(Photos: Joseph W. Nienstedt)
There comes a point when everything snaps into place, when the months of anticipation and excitement transform in an instant into joyous participation and you find yourself swept up into something more; something mindless; some heaving, swaying, sweating mass of bodies without a single thought in your collective head…and goddamn it, when everything comes together like that, when the outside world is just a rumor and there’s only the music, only right now, right here, this place, our bodies, our noise; when it all comes together and we form up, lock into that beautiful and seductive singularity, that exploding star, that perfect burning-bright point of rock ‘n’ fucking roll, well…
Well, shit yeah, it’s cool.
That moment came for me somewhere during the second chorus of “Wrong,” the third track off of Archers of Loaf’s epochal college rock classic, Icky Mettle (1993). The band had started the night off with “Strangled by the Stereo Wire,” the opening track from their third LP, All the Nation’s Airports (1996), and it’s an attention-grabber, for sure – half the track is buildup, some weird dropped-in noise, and then strumming, chiming, minor-key chords, front man Eric Bachmann and guitarist Eric Johnson trading cacophonies like an inside joke, before Bachmann begins intoning in his gruff-but-melodic voice that weird, nonsensical verse, “Strangled by the stereo wire/ Cut and depressed in the victim’s eye….” And halfway through drummer Mark Price brings in the beat, and it’s just building, building, but quietly, steadily, and then One!, Two!, Three!, Four!, “STRANGLED BY THE STEREO WIRE!!” explodes across your chest and it’s on.
But it was almost too much, too soon; I almost couldn’t take it. It was hard to wrap my head around the fact that I was here at all, that Archers of Loaf were in New York, playing a show at Webster Hall, a venue that hadn’t even hosted rock shows back when they last came through town in support of their swansong album, the unjustly-maligned White Trash Heroes (1998). Back then Webster Hall was strictly a dance club and the Archers were relegated to playing third-tier dumps like Tramps, a dingy little place with terrible sound and a pole stuck in the middle of the floor. But somehow 13 years have passed and out of nowhere they’re playing shows again, playing festivals, having their network television debut on “Jimmy Fallon” – it was almost too much to believe.
But everything comes ’round again eventually. So many indie rock bands from the late ’80s and early ’90s have emerged from their long periods of hyper sleep only to step out blinking into the harsh light of a world that’s been flattened and Pitchfork’d, MP3′d and blogged to death. When Pavement, say, or the Pixies, or whomever – Superchunk, Olivia Tremor Control, Versus – when they were at their peaks there was a certain understanding, an expectation that you had you had to be in it for the love because you sure as hell weren’t going to get famous off of this. But in the last 10 years or so something basic has shifted in the landscape and suddenly we’re living in a world where a band signed to Merge Records can win a Grammy and everyone seems to expect attention as a matter of course. And so they all want to dress up for the occasion, which is only natural – they’re wearing face paint now and sPeLlInG tHeIr NaMeS in a funny way; the girls are hotter, the guys are wearing coordinated outfits; in short, the cool kids have taken over again since the last time Archers of Loaf came through town.
Because however great they were and are, the Loaf were never cool. (I mean, just look at that name.) The closest they ever got to stardom was having an obscure B-side appear in an episode of “My So-Called Life.” But now here they are, playing their biggest ever show in New York City and you could feel the excitement. The chatter in the crowd was interesting – a lot of the expected stuff: “Back in ’93 when I caught them on their first tour…” and, “I used to see them all the time at Cat’s Cradle when I was living in Chapel Hill…” But there were also a lot of youngsters, obvious newcomers who could hardly contain their excitement at finally getting to see a band that had somehow passed into the realms of legend without my realizing it.
Legends, sure, but never cool, never apart, just like us, the same – they’re the sort of band that wears the same ratty t-shirts they put on that morning and who never make you feel like you’re privileged to be in the same room with them. After opening act Mr. Dream ran through their brief set of Fall and Mission of Burma-inspired indie-scronk, the Archers came on stage to an explosion of applause. Bachmann and Johnson were both endearingly sporting cameras as they emerged from backstage, obviously pleased and bewildered to be where they were, at this time, in this place. It was a terrific way to start the show, an extension of good will towards the crowd that would soon be returned to them a million-fold.
And so they started right away with “Stereo Wire,” and it went by so fast, it wasn’t fair; I hadn’t caught my breath yet. But I made sure I was ready for “Wrong,” and by the time that chorus kicked in, with a thousand ragged voices shouting, “You’ve got it all wrong!/ You can’t get it right!/ Why don’t you climb down from off my back?/ And won’t you get yourself a job somewhere away from me-eee,” I was a goner. From that moment on we were one body, one sticky, moshing, crowd-surfing, mind-blown mass; rockin’ out like it was our last day on earth.
The band was tight as a sphincter up there; Bachmann tall and imposing in the center of the action, no longer the skinny, gawky guy in glasses but a tough, muscular presence who owned his portion of the stage; you’d have to fight him to take it away from him. Johnson on the left, loose and funny, exhorting the crowd to cheer at Bachmann’s virtuoso section that opens “Revenge,” when he wasn’t shaving off slivers of white hot noise in lock step to Price’s steady and persistent beats. And on the right, wild man Matt Gentling, bass strap hung low, fastened with one of those metallic rock climbing clips, looking sort of like a younger, more energetic Pete Rose. Gentling is the jokester of the bunch; mimicking on his bass Johnson’s slip-up on guitar, telling a funny anecdote about a witnessed water skiing excursion gone wrong (“Hit it, river kid!”) and tearing into his outrageous bass parts like a starved dog destroying a bone.
“Plumb Line,” “Nostalgia,” “Fabricoh,” “Web in Front”; every song played with a force that belied the band’s age – as Gentling made sure we understood, these were men in their forties up there (but “not me!” shouted Price, who’s only 39) – and yet somehow they were able to come together, to bring forth from their collective effort a power even greater than they held in their prime. After this first breakneck part of the set Bachmann carried out a small ottoman, and with Casio perched upon his knees, softly crooned fan favorite “Dead Red Eyes” – unfortunately the only track to be played from White Trash Heroes. But practically every other great song in their repertoire was on display, including the entirety of their devastating EP from 1994, Vs. the Greatest of All Time. Somewhere in the middle of “Audiowhore,” the lead-off track from that release, the intensity of the sounds emanating from the stage met the waves of energy coming off the crowd and a rift was formed in the space/time continuum. And suddenly we were back in 1994, and George W. Bush had never been president and the towers never fell and there were still dozens of record shops left in the city. I tell you, it was fucking glorious.
The band was more than generous that night, playing 18 songs for their main set with two energetic encores. Between the first and second encores, Gentling sat down on the stage and chatted with some fans, casual as can be. Eric Johnson did a somersault on his way out. Smiles all around. The Archers were back. And then they gloriously pelted us with “Scenic Pastures” and “Form and File” before withdrawing in a cloud of good cheer and nostalgia…and we were left then with nothing left to do but to wander away, sweat-soaked and dazed, gasping and happy at our good fortune. Long live Archers of Loaf!
