Is it even nostalgia if a whole new generation loves a really great older band and gets together to celebrate them? Such is the consistent case of Urbana, IL's American Football.
Formed by Mike Kinsella (of Cap'n Jazz and many-other-great-bands fame) in 1997, the beyond-influential band lasted for only three years, made one genre-defining album, and disappeared for a decade and a half, before being resurrected in 2014 to further acclaim, adoration and three more albums.
On Saturday (August 8), the passion — both the band's and their fans' — was on full display at History, after their sold-out show at the Concert Hall was moved due to demand.
Montreal three-piece Afternoon Bike Ride opened the night, introducing themselves to the crowd through ethereal, echoing vocals and the lightest guitar work this side of silence. Whether wavering or belted, Lia Kurihara's crisp vocals burst from the speakers, while Éloi Le Blanc-Ringuette's light electronics and David Tanton's metronomic, fuzzy guitar swerved throughout the venue.
The band were humble and grateful, but their sound — samples and echoing beats both beautiful and treacherous (to use one of their own song titles as a description) — deserves to be heard, either while weeping, or running through the rain to tell someone getting on a plane that you love them.
At one point, Kurihara asked people to do their best bird impressions, and most people were really aggressive. With permission from the band, we whistled like birds as we saw fit — a dream for all aviary aficionados. Kurihara asked us if "anybody here [has] ever cried on public transit," to cheers and laughs, and dedicated "Oh No!" to those who have. The phrase "my oh my" has never sounded so simultaneously heartbreaking and cheeky.
Kurihara spoke of her father's dementia and acting as his primary caretaker, and how their new album Running with Scissors was written to express the "confusion and uncertainty and danger" that comes with making decisions during such a trying time. She also said that, for all of its pain, the record is "filled with love." Many of life's darkest moments are, and Afternoon Bike Ride embody those experiences without fear or hesitation and with complete openness.
This is catharsis as sound, raging and resonant, even as a whisper. There is power in fragility, and Afternoon Bike Ride embrace that sentiment wholeheartedly. It would be foolish to sleep on this band; do yourself a favour and don't.
American Football have rightfully earned all the praise that has been heaped upon them. The band, sometimes six, sometimes seven-strong, came out to drummer Steve Lamos's pounding rhythms, Nate Kinsella's keys and rumbling bass, and "Man Overboard," the opening track off this year's American Football (a.k.a. LP4).
Watery shimmers danced on the screen behind them, the scene bathed in aquatic blues and purples. During "Blood on My Blood," a giant, brilliant sunset glowed behind the band, warm yet finite, as chorus-inflected guitars collided with Cory Bracken's glistening vibraphone.
Live and with an audience, the grim, confessional songs from the new album were imbued with hope and grandiosity, Kinsella's dynamic, inimitable voice crashing through the din, the shimmer all menacing and complex (much like the band's tunings). There is a sense of prog to their sound, a post-rock weightiness reflected in both the lengths, structures and hypnotic patterns, all epic and grandiose and intimate.
The pauses were sparse and brief: it's not a physical respite but an emotional one, and Mike Kinsella spoke only briefly. When he did, he was funny and humble: when he asked for the day of the week (ah, tour life), someone responded with "Saturday," and he responded back by telling the crowd he trusted us. Someone said "I trust YOU," and his reply was cataclysmic: "I trust you."
He applauded his bandmates, playfully headbutting them and leaning his forehead on his co-singer's shoulder. The visuals were simple but extremely effective: monochromatic snow falling in aggressive flutters, globules of light and colour, out-of-focus gleams, purple clouds, silhouetted birds, rain and dying roses and blooming flowers and sprouting mushrooms. Everything was allegorical and potent.
Every time Lamos's trumpet made an appearance, it was met with applause and reverence. "Home Is Where the Haunt Is," with its poignant lyric — "Those wounds won't lick themselves" — represents the band's inherently melancholic sound, even if it's never resigned or misanthropic.
There is an overall potency to their live performance, and both classic and new material is treated with equal gusto. They played a short set of songs from the first album ("Honestly?"; "Stay Home"; "The One With the Wurlitzer"), culminating with the universe's favourite, "Never Meant."