Pitchfork Music Festival 2024 Recap

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As far as music festivals go, Pitchfork tends to be one of the better ones. It may not be as gargantuan as Lollapalooza, as buzzy as Coachella, or as tapped-in as Rolling Loud, but you know what Pitchfork has that most other festivals don’t? Identity. 

For better or worse, Pitchfork is a festival designed around one of the world’s most influential music publications and the particular tastes of its readers. Since this festival is centered around such a longstanding entity, the lineup tends to be more curated and intentional than other festivals which often fall into the trap of trying to be everything to everyone. Sure, it’s easy to look at lineups for bigger festivals and imagine how cool it would be to see Megan The Stallion, Deftones, Ethel Cain, and blink-182 in the same place, but in practice, it’s sweaty, messy, overpriced, and you rarely get to “see” many of those artists in a genuine way. 

In contrast, Chicago’s Union Park also translates to a near-perfect festival layout, converting its 13.5 acres of grassy fields and tree-lined borders into wide-open spectacles and tucked-away stages that each feel like distinct areas. There’s ample room for the festival’s three main stages, food vendors, beer tents, merch stations, record stores, local artists, companies handing out free tchotchkes, and a smaller side stage dedicated to artist interviews. It can get pretty packed, but it’s never that hard to traverse, and you can generally get a pretty great view of any artist’s set, especially if you plan ahead a little bit. 

Location aside, the “indie”-leaning lineup of Pitchfork feels like it typically strikes a nice balance between up-and-coming bands, recent breakthroughs, and more enduring legacy acts of all genres. This year, the top-level headliners closing out each day were Black Pumas, Jamie xx, and Alanis Morissette. Directly beneath them, you had artists like Jai Paul, 100 gecs, Carly Rae Jepsen, and MUNA, all legendary projects to a very specific type of person. I personally was excited for Saturday’s shoegaze gambit, where the schedule flowed from Hotline TNT to Feeble Little Horse and Wednesday, each stacked one after the other like the promoters took a page directly from my Spotify Wrapped. 

I’ve only attended one other Pitchfork Music Festival in 2022, so I was eager to return and see what’s changed in the last couple of years. Going in, I was interested in how Pitchfork’s recent fusing with GQ under Condé Nast would impact the vibe, if at all. Truthfully, I wasn’t planning on  until Swim Into The Sound’s own David Williams approached me with a behind-the-scenes photo pass, and I didn’t want to miss out on that opportunity. Below, you’ll find thoughts from me, David, and Logan Archer Mounts on the weekend, along with David’s photography, all shot on 35mm film for maximum coolness. 

Day 1

My group ambled into Union Park at 1 pm on the dot, right as the first band was ramping up. The fields were empty, the sun was out, and all the vendors were at the ready with beer and hot dogs. It’s always fun to see festival grounds like this before they get trampled in and filled out by the crowds; there’s a sense of boundless possibilities knowing that three full days of live music await you. Black Duck prattled through a jazzy improvised set that felt like a nice way to roll into the day with relaxed vibes. Angry Blackmen were true to their name, bringing an aggro hip-hop energy that felt like it properly set the festivities off before ML Buch took us to gazy dreamland.

Rosali was one of the first acts on the lineup that I was actively excited for; her album from earlier this year is excellent and has one of the most striking covers of 2024. Exactly as I had hoped, Rosali brought the homespun southern rock vibes, with her backing band locked in for a couple of inspiring jams, including a particularly rousing version of “My Kind.” The group closed their set with “Rewind,” an absolutely undeniable song that was joyful to watch unfold live on stage after being obsessed with it since January.

After a quick lunch break (aka paying $20 for a chicken wrap), I caught slices of Billy Woods, Amen Dunes, and Sudan Archives, each of whom had their own commanding presence. Billy Woods and Kenny Segal kept the crowd on their toes with off-kilter beats and urgent lyricism while Sudan Archives strutted through a solo set of hip-hop-infused R&B, pulling out her violin at key moments and shredding a melody before sheathing it and returning to vocal duties. 

Back in May, we published a review of Amen Dunes' most recent album, which I quite enjoyed but leaned in a reserved, ambient direction. I was surprised to see him playing with a full band and playing such “band” type songs. Their whole set was super fun, oscillating between a DIIV-like grooviness and slightly more upbeat numbers that sounded almost like Future Islands.

Yaeji graced the Red Stage with a theatrical performance shelving out hit after electronic hit during the tail end of day one. Dressed in Shaq-sized cargo shorts and a black tank top, Yaeji moved and grooved through the summer sun with ease. Her blend of R&B, techno, and synth-pop had everyone’s attention the moment she started her set. The crowd erupted when one of her biggest hit songs, “Raingurl,” bled through the speakers, sparking an impromptu dance-off among the fans.
– David Williams

Yaeji to 100 gecs was a pretty lateral move, but definitely brought the Friday Energy that we needed and helped make it feel like the party was really starting in earnest. I watched about half of the 100 gecs set and realized I barely knew their latest album. I still enjoyed seeing “stupid horse” live and will admit that I got full-body goosebumps during the chorus of “Hollywood Baby,” but the set could only feel so “big” given that it was just two people playing songs off a computer. It's still cool to see 100 gecs live after following them for so long, but I’m not sure their set quite hit it home for me. 

I didn’t watch all of Jai Paul’s set, but I did walk by Red Stage just to see the man in the flesh with my own two eyes. I had places to be, specifically catching Jeff Rosenstock’s set over on the blue stage, which was exactly as energetic, shouty, and boisterous as any Jeff Rosenstock set I’ve ever witnessed. The crowd was jumpin, Jeff crowd-surfed while playing sax, and I ate a Chicago dog while taking it all in, a great way to cap off day one. 

I left before Black Pumas started playing both because I didn’t care to catch their set but also because I was headed over to Subterranean to catch Hotline TNT’s aftershow, which was more like a pre-show since they were playing the next day. I watched the opening band, Graham Hunt, from the upper-level balcony, and then I was able to make it right up front for Hotline’s set, which was a swirling delight of hypnotic riffs and loud-ass guitars. I was beyond tired at the end of day one, but it was worth it to see a band like that play an entire set from less than ten feet away.

Day 2

Chicago’s own Lifeguard kicked off day two with the sort of youthful energy only achievable by a group of kids still approaching their twenties. At various points, the trio shifted around from a traditional lineup of guitar, drums, and bass to drums and two guitars, all rendered in an impressive and jagged post-punk style. The lead singer, Kai Slater, was on crutches, so he played the entire set seated, but with that loss of mobility came the opportunity to use one of his crutches during a solo, which was a helluva way to start things off as we sipped on our free coffee.

I caught parts of L’Rain and Kara Jackson before Saturday’s shoegaze onslaught. L’Rain brought the dreamy vibes with lots of slow post-rock builds, mellow beats, and gorgeous vocals layered on top of everything. I only caught a song or two from Kara Jackson, but they were jaw-droppingly beautiful. At one point, she interpolated SZA’s “Love Galore,” and the crowd let out a “Woo!” of recognition. 

Starting at 2:45, Hotline TNT rocked reliably, fusing together into one giant mass of riffage, and even broke out a few songs that they hadn’t played the night before. The crowd was consistently swaying and head-bobbing but didn’t seem to erupt into the same type of chaos I had witnessed at Subterranean, presumably because people were saving their energy for the rest of the weekend.

Feeble Little Horse were wild to see in concert after feeling like they were on the brink of breaking up after an untimely hiatus right as they dropped their second album. It was still too close to Black Country, New Road’s shakeup, and fans were bummed but understanding as we wished the band the best and hoped for their eventual return. Seeing a song like “Chores” live was an experience; there are so many janky little beats and knotty twists in their songs, it was impressive to see them break that all out live. At one point between songs, the guitarist stepped up to the mic and said, “These are songs from an album Pitchfork gave a seven,” which got a laugh from the crowd before he continued incredulously, “We’re like, ‘why are we here?’ Why do they want us?”

At one point, we were halfway through Feeble Little Horse’s set, and I was glimpsing over my shoulder to see Wednesday sound-checking on the Green Stage and felt like I was in my own personal slice of heaven. To be sandwiched between these two bands I’ve been listening to obsessively for years was almost too much for my brain and brain to compute. 

Shortly after that, Wednesday ripped through a scorching set of career-spanning material, rolling through songs from all three of their albums, plus a Drive-By Truckers song thrown in for good measure. They played a few new songs and lightly teased their upcoming album in an interview directly after the set, with Karly stating she’s even more proud of this batch of songs than their last but promising it very much feels like a continuation of Rat Saw God. Of course, the North Carolinians ended their set with the titanic “Bull Believer,” allowing the audience a chance to air out any anger and frustrations they might have had at that moment, either with life or just the state of the world. It was cathartic, it was twangy, it was beautiful.

De La Soul’s set was a celebration for hip-hop, and as DJ Maseo yelled over the microphone, “40 years of friendship!” Legendary rap group gave the crowd exactly what was advertised with a nostalgic trip down memory lane, performing their biggest hits, “Potholes in My Lawn,” and my personal favorite, “Me, Myself and I,” courtesy of the film Good Burger. Surprise guests Talib Kweli and Pharoahe Monche kept the crowd jumping nonstop. Posdnuos made it a point to tell the fans in attendance that it was his duty to bring it for them every night. De La Soul lived up to that reputation tenfold.
– David Williams

Between sets, I got to chat with MJ Lenderman and capture his portrait in 35mm film, which I like because the photos look cleaner and more classic. Film is timeless; there's a reason why movies today still look better shot in 35mm instead of digital. The portraits of him and the band give a vintage feel that, if you didn’t know better, you might not know if the photo was taken yesterday or 30 years ago. Lenderman's reputation of having an everyman demeanor was right on the mark as he couldn't have been a more gracious and friendly guy as he put up with my silly questions like "Who's your all-time favorite wrestler?" (Rey Mysterio and Mick Foley) or "What ‘dumb hat’ were you singing about that drew so much ire in "Taste Just Like It Costs?" (A golf visor). Truly a hat so hideous that it’s worthy to be sung about with such disgust. 
– David Williams

After screaming it out to Wednesday and catching Karly Hartzman’s post-set interview, it was time for a pulled-pork sandwich and Bratmobile, who brought hearty doses of Pacific Northwest riot grrrl energy. After that vent session, it was time to get a good spot for The Queen, aka Carly Rae Jepsen. We scootched up as close as we could comfortably get while still having ample room to dance and jump around for a solid hour as Carly jumped from one sugary confection to the next. I had seen her back in 2019, and this set was just as elating and life-affirming as the one I saw five years ago. 

Day 3

Day three started a little slower (because I’m in my thirties, and three days of music festing was beginning to take a toll), so we headed over to Union Park an hour or two after doors to catch glimpses of Joana Sternberg, Maxo, and Nala Sinephro.

I took a chance on Nala Sinephro from a friend’s recommendation as “a killer ambient artist,” which was enough to sell me. Although at my first Pitchfork Fest back in 2011, I caught ambient titan Tim Hecker on the Blue Stage, who played right around the golden hour while other, louder acts played on the mainstages, and I can’t say it was the perfect setting. Sinephro was much more than just drones, though; her band ran through spaced-out jazz and rhythmic electronic music as Sinephro alternated between harp and keyboards. It was a beautiful way to ease into day three, and I’m anxiously awaiting her new album in September.
– Logan Archer Mounts

Model/Actriz frontman Cole Haden started the band’s set by coming out, applying lipstick, then walking across the stage and posing with a purse before grabbing the mic. That was about all I saw before catching MUNA and Mannequin Pussy interviews on the side stage, which was a much chiller (and much needed) way to start the day on a relaxed note. 

From there, Jessica Pratt brought some of the prettiest vibes of the whole fest, with everyone in the band sitting, so it really felt like an intimate, laid-back show you’d catch in a backyard or a beer garden. “I look like a pallbearer,” Jessica Pratt slyly says into the mic, dressed in all black, practically melting under the hot mid-July sun. Fortunately, that heat didn’t stop her from delivering an intimate set that the crowd enjoyed with a hushed tone during the full hour, giving Pratt the space to clear out for her brilliant storytelling and gorgeous melodies.
– David Williams

Mannequin Pussy started a few minutes late and dealt with a couple of technical difficulties, but they are true rock stars and ran through their scheduled set exactly as intended. Missy is probably one of the best front people in music right now, dancing, posing, and strutting across the stage without missing a growl. At one point, Missy asked all the boys in the audience to raise their hands because she “wanted to see what kind of fucked up dude would go to a Mannequin Pussy Show” then asked us all to scream “pussy” as loud as they could and simply replied “pathetic” when it wasn’t loud enough. She then asked the entire crowd to scream the same thing simultaneously because everything’s better together, right? They played all the hits off this year’s I Got Heaven and slammed all their one-minute punk tracks back-to-back toward the end of the setlist for a full-throttle injection of adrenaline that kept the pit in constant motion. Simply one of the best. 

How many opportunities do you get to see a hip-hop pioneer live in the flesh? Grandmaster Flash is hip-hop’s Lewis and Clark, so this was a must-see set if only to see the face of the man who helped lay the groundwork for an entire genre. Grandmaster Flash was on DJ duty, spinning the 1s and 2s, keeping everyone’s energy up under the humid heat. Getting to hear the beat to “White Lines” live, one of the greatest straightedge anthems ever, was an absolute treat. Only second to Flash dropping in “Sweet Home Alabama” and then immediately shouting “FUCK A STATE TROOPER!” At the Visit Austin Interview stage, I got genuinely emotional listening to Flash talk about the birth of sampling and his “quick mix theory,” how he used to buy two copies of one record, mark them up with crayon to count how many times a record revolved with one beat loop, and switching between turntables to create the endless pattern. Also, he invented the turntable slipmat with the help of his seamstress mother because there was too much traction on his early decks for him to be able to do his scratching and backmasking. An absolute legend.
– Logan Archer Mounts

I generally think of MUNA as something not for me, but I’ll admit, watching the band bounce around the stage (and off each other) as the sun set was a pretty picturesque music festival experience. The songs started to blend together a bit toward the end of the set, but you know I had to show up and throw down for “Silk Chiffon.”

Care to witness a show based solely on chillwave vibes? Then look no further to the psychedelic rock group Crumb. Their song "AMAMA" was a personal favorite of mine, where it feels like you just get strapped in and feel the grooves from the jump. Whenever you see them, just know that they will have you swaying back and forth like one of those inflatable tubes you spot at random gas stations. 
– David Williams 

Les Savy Fav is exactly the type of band I want to see more of at Pitchfork. I grew up on 2000s indie rock, and even though Les Savy Fav wasn’t my most listened-to band of the time, I had always hoped they would get back out there after their hiatus began in the early 2010s. After an exhilarating performance on Riot Fest weekend in 2021, the NYC group brought the same energy back to Pitchfork, now on the heels of their excellent new album OUI, LSF. Like Model/Actriz earlier in the day, singer Tim Harrington spent most of the set in the audience, beginning minutes before the first note was even played by riding a Lime scooter around the crowd, then straight down the center to the barricade before jumping onto the stage. Harrington was covered in glitter with a neon-dyed hair/beard combo and a shirt that read “I’M JUST HAPPY TO BE HERE,” which was removed a few songs into the performance to reveal the same message scrawled onto his stomach. Whether they were playing their ten-week-old songs or their ten-year-old songs, Les Savy Fav was an uncontrollable ball of energy for the duration of their 45 minutes, raucously closing out the Blue Stage for the weekend. 
– Logan Archer Mounts

Brittany Howard brought electronic-infused funk rock to the Red Stage on Sunday night, going deep into her seemingly endless bag of skills. She quarterbacked the entire set, using each instrument at various points and playing each one with the confidence and panache you would expect from someone of her caliber. She pulled off an effortless and joyous performance that felt like the perfect soundtrack as the sun wound down to night. 
– David Williams

Finally, the inimitable Alanis Morissette closed out Sunday with a set that pulled heavily from Jagged Little Pill in addition to tracks from her entire repertoire, sometimes only playing a verse and a chorus of a song as a transition between two others. It felt theatrical, with potential inspiration from her Jagged Little Pill musical that’s been running the last few years. She had the crowd wrapped around the hand in her pocket the entire time; her voice is still absolutely unreal, and watching her close out such a fantastic and full weekend was special.

Bob Dylan Live At the Veterans Something-Or-Other-Amphitheatre

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I saw Bob Dylan live in concert for the second time at the Veterans United Home Loans Amphitheater in Virginia Beach. Inching into the gravel parking lot, my friends and I saw big signs stamped with warnings that tailgating was not just prohibited but illegal, not that it would’ve been particularly pleasant in the muggy coastal heat, anyway. So we settled for $14 beers inside the complex, a purchase I justified to myself by reasoning that since it’s a 24 oz can, it’s more like two $7 beers, and that’s not an absurd price to pay for a drink, right? Right?

It was the kind of crowd that you would expect from a venue with this name – a crowd that cheered louder for a flyover of Chinook military helicopters during “Ballad of a Thin Man” than they did for just about anything else. Not that this perturbed Dylan, of course. It seems pretty obvious by now that he’s not on tour for the money or some gratification that comes from the cheering masses but just because he likes to play whatever he wants. This is a trait that is charming to some and aggravating to many others.

Consider this chain of events from when I first saw him live last fall: Bob Dylan takes the stage precisely on time. No opener, no set decoration. Road cases are lying on the stage. He and his band play about twelve songs. No banter, no song titles. After the twelfth song, he angles his head toward the crowd and, almost as if he’s surprised that we’re there, says, “Oh! Thank you!” He introduces the band, plays about five more songs, takes a bow, and walks off the stage. Perfect.

True to his shape-shifting ways, the Bob Dylan I saw perform at the Outlaw Music Festival last month was different. Everything felt a bit looser, from the tan shirt he wore unbuttoned down almost to his belly button to the sometimes sloppy arrangements of songs like “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight,” which is the one 60s tune he’s played both times I’ve seen him. He was somewhat chattier, too, addressing the audience a grand total of four times (we counted) and chuckling into the mic when he fumbled some of the words to “Shooting Star.” Bob doesn’t play the guitar anymore, but when he gets excited about a song, he stands up while jamming his hands into the keys of his grand piano. 

But forget the guitar-strumming, the kabuki makeup, and the offputting setlists. Bob Dylan could wear his pajamas and sing nothing but nursery rhymes and it would still be a don’t-miss-it-for-the-world performance because of that voice. Many vocalists lose their luster once they can’t hit the high notes anymore, but Dylan’s voice is still stunningly malleable even after six decades of performing. He sneers and bites through a cover of Chuck Berry’s “Little Queenie,” then softens into a croon for doo-wop standard “Mr. Blue.” Sure, a lot of the appeal for me comes from his Tom Waits-cragginess, but it’s also the little things you don’t expect, the little leaps up into falsetto (“and he walks up to YOU when he hears you speak”), the ends of phrases that sound like snide little comments only you can hear. 

When you hear Bob Dylan sing, it’s hard to imagine that he’ll sing that specific song that specific way ever again. He’ll start a line during the buildup to a verse just to see what it sounds like in words wherever it seems like they belong. His longtime drummer, Jim Keltner, described him in an interview as being almost like a jazz vocalist, and you could really hear it on that Wednesday evening in Virginia Beach. Hoping to sing along to “Ballad of a Thin Man” or “Simple Twist of Fate”? Forget about it. It’s a wonderful gift to hear a song you love and to be forced to pay such close attention, to constantly wonder how the next line will be delivered.

Bob Dylan is 83 years old. He’s been around long enough that some of his songs about old age are nearly 30 years old themselves. And he’s still got it. The band is rock solid, the voice is as interesting as ever, and the songs speak for themselves. Go see Bob Dylan because whatever tour date you end up at, no one else will see anything like it again.

John Dietz is a writer and musician based in Virginia. You can find them on Twitter @johndbdietz or Substack at https://johndietz.substack.com. 

I Hate Music Part 2: Four Days with Carpool

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Click here to read Part 1. Read on to learn what it’s like touring with Carpool.

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When Josh and I first met Carpool at Richmond Music Hall, there were lots of jitters on both their side and ours. The two of us were worried (or at least conscious) of how well we’d assimilate into the group, making sure to stay out of their way and not cramp their style, allowing the members to be as natural as they could while knowing a camera might be pointed toward them at any time. On the band’s side, this was the first show they had played together in almost six months and the beginning of the biggest tour they had ever been a part of. Opening up for emo legends like Free Throw is a blessing and a pressure, but Carpool were ready to deliver. 

That night, I saw the band take the stage and witnessed the same spectacle that poured out of them at Fauxchella just a few months prior. They ripped through a 25-minute set of old and new material alike, stacking fresh singles like “Can We Just Get High?” and “No News Is Good News” up against old favorites like “Whiskey & Xanax” and “The Salty Song.”

Gradually, I watched the band win the crowd over more and more with each song, which was a trend I noticed at all three shows. The beauty of a song like “Can We Just Get High?” is that it’s dumb and straightforward, but because it’s dumb and straightforward, that also means it’s catchy as hell. Pretty much anyone can hear that chorus once, get it, and join in before the second one is even over. 

With the first song, I’d notice lots of head bobbing, swinging hips, and nodding along. By the second song, a few people might be finger-pointing or filming short clips on their phones. By the end of the set, at least a few people would be headbanging, thrashing around, shakin’ ass, and screaming along. It was beautiful to watch this transformation happen each night with completely different crowds of people; it felt like I got to watch the genuine power of rock music happen again and again. 

Left to right, Carpool is Stoph Colasanto (Lead Vocals, guitar), Torri Ross (Vocals, Bass), Alec Westover (Drums), and Tommy Eckerson (Vocals, Guitar). Photo by Abby Clare.

Even though there’s an entire documentary showcasing Carpool’s live presence, it’s worth breaking down a little bit here. Just like in the band’s music, Stoph Colasanto is happy to fill the role of charismatic ringleader. He has a yowling, scratchy voice that defaults to a scream but can also stretch and hit a beautiful high note whenever he needs to serenade. To give you an idea of fits and vibe, I saw him rock a David Cone Jersey, black leather cowboy hat, and vintage Hamm’s work shirt across our three shows. 

On the opposite end of the stage, you have Tommy Eckerson, a classic rock guitar god with natural-born solo wizardry and a clear admiration for the greats. He can belt it out when he’s on lead vocals like on “Crocodile Tears,” but more often than not, he is happy to just hit the occasional backup vocal so he can focus on his impressive guitar tapping skills. Tommy dresses in classic single-color outfits like James Dean; he might have a chain or sunglasses on, but not in a flashy way. 

Between them, you have Torri Ross, an Arizona-born bassist who bounces across the stage like a pinball, busting out a high kick and nailing every note along the way with an infectious grin. At one point, Tori said someone compared them to a character from Guitar Hero, so that’s the level of icon we’re working with here. Tori is also a knockout vocalist; their presence makes the band sound even more full, and their delivery during the bridge of “No News Is Good News” would regularly get stuck in my head for hours after each show. 

Behind them all is drummer Alec Westover, a fellow Pacific Nortwesterner who apologized in advance if he was ever a bit of a “space case.” The two of us pretty much immediately spoke the same language, as I also share a rainy-day pensiveness, which means I’m often content to sit back and observe as opposed to being the center of attention. He was usually fitted in another DIY band’s merch or a hoodie with a sports team on it. It was amazing to watch him shift into performance mode each night, busting out 30 minutes of pretty relentless drumming, knocking out every mathy twist and turn of a song like “Whiskey & Xanax” with absolute precision. It was bonkers to watch him hammer out something like that and then find him minutes later backstage chilling like it was no big deal. 

Together, I watched these four rip through the same 25-minute set three times over, and each night, it was nothing short of captivating. The setlist consisted of the same eight songs: they’d kick things off with the two-note nod-along “Can We Just Get High” and then hit us with a Carpool Classic in the form of “Whiskey & Xanax.” From there, the band would wind through songs off each album, with a couple pulled from their recent EP for good measure. If the crowd played along, they’d be treated to a cover of “Teenage Dirtbag,” a nice little throwback that allows for a unique form of participation as half the members of the crowd remember the lyrics in unison, eventually building up to that cathartic cry of “OH YEAH!!! DIRTBAG!!!” 

It’s a wonderful note to end on a non-canonical song because it feels like a fun way to let people know what you revere as a band without taking everything so seriously. In the past, Carpool has put “My Own Worst Enemy” by Lit into a similar spot at other shows, but I could see any Sum 41 or Third Eye Blind slotting in there if the band ever needed any more rowdy 90s alt-rock crowd-pleasers to cap off the set with. On a similar note that I want to include here for completeness sake, I still maintain that Carpool’s cover of “Soak Up The Sun” should have been a bigger deal than it was; that thing is a work of art with an amazing video to match. Regardless, Carpool nailed their Wheatus cover and walked off the stage to raucous applause and maybe even a few new converts. Based on the amount of vinyl I saw the band singing that night, it’s safe to assume people were excited to go home and listen to the new record. 

Behind the scenes, the band was already abuzz with an infectious, if not slightly shitposty energy. Throughout most of our time together, Stoph radiated a charming and hilarious front-person energy, indulging in plenty of dirtbag antics but still keeping everything fun and good-natured, much like Carpool’s music. 

The band members already had an ongoing bit, singing the chorus of Lonestar’s 1999 hit “Amazed” back and forth to each other whenever there was a brief lull in conversation. They’d affectionately refer to each other as “cousin,” a term that felt recently re-popularized thanks to The Bear but, in Carpool’s case, felt steeped in the fact that most of the band members still work in the service industry. At one point after their first set, Stoph turned to me and, over his shoulder, offered, “Cousin is gender-neutral,” a surprisingly open-minded logic for something that just felt like an affectionate auditory tick. There’s also “cro,” a portmanteau of “cousin” and “bro” that served a similar purpose. 

Later on in the run of shows, the phrase “Stand on Business!” would take on a life of its own, eventually becoming a universally positive affirmation you could use to respond to just about anything. Just ripped a set? Stand on business. The green room has the exact flavor of Gatorade you like? Stand on business! Hearing someone bark that out and mentally nodding along in affirmation became a shared language. 

Once the concert wrapped up, Carpool spent a good chunk of time slinging shirts, signing vinyl, and snapping pics with fans. We were only an hour or so from the album’s midnight release, so we hung around the bar long enough to celebrate with the band when My Life In Subtitles officially dropped. The vibes were immaculate; Carpool’s first set of tour went off without a hitch, and the record they had spent years working towards was finally out for the world to hear. We celebrated an adequate amount, but eventually, we all packed up and headed north toward New Jersey, where we had an off-day before show #2.

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After a full day of driving, our “off-day” in Asbury Park was more like an off-night. We arrived at the Airbnb around 6 pm after navigating through the utter hell that is the DC highway system. I’ve driven across the country multiple times, so I’m no stranger to long road trips, but that specific drive reinforced how much of tour is just spent packed in a car getting from one city to the next. It’s a lot of gas stations, rest stops, and fast food. You take vegetables where you can get them and get good at constructing a queue of music and podcasts long enough to stretch across multiple hours. By the time we rolled into Jersey, Carpool already had pizza on the way and YouTube up on the flatscreen TV in the shared living room space. The group flipped from the Gel Audiotree to goofy music videos and, at one point, wound up sparking (mostly ironic) a group sing-along to Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.”

I already had some idea of who Carpool were as people before this, so I wasn’t too worried about anything dramatic or salacious happening during my time with the band. Even still, I was wondering if things would ever get tense or “real” once we were all out on the road together. The closest we ever got to some Behind The Music-style drama was when the band’s manager, Danny Doyle, learned that Tommy ordered from a jerk chicken place without him. This restaurant was apparently a bit of a tradition any time the band visited Asbury, but Doyle was only (jokingly) a little put out that Tommy ordered without him. That exchange, the cold and calculating betrayal at the hands of Tommy, was about the closest the group ever came to rising tensions.

A tender moment between Stoph and Alec

After long enough, Carpool, plus myself and Josh in-tow, moseyed a few blocks down to Georgies, a gay bar, in search of karaoke. While we didn’t find an open mic, I quickly discovered that Torri and Dan were absolute pool sharks as I watched them each go on six-ball hot streaks, sinking multiple billiards into the bar’s only pool table. 

We wound up hopping to another bar that actually contained multiple other bars, a needlessly complicated way to cram several distinct vibes on top of each other. My night almost evoked that one Lady Gaga clip, except it was bar, bar, another bar. At one of these bars-within-a-bar, I wound up chatting with Jake Trieste and Frankie Mancini, two of Stoph’s high school friends who were in town from Rochester just to watch the band perform the following night. They were more than happy to tell tales of putting up with a younger version of Stoph and how it felt like he had eternal senioritis, even back then. “Teachers thought he wouldn’t do shit, but look at him now, he’s following his dreams,” Jake laid out at one point. While I was already privy to Eyes Wide Shut, an (admittedly bad) post-hardcore project featuring members of Carpool and calicuzns, Jake was the first to inform me of Stoph’s high school rap project, something I’m still hoping I’ll be able to get my hands on at some point, if the files still exist at all. 

That night, I ended up having some pretty in-depth discussions with most of the band members. At one point, Tommy and I were embroiled in a conversation about our shared reverence for classic rock, specifically Van Morrison. He informed me how this admiration for that older style of rock music influenced his approach to songwriting for the new LP, and I could totally hear it. The proggy guitarwork at the end of “CAR” and the fiery solo at the end of “Can We Just Get High?” made total sense when placed in a lineage of boomer rock I inherited from my dad. 

Similarly, Alec and I were both from Oregon, a fact I didn’t know until I saw him sporting a forest green University of Oregon hoodie. Bonded by that shared upbringing and mutual appreciation (or tolerance for) rain, the two of us got deep talking about the creation of Subtitles and how it compared to the band’s previous work. He explained his role as drummer and how the instrumental parts for some of the songs on this record took shape long before the lyrics were in place. 

The group communally discussed their shared appreciation for Bug Jar, a 200-cap music venue in Rochester that the band has played so many times they might as well have their name engraved on the rafters. In fact, this July, Carpool will be playing two triumphant nights at Bug Jar, celebrating the release of My Life In Subtitles. The first night will be a set of Carpool classics, covers, and songs the group never plays anymore, while night two will be a full album playthrough of Subtitles for the ravenous hometown crowd. With support from legends like Equipment, Carly Cosgrove, Del Paxton, and Cheap Kids, these shows are gonna be a Carpool summit for the ages.

Carpool Album Release Shows

In a telling moment, at one point, I overheard the band talking to a table of patrons as they were hunting for a lighter. Upon learning that Stoph and Tommy were in a band, they asked what kind of music Carpool made. “Good luck playing Wonder Bar if you’re not a ska band,” one of them warned, “This is a ska-only town,” he said with the most serious grimace one can manage while still talking about ska. 

Knowing how averse everyone is to the “emo” label, my ears perked up to hear what the answer would be. The two band members shared a knowing look before Tommy said, “You wanna know what the actual answer is? Real scumbag rock.” The labels of “punk” and “emo” encapsulate so much yet feel so limiting, especially for a band that just put out a record as diverse and varied as My Life In Subtitles. 

That same night, your boy made a rookie mistake of Taking Too Much. While I’d been cautious to monitor how much I’d imbibed on night one, on night two, I wasn’t drinking at all. Instead, I decided to help stimulate New Jersey’s blossoming dispensary economy. I started the night off with a little baby joint to myself as we were on the way to Bar #1 and felt fine. Actually, if anything, I felt leveled out after a day's worth of travel in the car. My mistake came at Bar #2, where I went back for seconds, cheefing on a $10 pre-roll of Jersey weed that sent me into an actual panic attack by the time we’d reached Bar #3. 

The band had decided to leave the second bar in search of a casino, something that we quickly learned does not exist anywhere in Asbury Park. Instead, the band was stopped by Joey DiCamillo of NJ emo band Straight Jacket Feeling. “There’s no casino in Asbury Park,” he laughed towards our group, “Come on in here and grab an espresso martini.” At this point, I was so deep in my head that I was sure it would be my last night alive. I pulled Stoph outside, muttered an exchange that was probably as confusing as it was incoherent, and walked back to the Airbnb, fully freaked the fuck out. Not exactly my finest moment. 

While that was an all-time embarrassing moment in my life that happened in front of a band I’d long admired, I wanted to include it here for accuracy’s sake and also to illustrate how sweet and kind-hearted the members of Carpool are. By the end of the night, Tommy, Alec, Josh, and I were huddled around a patio set in the backyard of our Airbnb talking (unironically) about the brilliance of the Goo Goo Dolls, and I could feel my anxiety dissipating by the minute. I apologized to Stoph the next day, and he assured me it was okay; Carpool, if nothing else, are a band that understands the experience of getting too high and freaking out; that’s the content of about half their songs. 

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The next day, the group filed into Wonder Bar for a stormy Asbury Park soundcheck, then proceeded to play one of the best gigs I’ve seen all year. The room was electric, with plenty of the band’s childhood friends and old roommates embedded at various spots in the sold-out crowd, plus a glut of New Jerseyans ready to cut loose on a Saturday night. The band played through the same setlist, but this time, Corey from Free Throw joined the band on stage for their Wheatus cover and set the room ablaze. People crowdsurfed, shouted along, and shared the mic, all for the god-damn opener. 

Photo by Abby Clare

After the show packed up, the remainder of Carpool and their friends migrated down the boardwalk to a discotheque blasting 70s soul classics, and the group danced the night away in a moment that felt more than celebratory. For me, it felt like everyone had forgotten about my embarrassing faux paus the night before, getting too high and getting weird, but for the band, it felt like genuine revelry. They had just played an incredible set, signed a bunch of vinyl, and were out dancing with some of their oldest friends. As we were collectively shakin’ our booties to Diana Ross, it really felt like the credits could roll at any moment. 

But there was one more show to play. 

After some post-dancing Taco Bell and unwinding with a one-two punch of the Wednesday Tiny Desk and the Elephant Gym Audiotree, the gang called it a night because we all had to be in Pittsburg the next day for the final show of this leg of the tour. 

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In the Steel City, the gig, once again, unfolded in a similar way, with the band winning over portions of the crowd minute by minute. Between songs, Stoph kept talking about how each track was actually inspired by Mean Girls 2 and were all somehow directly tied to the Tina Fey Cinematic Universe. It was also revealed that “Whiskey & Xanax” is actually about the Lizzie McGuire Lego set that got stolen from Stoph when he was in 5th grade (Genius annotators, you can quote me).

Before we all went our separate ways, Stoph, Josh, and I snuck off for a mediocre dinner at a local Schwarma place. We wound up having a surprisingly involved conversation about movies, but it eventually circled back to music. At one point, Stoph talked about how grateful he is to be around such talented musicians, referring to the rest of his band. He spoke about the difference between being an elite musician who can play something flawlessly versus being a band with personality. Ultimately, the three of us agreed that a balance between those two things is the sweet spot, and we unanimously decided that, after watching three consecutive shows, Carpool sat squarely at that intersection. 

Photo by Abby Clare

At the end of this, it was bittersweet and mostly sad to watch the band’s Honda Odyssey pull off into the sunset on the way back up to Rochester for a week off before going back on tour, but I felt like I had been a small part of something incredibly special. 

Josh and I made a brief pit stop to catch Origami Angel close out the Don’t Let The Scene Go Down On Me’s 17th-anniversary showcase, rounding out an already-emo weekend with a heaping helping of dorky pop rock (positive). 

The two of us checked into our Airbnb, and weirdly, all I wanted to do was listen to Carpool. I listened to all of Nasal Use and My Life In Subtitles before going to bed and found myself loving the album more than I ever had. After seeing the band live, I could pick out Torri’s vocals floating through the upper end of the mix. I could spot Tommy’s guitar wizardry after watching him cast the same spells night after night. I could hear Alec’s study drumming holding everything together, the silent assassin murdering every fill and propulsive hit. I could hear Stoph’s voice, literally and figuratively, across each song and every word as I read along with the lyrics and did the public service of uploading all the words to Genius. Maybe all I needed was six months of listening to this album before it clicked. Maybe all I needed was to watch this band play a couple of these songs live to “get it,” or maybe I had just absorbed so much of Carpool’s energy that I started to feel admiration by proxy. 

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I think you do something like this (I.e., join a band on the road) out of love but also because it teaches you something about yourself. If it’s not already abundantly clear, I love Carpool: the band, the music, the people, and it was an honor to essentially feel like part of the group, even for a few days. I set out to capture this band as best I could and try to tell their story at what felt like an important inflection point in their career; to try to capture and convey what I love about them to an audience that’s completely external to all of this. 

I genuinely believe this band possesses something special, and that’s evident in the footage we captured for this documentary, the music they painstakingly put to record, and the way that these people navigate the world and interact with each other. You can see it in the fandom they’re building, the merch and videos they’re making, and the connections they’ve fostered. Everything is considered, and nothing is half-assed. Nobody is doing it quite like Carpool.

This entire trip, the final lines of Erotic Nightmare Summer kept floating through my head: “Carpool is a band about sharing smiles with friends.” As I watched the members bounce across the stage each night, nailing every solo and sticking every high kick, it was impossible not to absorb some of that jubilation.

So sure, I did this because I adore Carpool and wanted to show what it’s like to be a young rock band ramping up to release the most important record of their lives. And, despite my initial reservations, I do think My Life In Subtitles is a great album, it’s a giant, challenging, wide-set record where no two songs sound the same. The scope is ambitious, the songs are unlike anything the band has done before, and that’s a good thing. My experience with this album, listening to it on and off for months, has unearthed a level of depth I never expected during that first listen on the Metro North. At a certain point, creating a “grower” is a true test of a band, and that’s what Carpool have done with their sophomore album.

In talking to all these people- fans, friends, the touring bands, and even the members of Carpool themselves- pretty much everyone had a different favorite song from My Life in Subtitles. I think that goes to show how varied and diverse this record is. 

Photo by Abby Clare

Sometimes, you reach a point in life where you just have to throw yourself into something full-force and see what happens. This whole experience of joining a band on the road, interviewing people, taking notes, filming things, sitting in on soundchecks, and spending an extended period of time immersed in a pre-existing configuration of people was all new to me. Sometimes you overshoot (or fly too close to the sun), but even when you do, you learn something about yourself. 

In fact, I think that’s largely the story of My Life In Subtitles as an album: the three-act structure of Dirtbag, Meltdown, and Reclamation feels like a universal truth in some ways. You’ve got this unrepentant scumbaginess in songs like “Can We Just Get High?” and “Open Container Blues,” whose upsides are self-evident. Then you’ve got the middle of the album, which covers everything else: romance (Crocodile Tears), recklessness (Kid Icarus), shitty jobs (No News), questioning who you are (Taxes), questioning organizations (CAR), and the crushing weight of capitalism (throughout). Yet all of this is speckled with glimmers of hope. Despite its title, a song like “I Hate Music” is still a nuanced mediation of the love Carpool has for tour life. They wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t love it. 

Much like “Don’t Start a Band” by Short Fictions, a song can be a biting commentary and a love letter because sometimes you can’t have one without the other. You can’t criticize something without loving it, and vice versa. In Carpool’s case, I think it’s clear that this band loves the music they’re making. Just look at their on-stage presence or who they are as people. When you’re performing songs as catchy, inventive, and high-energy as these every night, who can blame you for having a great time while doing it?

But this overarching structure of living like a degenerate, fucking up, licking your wounds, and then trying again with better intentions feels like an appropriately large thing to articulate. This feels like a process we all must go through ourselves at some point. 

Even disregarding some larger narrative, My Life In Subtitles is a collection of feelings and experiences laid bare for the listener. It feels like a scrambled collection of ups and downs, highs, lows, and just plain frustrations of life. In Stoph’s case, he argues that if his life were a movie, it would be a pretty shitty one… But I think that’s how everyone feels, isn’t it? “Who would want to watch THIS?” Fuckin’ terrible show. 

If that is indeed the top-level takeaway from this record, I think it’s funny that my reaction to it was to double down in the opposite direction. To hear an album’s worth of songs about how unglamorous and shitty and fucked up life has been for the members of Carpool, then to want to join them on the road to capture more of that life. If it’s such a terrible show, why am I so drawn to it? Why do I want more? Why do I keep coming back to this record and this band? I think the answer is right there in the subtitles.

Poster by Hallie Kanter

I Hate Music Part 1: An Abridged History of Loving Carpool

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When Chris “Stoph” Colasanto sent me the new Carpool album back in November, I had never been more excited to open a Dropbox link in my life. I’ve been a music geek forever, and even though this blog is nine years old, it never fails to blow my mind when a band I love sends me their music. 

On a surface level, it’s cool to hear an album early before the rest of the world, but on a much deeper level, it means a lot when an artist trusts you with their creations. That also extends to labels and PR people, but when it comes directly from a band member like this, it truly means the world. 

In the case of Carpool, the punk rock four-piece from Rochester, New York, the group had become a quick favorite of mine over the course of 2020. In a year that was crushing, demoralizing, terrifying, and destabilizing in its own uniquely hellish way, Carpool’s music offered me a brilliant ray of optimism that cut through the darkness. 

The whole thing started with a premiere for “Come Thru Cool (Punk Ass)” that I wrote in early May. We were two months into being sequestered in our homes, and everyone was starting to get a bit of cabin fever. I took the single because it sounded like a fun thing to work on, plus the track was a fucking rager. The screamed vocals evoked equal parts Prince Daddy and Every Time I Die, which was a combo I could fully get behind. I also loved how the song churned into this heavy metal tantrum but still managed to have super catchy verses. 

I didn’t think much about Carpool for the next month until the release of Erotic Nightmare Summer on June 5th. I gave the album a listen. Then another. And another. Gradually, I found myself drawn to the record on a pure, unthinking, gravitational level, and the whole thing became muscle memory. Didn’t know what I wanted to listen to? Throw on Carpool. Driving around the winding mountain roads of Denver? Throw on Carpool. Running errands between my apartment, the dispensary, and the grocery store? Throw on Carpool. It became omnipresent and comforting in the best way possible.

Erotic Nightmare Summer ended up soundtracking my year in a way I never could have predicted. The album’s 30-minute run time made the whole thing a breeze that I could slot into my day at any point. The record had an infectious vibe with flashy guitarwork, tight instrumentation, and heaps of hooks that I eventually got pretty good at singing from the comfort of my car. 

Much like the band’s first collection of songs, Erotic Nightmare Summer is still an album steeped in emo stylings, including lots of guitar tapping, group chants, silly samples, and a lyrical run-down of fucked-up behavior. It’s easy to discount “emo” as a descriptor for an almost infinite number of reasons. The genre has had many lives, revivals, periods, and shades, so it means a million things to a million different people, especially when talking to fans from different generations. No matter who you talk to, there’s bound to be a diminutive undercurrent when the word rolls off the tongue. Describing Carpool as an “emo band” sells them short because, even on this first record, they’re more than that. Lyrically, Erotic Nightmare Summer isn’t afraid to delve into heavy topics like addiction, mental health, and failing relationships, but the band navigates these topics in a catchy way that makes them go down easy. It’s actually a very multi-faceted album, even though your average person would probably listen to it and call it punk or, worse, “screamo.” 

Regardless of how you personally view these ever-blurring genre lines, one thing gradually became clear to me by the time December rolled around: this was my favorite album of the year. I had spent too much time with Erotic Nightmare Sumer for my answer to be anything else. 

2020 was a shit year for a lot of things, but I was grateful to have music there guiding me through the good and the bad and the incomprehensible alike. There may have been prettier albums out that year, like Saint Cloud, and even albums that felt more important, like Fetch the Bolt Cutters, but ultimately, I found myself pulled towards Erotic Nightmare Summer for its simplicity. Turns out that when the world is falling apart, the main thing I want is a hook I can sing along with and some riffs I can thrash around to. 

Fast forward a couple of years, and I’m in a completely different place than I was in 2020, thank god. I was still living in Denver but found myself in an exciting new relationship with someone from New York. The long-distance thing was new to both of us, so it was hard, but it felt like we were in it together. We were honest with each other every step of the way and generally found that the beauty and love we felt in this partnership outweighed the pain of being separated by almost two thousand miles at any given time.

A long-distance relationship like this also meant lots of flying; she’d come out to hang with me in Denver, and I’d return the favor, visiting her out in New York. We went back and forth like that for months, with whirlwind week-long visits punctuated by month-long stretches where we’d talk on the phone almost every night. It was hard, but this relationship felt special enough that it was all worth it. 

Sometime in July of 2022, I got a text from Stoph with a link to a new EP from Carpool titled For Nasal Use Only. I excitedly loaded the files onto my phone and spent the back half of the summer familiarizing myself with the five-pack of new offerings from the band. Specifically, I would throw this EP on during many of these long flights to visit my girlfriend out on the East Coast. Songs like “Tommy’s Car” felt like they perfectly articulated the type of love, commitment, and desire for self-betterment that I was feeling at that time. Obviously, the EP’s one overt love song, “Discretion of Possession,” hit that spot too, but as a whole, this collection of songs felt like a shockingly accurate depiction of where I found myself in this new relationship, including all the worries and possible fuck-ups that come with it. 

It’s also worth noting that I had access to these files with zero other information: no album art, no tracklist, and even a misspelling of “Discresion,” which is now a stain on my last.fm account forever. I listened to the songs in the sequence I imagined the band would place them in, but I would also sometimes just let them run in alphabetical order. It led to an interesting relationship with the EP where this pit-stop in the band’s discography morphed into an interactive piece that shifted from one listen to the next. The songs became abstracted in a cool way, but no matter what order I played them in, they all still hung together as a fun-loving 15-minute excursion that built out the exact type of hookiness I loved on Erotic Nightmare Summer.

I still vividly remember playing “Everyone’s Happy” when my girlfriend and I were dogsitting for a friend in New York. It was months before the song would become publicly available, and it felt so special to be walking around the streets of Brooklyn chanting the song’s coda quietly to myself while walking to get a bagel. I know Rochester and New York City are very different things, but I still felt the power of the Empire State flowing through me.  

By the end of the summer, Carpool had officially reemerged with “Anime Flashbacks” as a lead single, and I was beyond excited to see the public’s reaction. I liked the song a lot, but its heavy addition of synth felt like a wary step away from the all-out rock we heard from the band on their debut LP. Again, receiving music early results in this interesting phenomenon, which almost places you alongside the band, wondering how these songs will be received. 

2023 was largely a year of planning for Carpool as the band prepared to drop their sophomore album, My Life In Subtitles. They brought on bassist/vocalist Torri Ross, who brought an excitable, rambunctious energy to the band’s live performances, along with some killer backing vocals, rounding out the group in the best way. With this new lineup solidified, the band took to the road, performing up and down the country, cutting their teeth on the classics and testing out new material alike. They played an hour-long battle set at Fauxchella VI in Ohio, and after seeing this incarnation of Carpool’s lineup, all I knew was that I wanted more. The band’s battle set saw them facing off against Summerbruise, another perennial favorite of this blog, which resulted in an elated 60-minute stretch of my life that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. 

Even without a new record, 2023 continued to be a pretty eventful year for Carpool. They went Ridiculousness-level viral when this video of Stoph puking while playing a gig spread like wildfire on Facebook, Reddit, and Twitter. The band even found a bootleg screen-recorded version that had its own millions of views exclusively from within a Spanish Facebook page. The group ripped a flu-game-style set at Fest 21 in Florida while members of the band were under the weather, and I know it just constantly sounds like Carpool is constantly sick, contagious, or puking, but they had a lot of normal gigs too, like this one at a skatepark in Milwaukee, that looked like the set of a damn movie. Perhaps most importantly, by November, the band signaled their next level-up when they signed to SideOneDummy and dropped the first single of their new LP. Everything was in motion. 

When Stoph sent me a text with the new Carpool album back in November, I had never been more excited to receive a Dropbox link in my entire life. I clicked on the link, and my eyes skittered across all 12 song titles, mind racing with what each could contain. I pressed “download” and started to do my favorite thing: edit metadata. I converted the WAV files to MP3, dragged them into my iTunes library, and synched my phone as if this access could be revoked at any moment. I didn’t even have the album art, but I had the new album from fucking Carpool months before most of the world, and with great power comes great appreciation.

I didn’t want to just half-attentively throw this album on in the background while I worked; I wanted my first listen to be intentional and meaningful. I tend to have this problem with artists I love where I’ll wind up waiting weeks, months, or even years to listen to their newest material because I loved their last project so much. For example, I’m a big Wonder Years Guy, and that love definitely extends to Aaron West, solo material, and pretty much anything Dan Campbell touches. I loved the first Aaron West album so much that when the group released their follow-up in 2019, it took me a whole month to work myself up to listening to it just because I wanted to experience it under the “right circumstances.” 

Carpool had released my album of the year just a few years prior, so this new LP wasn’t something I was going to treat lightly. I wanted to make sure that whenever I sat down and hit play, I’d have enough time to make it to the end. I wanted to put my phone away and listen undistracted, fully absorbed in the music, to take it all in at once. 

Photo by Bridget Hagen

My Life In Subtitles sat on my phone for a week or two until I found myself up in New York for Thanksgiving with my girlfriend’s family. The day before Thanksgiving, she and I woke up early and raced to Grand Central Station to take the Metro North up to Connecticut where the rest of her family was spending the holiday. It was my first time visiting the iconic train station or taking a train out of the city, and my little West Coast brain was just taking in the swirl of activity: college kids traveling to visit their families in other states, people with laptops and real adult clothes getting work done on their commute, various couples watching as the world raced by outside the window. 

Like many of my New York Firsts, this train ride quickly became a core memory. After we had made it out of the city and into the (slightly) more pastoral scenery of northern New York, the cabin began to settle in and quiet down. With over an hour left in the trip, I decided that this would be the perfect time to venture into Carpool’s new record. 

I pulled out my phone, popped in my AirPods, and hit play on My Life In Subtitles. Then the craziest thing happened. I only kind of liked it. 

By this point, I had already heard, written about, and loved the lead single “Can We Just Get High?” but the rest of the album didn’t quite connect immediately. I remember firing off an excited message to Stoph when Cliffdiver’s Briana Wright popped up on “Open Container Blues,” a text that simply read “Cliffdiver!?!?” which I meant to intone like the Tiffany Pollard Beyoncé meme. I remember my brain doing backflips when I heard the “OOH OOH OOH” at the end of “I Hate Music,” but other than that, the album played out, and nothing grabbed me quite like any of the songs off Erotic Nightmare Summer. Weird.

At first, I dismissed this as a one-off experience. Deciding to tie my first listen to such a novel trip might have been too ambitious. Sure, this first impression on the Metro North was memorable, but maybe not the best way to experience an album for the first time. I gave the record a few more spins throughout December and the new year and gradually came to an interesting conclusion about the arc of the album. After listening to it enough times, I began to view My Life In Subtitles in three acts:

  1. A beginning stretch starting with the introductory title track and winding across the first two singles through “Crocodile Tears.”

  2. A more pensive middle stretch starting with “Done Paying Taxes” and ending with “No News Is Good News.”

  3. A leave-it-all-on-the-floor final act starting with “I Hate Music” through the end of the record. 

For a while, I straight-up didn’t like this middle stretch of the album. The songs were sadder and slower and felt far away from the peppy pop-punk shreddin’ of the band’s prior work. At one point, I even took the time to make a reqesuenced playlist, combining my favorite songs off Subtitles and Nasal Use into one album-length experience that flowed in its own way. It wasn’t that I outright hated any of these songs; I was just toying around with them as individual pieces in a way you do whenever you’re a deep enough fan of anything. 

I’d throw on the new Carpool album once every week or so throughout the new year, continuing to digest it, and each time, I’d find little moments that would jump out to me: lyrics or instrumental bits that would land differently than the last time I heard them. I still viewed the album in these three acts and still generally liked the first and third better than the middle, but that ebb and flow gradually just started to feel like part of the journey.

I suppose I can cut straight to the chase and say I actually like the album a lot more now, especially after seeing some of these songs live. A comparison that at one point felt astute to me was lining up these two Carpool albums with Nirvana’s last two albums. Much like Nirvana stacked hook after hook on Nevermind, Carpool backed a bunch of rockin’, cheery(-sounding), sing-along hooks against each other. Then, much like Nirvana got darker, angrier, and a little more writerly on In Utero, Carpool have created something that’s more challenging, engaging, and interesting than a record full of hooks. 

On My Life In Subtitles, the band takes you on this winding overview of their life, which is also your life for the entire duration of the record. They absorb you into this world, make you invested in their journey, and then deposit you off safe and sound with a beautiful little piano loop. This experience is broken down in loving detail through this blog’s own review, one I actually didn’t write but am in total alignment with from an editorial standpoint. I really do think the album is brilliant in a lot of ways, from the songwriting and the instrumentals to the design and packaging to the multitude of music videos they were able to create in the lead-up to its release. Everything culminates in one big, swirling 40-minute monument that acts as much as a document of a life as it is a document about life. 

That brings me to the real core of this piece because, in March, I joined Carpool on the road for four days, catching the band’s first three shows of the year and their album release on Friday, March 22nd. Of course, this was a dream come true. To be able to take time off work and follow a band on the road is something I would never have imagined in the early days of this blog, and I was only able to achieve this through covering a band, engaging with their work, and developing a relationship with them that felt like it was built on mutual admiration.

I didn’t let on about my initial reservations about the album; I still enjoyed it and didn’t want the band members to think I was there for anything else. I believe in Carpool and felt grateful they would open their band up to me in any way, so I asked them, and they said yes the same day. Fucking awesome. 

I enlisted the help of Joshua Sullivan, a local friend, filmmaker, and musician in his own right who knew how to work a camera. At the time, Josh was actually in the process of finishing up his own feature-length film, all shot, edited, and released DIY, which was a scale and ambition I admired. The two of us had already spent a few long nights nerding out about music, so I knew he’d gel with Carpool, too. On March 21st, we drove up to meet the band in Richmond, Virginia, for night one of the tour. We were officially on the road with Carpool.

Click here to watch the full tour documentary and read part 2 of this essay.

Pardoner, Nick Normal, Guitar, Shoplifter, Cherry Venom | Concert Review

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How does one find themselves at the White Eagle Polish Hall – a mid-size event space for weddings and semi-pro wrestling – in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada, at 7 pm on a Thursday night? If that’s where SF punk stalwarts Pardoner are playing, that’s how! Pardoner kicked off their west coast tour with lo-fi shoegaze act Guitar and egg punk weirdo Nick Normal (both from PDX) in Vic on May 9th. Add on support from a couple of local bands – the up-and-coming Shoplifter and first-timers Cherry Venom – and you have a killer bill.

Victoria is a midsize city with an outsized music scene, and the locals’ craving for exhilarating live music is insatiable. But Victoria is also out of the way and seagirt, only accessible for touring bands by ferry, so Thursday night’s show did not come easy. It is thanks to Shoplifter’s Curtis Lockhart and his confidantes Cam and Amber that Pardoner and crew even made it here. The night embodied a real DIY ethos and made me proud of the Victoria music community.

Shoplifter

Opener Cherry Venom made their debut, a humble three-song set channeling the spirit of Kim Deal and Tanya Donelly. Miraculously, the band was immune to first-gig jitters and held a steady tempo, letting the melodic rhythms, roaring guitar, and stabbing bass have their space while the eponymous Cherry’s vocals teemed with righteous indignation. Setting the stage for Pardoner is a tall order for a first show, but they were up to the task.

Shoplifter is the aforementioned Curtis and Cam, joined by the inimitable Matt E on bass, who was pulling double duty with Cherry Venom. Evolving out of their pre-pandemic project Numbing, Shoplifter hypnotizes with drop D riffs that marry post-rock balladry with post-punk drive. Imagine if New Order and Unwound had a child who listens to a lot of Hotline TNT. Curtis’ understated demeanor couldn’t overshadow his enthusiasm – to be playing this gig, to be opening for Pardoner, to see the audience of friends and strangers who showed up for the endeavor. “This was a really hard show to put on...I’m a mess,” he said, sweat beading on his forehead. A subtle smile revealed his feeling of triumph as the band blasted into their final tune.

Middle acts Guitar and Nick Normal are a bonded pair—they share members and equipment, swapping band leaders and instruments between sets. Playing in a thousand different bands is a core part of being in a local scene, and this hodgepodge arrangement gave us Victorians a glimpse into the kindred Portland scene a few hundred miles down the coast.

Guitar

I was most curious to see Guitar live – they’re the solo project of Saia Kuli, and their recent release Casting Spells On Turtlehead garnered buzz for its unique contribution to the shoegaze boom. How would he recreate that brand of noisy, highly composed, layered bedroom recordings live? Against all expectations, Kuli opts for a kind of anti-Strokes approach, taking over lead vocals while his band cranks away. The songs translate well – two guitarists meander and mingle with heavy chorus pedal riffs, extended intertwining lines of discordant guitarmonies that sound like a discombobulated Polvo. Kuli’s low-register vox give off Protomartyr vibes, and his presence as band leader is lowkey; so lowkey, in fact, that he even left the stage a few times to let the volume swell so the jams could have their space. At first, Kuli’s deep voice and mellow vibes sounded sarcastic and disinterested – “You could be anywhere else in the world tonight, but you’re here,” he intoned – but by the set’s end, his gratitude to the crowd and the openers felt genuine.

After a short break and a band member shuffle, Guitar’s guitarist is suddenly playing drums and singing – he's the eponymous Nick Normal – and now Saia is playing lead guitar. From the heavier drone of the previous acts, Normal’s band shifts into a higher gear with tunes that want to scratch your face off – Devo-inspired egg punk, straight hardcore rippers, skronky Andy Gill-style guitar over melodic post-punk bass lines, a bit of synthy weirdness sprinkled in. Mr. Normal on drums is an arresting presence, a real drummer’s drummer with virtuosic timing and panache that steals the scene. It took me maybe 90 seconds after his set ended to snag his soon-to-be-released tape.

NICK NORMAL

Then came the main event. Pardoner’s demeanor, guitar tone, and vocal stylings all scream “SLACKER!” But like any slacker rock band worth their salt, they undermine the moniker with a high-effort and tight-knit performance. Max and Trey trade solos and Thin Lizzy harmonies as they swell from distorted jangle to hardcore ferocity. Both sets of vox are true to the records with a tuneful, tongue-in-cheek nonchalance. The crowd was ramped up and grooving (the partition between drinking and non-drinking sections long since disregarded), and the improbable night of music came to a roaring, exalted climax. While a good share of Pardoner’s tunes are about the dispiriting state of the contemporary indie scene (their newest single is a jaded screed on the “Future of Music”), you could tell they were giving their all—an inspiring, infectious performance.

My only complaint, and the restless crowd clearly agreed with me, is that Pardoner's set was way too short. 20 minutes and done! We were shouting tracks by name (I would’ve loved “When She’s Next To Me”); though clearly tempted to play a few more, they dutifully packed their pedals and cables without another note. It was 10:05 pm in a residential neighborhood, so maybe there was a curfew? But it doesn’t help Victoria’s musical inferiority complex to feel cheated out of a fuller set from one of the coolest bands to venture out here.

That minor grievance aside, it was a hell of a night, and I left the show with my cup full – local bands and touring bands putting on amazing, diverse, original sets with the coolest guitar sounds imaginable and a heart-pumping energy.

Pardoner

What’s the takeaway? Touring bands: give the smaller towns a chance! For an extra stop on your tour, you’ll sell a few more tapes and shirts (and come home with a few more Canadian bills than you expected), maybe crash on one extra floor – but you’ll be doing an act of musical outreach to an underserved community of fans. And local fans: shoot your shot! Message that touring band on IG, hit up your local Polish hall or bowling alley about putting on a show, and cross your fingers. I grant that the economics of touring and throwing shows is tight (I hear the White Eagle Polish Hall charges an arm and a leg), and quite frankly, I’m not sure that Curtis broke even in his investment, but if your town has a good music scene and good vibes, it’s very much an “if you build it, they will come” situation. Invest in your local scene, and it will invest in you.

Matt Watton (@brotinus) is an inveterate music fan and erstwhile academic. An American ex-pat currently living on Canada’s West Coast, you can find him listening to tunes, writing about albums, or making a racket in Slugger. Other passions include baseball and shawarma.