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The third track on Bleachers’ fifth album is called We Should Talk. Ultimately a song about reconnecting with a lost friend, it’s also a track by the band that Jack Antonoff considers “the core” of his creative work that touches on Antonoff’s start in music. “We had a band, we had a life, we had dreams,” he sings, “in a van we wrote our own bible supreme”, a poetic summary of the years when a teenage Antonoff escaped small-town New Jersey with Outline, a quartet who absorbed the influence of the punk underground, self-releasing their EP, cropping up on compilations called things like Bottled Violence and Punk Will Never Die, booking their own shows in anarchist bookstores and community venues with the aid of a directory called Book Your Own Fucking Life. “We called what we were doing emo”, he notes, “but emo to us at the time meant Fugazi and Texas Is The Reason, so a very different context fromt oday”.
They piled into Antonoff’s family minivan, Book Your Own Fucking Life in hand, and set out to tour America, albeit with a very New Jersey chip on their shoulder. “When we started, I was 14, we were playing in fire halls and VFW halls, and 15 miles away The Strokes were playing their first shows at the Mercury Lounge in Manhattan,” he remembers. “We wouldn’t have even fucking considered going to see them, not because we were too poor, not because we couldn’t get out of the house, but because we were like, ‘oh, fuck that New York scene’. We were from another planet. New Jersey, it’s separated from Manhattan by this body of water, like a medieval moat, which people do not cross. There’s this whole sentiment of, ‘oh well, that’s how they do it in the city’, that everything New York is famous for is better in Jersey: bagels, pizza, sleaze, all of it. Which is true.”
Touring with Outline and his subsequent band, the folkier Steel Train, was a hardscrabble life. “We must have played 250 shows a year, for five to ten years straight, in a time when being in a band wasn’t something that, like, your parents would brag about,” he smiles. “And it was magical. It left me with a massive love of being a touring artist. Why does a person have that bizarre bone in their body that makes them want to be onstage in front of all these people sweating and screaming together?” He shrugs. “I do.”
Perhaps that’s one of the reasons Antonoff started Bleachers in the first place. It certainly wasn’t for want of something to do. In 2013, his career as a songwriter and producer was on the verge of going stratospheric, something it duly did. And yet, he says, “I felt so anxious. I felt a lot of fear at the time. I was 26 or 27, a transitional phase, the age where you go from fun person to alcoholic or good hang to person with no job. To this day, I love working with people on songs, but once again, that’s just part of what I do, so when that started to take off, I just remember the wild anxiety of ‘this thing I do, I’m experiencing a lot of success for other corners of it’.”
The solution was to form his own band, in which he was the lead vocalist and chief songwriter, and start playing clubs again. In the years since their 2014 debut album Strange Desire, Bleachers have gradually built from playing The Met in Pawtucket to headlining Madison Square Gardens, from a debut album recorded piecemeal in hotel rooms while Antonoff was touring with Fun to collaborations with everyone from Atlanta hip hop architects Organized Noise to Antonoff’s teenage hero Bruce Springsteen, the latter a progenitor of what he calls “a very New Jersey sound that we all know but that’s underdiscussed, that very few people are putting a name to, and I feel very dead set on carry the torch for”.
And, most importantly, along the way, Bleachers built a rabidly engaged fanbase that Antonoff says are “like a family”. “There’s this air in the room when we play shows that that these are the people that get me, because it’s true, they do,” he nods: no small thing for someone who says he’s “always felt extremely misunderstood”. “I think it’s really against people’s idea of me that that the band’s culture could be that real. You wouldn’t come to a Bleachers show because you liked an album I produced for someone else. It’s such a culture and such a scene. I feel how they’re doing in life and it affects me. You know, we’re together through a lot of things. When you’re on tour, for example, and let’s say there’s been a huge news event, like a mass shooting somewhere, you see everyone feeling it, and you literally talk about it, maybe even change the set list. That’s the most acute version, but it’s deeper than that. You grow with them, and new people come, but it’s like a colony where they’re all sucked up into the culture. You see how they see you, you see the art they make, the jokes they make, you’re not going online to catch the tenor of the times: that’s real people, I see what they’
Maschinell erstellt. Alle Angaben ohne Gewähr. Auf der Originalseite kannst du die Details gegenchecken.
Preisinfo (Ohne Gewähr)
Preisinformationen nicht verfügbar
The third track on Bleachers’ fifth album is called We Should Talk. Ultimately a song about reconnecting with a lost friend, it’s also a track by the band that Jack Antonoff considers “the core” of his creative work that touches on Antonoff’s start in music. “We had a band, we had a life, we had dreams,” he sings, “in a van we wrote our own bible supreme”, a poetic summary of the years when a teenage Antonoff escaped small-town New Jersey with Outline, a quartet who absorbed the influence of the punk underground, self-releasing their EP, cropping up on compilations called things like Bottled Violence and Punk Will Never Die, booking their own shows in anarchist bookstores and community venues with the aid of a directory called Book Your Own Fucking Life. “We called what we were doing emo”, he notes, “but emo to us at the time meant Fugazi and Texas Is The Reason, so a very different context fromt oday”.
They piled into Antonoff’s family minivan, Book Your Own Fucking Life in hand, and set out to tour America, albeit with a very New Jersey chip on their shoulder. “When we started, I was 14, we were playing in fire halls and VFW halls, and 15 miles away The Strokes were playing their first shows at the Mercury Lounge in Manhattan,” he remembers. “We wouldn’t have even fucking considered going to see them, not because we were too poor, not because we couldn’t get out of the house, but because we were like, ‘oh, fuck that New York scene’. We were from another planet. New Jersey, it’s separated from Manhattan by this body of water, like a medieval moat, which people do not cross. There’s this whole sentiment of, ‘oh well, that’s how they do it in the city’, that everything New York is famous for is better in Jersey: bagels, pizza, sleaze, all of it. Which is true.”
Touring with Outline and his subsequent band, the folkier Steel Train, was a hardscrabble life. “We must have played 250 shows a year, for five to ten years straight, in a time when being in a band wasn’t something that, like, your parents would brag about,” he smiles. “And it was magical. It left me with a massive love of being a touring artist. Why does a person have that bizarre bone in their body that makes them want to be onstage in front of all these people sweating and screaming together?” He shrugs. “I do.”
Perhaps that’s one of the reasons Antonoff started Bleachers in the first place. It certainly wasn’t for want of something to do. In 2013, his career as a songwriter and producer was on the verge of going stratospheric, something it duly did. And yet, he says, “I felt so anxious. I felt a lot of fear at the time. I was 26 or 27, a transitional phase, the age where you go from fun person to alcoholic or good hang to person with no job. To this day, I love working with people on songs, but once again, that’s just part of what I do, so when that started to take off, I just remember the wild anxiety of ‘this thing I do, I’m experiencing a lot of success for other corners of it’.”
The solution was to form his own band, in which he was the lead vocalist and chief songwriter, and start playing clubs again. In the years since their 2014 debut album Strange Desire, Bleachers have gradually built from playing The Met in Pawtucket to headlining Madison Square Gardens, from a debut album recorded piecemeal in hotel rooms while Antonoff was touring with Fun to collaborations with everyone from Atlanta hip hop architects Organized Noise to Antonoff’s teenage hero Bruce Springsteen, the latter a progenitor of what he calls “a very New Jersey sound that we all know but that’s underdiscussed, that very few people are putting a name to, and I feel very dead set on carry the torch for”.
And, most importantly, along the way, Bleachers built a rabidly engaged fanbase that Antonoff says are “like a family”. “There’s this air in the room when we play shows that that these are the people that get me, because it’s true, they do,” he nods: no small thing for someone who says he’s “always felt extremely misunderstood”. “I think it’s really against people’s idea of me that that the band’s culture could be that real. You wouldn’t come to a Bleachers show because you liked an album I produced for someone else. It’s such a culture and such a scene. I feel how they’re doing in life and it affects me. You know, we’re together through a lot of things. When you’re on tour, for example, and let’s say there’s been a huge news event, like a mass shooting somewhere, you see everyone feeling it, and you literally talk about it, maybe even change the set list. That’s the most acute version, but it’s deeper than that. You grow with them, and new people come, but it’s like a colony where they’re all sucked up into the culture. You see how they see you, you see the art they make, the jokes they make, you’re not going online to catch the tenor of the times: that’s real people, I see what they’