Speaking the words “Jack Antonoff” usually elicits one of three responses: benign enthusiasm, an eye roll from people who have read about him in a certain director’s memoir, or blame him for homogenizing pop. And finally, “who?” He is more widely recognised – and criticised – as the ubiquitous producer behind albums by Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey, Sabrina Carpenter, Lorde, and The 1975. He also has a band. It’s called Bleachers.
MTELUS wasn’t quite filled out when I arrived for the BLEACHERS FOREVER tour, but the floor was packed. At ten minutes to nine, Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” – a cheesy curtain-raiser, but a fitting one – melted into the rich romance of Bleachers’ “Sideways.” It was lush and tender. The band walked on scattered across different levels of the multi-platform stage, sax player centre stage, and Antonoff spotlit on the highest level. Then he jumped down, straight into the opening crash of “The Van.”
Antonoff reminded me of Lin-Manuel Miranda (sorry); both seem possessed by an obsessive creative vision, and perform with a theatrical physicality. Music pulsed through his body; a current travelled up from his leather soles and escaped through his outstretched palm. He could have been a preacher when he explained that music is a lifeline of hope when “everything is fucked up,” in that lurching cadence of a pastor at the pulpit.
The set design recreated Antonoff’s Electric Lady Studios space in New York. At the top left, a swivelly office chair that he later climbed sat in front of columns of old music equipment, including a reel-to-reel deck. It was all flooded in earthy sepia tones, evoking the warmth of a midcentury living room.
Fans of Bleachers will be pleased to know the setlist was career-spanning. It had singles from their debut 2014 record Strange Desire which got the most crowd feedback, as well as his Lana Del Rey collaboration “Margaret” and Bruce Springsteen duet “Chinatown.” Their latest release, everyone for ten minutes, reflects on finding autonomy, focusing on what matters, and keeping loved ones close. Montreal entered that privileged circle as Antonoff apologized for only headlining here once prior. “We fucked up, we’re sorry. We make up for all of it tonight.”
He wouldn’t let it go either, later saying, “What the fuck is wrong with bands, they think they can play OSHEAGA and that’s enough?” Bands take note.
This band is a credit to the musical craft. Saxophone players Evan Smith and Zem Audu anchored the sound of Bleachers, a stylistic echo of Springsteen. They were joined by musicians Mikey Freedom Hart, Sean Hutchison, Michael Riddleberger, and Antonoff. The six-piece band often swapped instruments. There were two drummers. They swung into jazz, rock, and gospel with ease, and they all sang.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish Bleachers hadn’t worked so hard. The set was a whopping ninety minutes. It was stadium-worthy. It was so long I watched this girl pull out her phone and Google the setlist to see if it was over yet. Mid-set a fading Antonoff let the audience fill in the gaps to the chorus of “Rollercoaster,” and sang in a lower register during “Don’t Take My Money.” Multiple songs suggested a show finale, collapsing into throbbing drums, whirling saxophone lines. But when the lights cut Antonoff simply swapped guitars and rested before the next crescendo. By the fourth or fifth false ending, the show’s enthusiasm started to work against itself, and my back hurt.
But it doesn’t matter that some people are sick of him and some people think he’s overrated or that his show was stuffed. Jack Antonoff can sing, play harmonica, command half a dozen expert musicians for ninety minutes, then jump off an office chair without wiping out. He will keep producing and making music people have an opinion about. Bleachers songs will find their way onto the radio, wedding dance floors, late-night drives. People will still look for reasons to hope.
Support came from Momo Boyd.
Review by Irene Wang
Photos – Sienna David
