On one of the final stops of their “From the Studio to the Stage” tour, Jack Antonoff-led band Bleachers offers a euphoric night of unbridled energy.
by guest writer Rachel R. Carroll
Climbing the stairs to my seat at Los Angeles’ Greek Theater on Sunday, September 22nd, I was reminded that the first concert I ever saw in California was at this same venue.
An uninteresting sentimentality, perhaps, but given that I was there to see Bleachers, who could blame me? A band whose records draw their core emotional strength from nostalgia, Bleachers are experts in crafting huge, anthemic songs that will permanently seal into your mind where you were when you first listened. Musical lineage — of the pop and rock greats, of changing recording technology, of New Jersey — is central to Bleachers’ ethos; no wonder I was inclined to reflect on my own.
Opening for the Jack Antonoff-led band was Katie Gavin. After a solo acoustic performance of “Aftertaste,” the lead single off her forthcoming debut solo record, someone in the pit shouted an earnest question. “Did somebody say, ‘Are you in MUNA?’” Gavin laughed, craning to hear them.
“Yes.”
But she urged fans not to worry about the alt-pop band in which she sings, assuring everyone MUNA was still together throughout her solo release. Gavin played a six-song set exclusively from the upcoming album, with Amber Bain of The Japanese House joining for the latter half.
In the interim between sets, there’s a moment to appreciate the unique makeup of the crowd. Couples who appear to be on the older end of the millennial spectrum, decked out in Strange Desire merch from the band’s debut record a decade ago, filed in alongside younger teenagers who, covered in glitter and friendship bracelets, looked like they may have confused this for The Eras Tour.
But given that Taylor Swift is one of Antonoff’s most frequent collaborators, and certainly the highest-profile, it’s not entirely surprising. When the lights went down, however, the resultant screams were an equalizing, egalitarian force placing every member of the audience entirely in the here, the now.
As the mechanical, heavily Auto-Tuned “Drug Free America,” a bonus track off Bleachers’ deluxe self-titled record, blared from the speakers, smoke wafted out over the stage and the front few rows of the audience, which lent the entire space a ghostly, other-worldly air when the stage lights came back up. Illuminated center stage was Antonoff in striking tableau, face contorted and arms raised as if in anguished prayer.
When swelling keys and peals of electric guitar tipped the striking, opening organ chords into the song “I Am Right on Time,” the image on stage was one of epic, almost Renaissance proportions: A checkered stage floor mirroring many of the band’s aesthetics from this record cycle; multiple different platforms so that each musician appeared the God of his own small realm; a bright red “RECORDING STUDIO IN USE” sign that shone like a celestial beacon over the playing space. Antonoff jolted the show to life with the song’s opening line, “We were just kids — it wasn’t over when it ended.” It might have been a thesis for the record and the concert itself: Even if these songs about the past were fixed, recorded objects, we could turn them new for a night and be entirely reborn.
Immediately, Bleachers rocketed their performance into stratospheric levels of energy with high-tempo tracks like “Modern Girl,” “Jesus Is Dead,” and “How Dare You Want More.” The band amplified the controlled chaos with ample antics and hijinks as they chased one another around the stage, occasionally getting a saxophone blown into a stray ear. The explosive horns and pounding drums were a physical presence rattling beneath the rows of seats in the crowd, an energy that persevered even as the set moved into a stripped back version of Gone Now’s “Goodmorning” followed by an acoustic, unreleased fan-favorite, “Merry Christmas, Please Don’t Call.” When the full band came back in on the ethereal “Me Before You,” the warbling synths and melancholic saxophone riffs left the entire theater with the breathless air of a confessional.
After a performance of “Chinatown” that stayed largely true to its studio version, Antonoff shouted at the crowd, “Are you guys warmed up yet?” The ever-expanding sweat mark on his own gray t-shirt suggested that he certainly was, and the riotous delivery of “Don’t Go Dark” (a song I personally believe to be among the band’s greatest) proved it beyond a doubt. At certain moments when Antonoff would leap dramatically from the various platforms on stage, you couldn’t have been faulted for wondering whether he might actually take flight.
This same propulsive sense shown through even during the show’s spoken interlude, a moment other artists will often take to momentarily bring the energy down. But not Bleachers: Instead, Antonoff tantalized the crowd by shouting at his bandmates over and over again to “hit it,” then “stop,” then “creep it back in.” The stuttering lights and sound almost gave the illusion of being inside a strobe light as Antonoff explained:
“Everyone in the audience unfortunately will feel like shit at some point in their life. And there are certain things, it can be a movie, it can be a friend, it can be a book, it can be anything… it can be a season, it can be a walk, it can be f*ing anything, a word, it can be a thought. For me: There is one thing that glues it all together, it’s the low-end on a Juno 6 [keyboard]. You put your headphones on, and the way I started this band, you put your finger on a B flat, you turn up the bass, and you hear THIS!”
The droning note rang out strong and clear from the keyboard amidst the crowd’s screams. Over the din, Antonoff concluded, “I started playing this and I thought, ‘Let’s f*ing go!’” When the music burgeoned into “Rollercoaster,” arguably the band’s biggest hit, I was sure the sound must have reached Antonoff’s native Garden State.
Bleachers still managed to find a moment of quiet introspection amidst their fiery set: For solo, acoustic performances of “Who I Want You to Love” and “Dream of Mickey Mantle,” Antonoff appeared in an elevated alcove behind the stage’s main playing area which had previously been hidden by a massive banner. The area was decorated to resemble a teenage bedroom, complete with a desk cluttered with recording gear, a couch, and multiple posters.
The rest of the band resumed their spots on stage to accompany Antonoff for “Ordinary People” while he stayed beyond their reach. It was a small visual gesture towards what appeared a cornerstone of Antonoff’s beliefs about music in general: That music is, at its purest, all about the tension between small, intimate moments of reflection and creation, and the large-scale communal act of sharing in that music together.
His juxtaposition of the studio and the stage is a reminder that to Antonoff, there is something sacred both in solitude, and in the sweat of performance.
Following a heartfelt rendition of “Tiny Moves,” Bleachers steered the crowd through one final stretch of songs (“I Wanna Get Better,” “Don’t Take the Money,” and “Stop Making this Hurt”) which — tall order though it may have been — surpassed the entire show prior in terms of pure, unbridled energy, the rawest kind that can only be found amongst people dancing. “Somebody broke me once,” Antonoff sings, adding a verse later, “I slept on my own those nights.” This desperate loneliness can be a through-line in Bleachers’ music, but their live shows are a celebration of something different: The explosive opportunity to deliver that music in community.
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Rachel R. Carroll is a poet, songwriter, and freelance critic of music and literature who is currently a candidate for an MFA in Creative Writing at CalArts. You can follow more of Rachel’s work @RachelRCarroll.
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