謝利。我發(fā)現(xiàn)那個(gè)姿勢(shì)如此虛偽，如此幼稚，如此飄渺。瑟斯頓有很多熟人，但和為數(shù)不多的男性朋友在一起時(shí)，他從不談?wù)撊魏嗡饺说氖虑?，也從?lái)不喜歡拍馬屁。

這個(gè)姿勢(shì)是一種呼喚：我歸來(lái)了，

我是自由的，

我是獨(dú)一無(wú)二的。

我是最后一個(gè)上場(chǎng)的，確保在瑟斯頓和我之間隔出一段距離。我筋疲力盡，小心翼翼。史蒂夫坐在架子鼓后面，就像一位父親坐在他的辦公桌后面。其余的人用樂(lè)器各自武裝起來(lái)，就像一個(gè)營(yíng)，一支只想轟炸到底的軍隊(duì)。此刻外面正下著瓢潑大雨。

歷經(jīng)30年，今晚是Sonic Youth的最后一場(chǎng)演唱會(huì)。SWU音樂(lè)藝術(shù)節(jié)在Itu舉行，就在巴西圣保羅，距離我們?cè)谛掠⒏裉m的家5000英里。這是一個(gè)為期三天的活動(dòng)，在拉丁美洲的電視上播出，也在網(wǎng)上直播，贊助商包括可口可樂(lè)和喜力等大公司。這是一個(gè)要了結(jié)一切的奇異之地。

瑟斯頓和我一整周大概只說(shuō)了十五個(gè)詞。結(jié)婚二十七年后，我們之間的關(guān)系破裂了。八月，我不得不請(qǐng)他搬出我們?cè)隈R薩諸塞州的房子，他也的確搬出去了。他在一英里外租了一套公寓，以往返于紐約。

這對(duì)所有人都認(rèn)為是燦烈的、和諧的、密不可分的，曾給年輕的音樂(lè)家們從瘋狂的搖滾世界逃生的希望的夫婦，現(xiàn)在陷入了又一個(gè)中年危機(jī)—— 長(zhǎng)年關(guān)系的破裂 —— 一個(gè)男人的中年危機(jī)，第三者的女人，雙重的生活。

他們說(shuō)，當(dāng)一段婚姻關(guān)系告終時(shí)，一些你之前從未留意的小事都會(huì)讓你的大腦裂開(kāi)。一整周，只要瑟斯頓在我身邊，我就感同身受?；蛟S他也有這么覺(jué)得，或許他的思維正放在別的地方。說(shuō)實(shí)話(huà)，我并不是很想關(guān)心那些事情。在臺(tái)下，他不停地發(fā)短信，在我們周?chē)鈦?lái)踱去，就像一個(gè)狂躁而羞愧的孩子。

惡劣的天氣一直伴隨著我們穿越南美洲，從利馬到烏拉圭，再到智利，現(xiàn)在又到了圣保羅——瑟斯頓和我之間的隔閡感就像一面陳舊的電影幕布。演出舞臺(tái)就像一副尷尬的家庭音樂(lè)劇場(chǎng)面——在客廳、廚房或餐廳，丈夫和妻子早上擦身而過(guò)，各自煮著咖啡，誰(shuí)也不認(rèn)識(shí)誰(shuí)，也不承認(rèn)房間里有過(guò)共同回憶。”

Sonic Youth's final concert, held in Paulínia, S?o Paulo, Brazil, on November 14, 2011.

Here's the video from their final song ever performed, "Teen Age Riot".

Kim later wrote about the show on her book, "Girl in a Band: A Memoir":

"When we came out onstage for our last show, the night was all about the boys. Thurston double-slapped our bass guitarist Mark Ibold on the shoulder and loped across the stage, followed by Lee Ranaldo, our guitarist, and then Steve Shelley, our drummer. I found that gesture so phony, so childish, such a fantasy. Thurston has many acquaintances, but with the few male friends he had he never spoke of anything personal, and he’s never been the shoulder-slapping type. It was a gesture that called out, I’m back. I’m free. I’m solo.

I was the last one to come on, making sure to mark off some distance between Thurston and me. I was exhausted and watchful. Steve took his place behind his drum set like a dad behind a desk. The rest of us armed ourselves with our instruments like a battalion, an army that just wanted the bombardment to end. It was pouring, slanting sheets of rain.

After thirty years, tonight was Sonic Youth’s final concert. The SWU Music and Arts Festival was taking place in Itu, just outside S?o Paulo, Brazil, five thousand miles from our home in New England. It was a three-day-long event, broadcast on Latin American television and streamed online, too, with big corporate sponsors like Coca-Cola and Heineken. It was a strange place for things to come to an end.

Thurston and I had exchanged maybe fifteen words all week. After twenty-seven years of marriage, things had fallen apart between us. In August I’d had to ask him to move out of our house in Massachusetts, and he had. He was renting an apartment a mile away and commuting back and forth to New York.

The couple everyone believed was golden and normal and eternally intact, who gave younger musicians hope they could outlast a crazy rock-and-roll world, was now just another cliché of middle-aged relationship failure — a male midlife crisis, another woman, a double life.

They say when a marriage ends that little things you never noticed before practically make your brain split open. All week that had been true for me whenever Thurston was around. Maybe he felt the same, or maybe his head was somewhere else. I didn’t really want to know, to be honest. Offstage he was constantly texting and pacing around the rest of us like a manic, guilty kid.

The bad weather had followed us through South America, from Lima to Uruguay to Chile and now to S?o Paulo — a corny movie-mirror of the strangeness between Thurston and me. The festival stages were like musical versions of awkward domestic tableaux — a living room, or a kitchen, or a dining room, where the husband and the wife pass each other in the morning and make themselves separate cups of coffee with neither one acknowledging the other, or any kind of shared history, in the room."