Whether it’s the now-memetic low angle photograph of the Urbana, Illinois house from their first album cover or the twinkly open tuning riffs of “Never Meant” that have gained synonymity with airy, adolescent, “emo” music (user-dependent on how misapplied that term may be): if you’ve spent any time online searching for music, you’re probably familiar with American Football. Since their 2014 return cemented their status definitively as here to stay, they’ve put in considerable work redefining what American Football means the further they get from the inescapable identity of LP1. LP2 largely operates as a vestige, full of songs written with ingrained expectations in mind, aged up slightly in subject matter. Not that it’s a bad thing, but one could consider it pastiche, were they not borrowing from themselves. It was LP3 that brought about blatant change as Mike Kinsella and company abandoned any preconceptions, crafting an unrecognizable version of the band; one that makes music informed only by what interests its players now as opposed to the resurrected spirit of 1999. The passages grew longer, the tone darkened, shoegaze tendencies arose, and guest vocalists were called in to share the mic with Mike. All these elements maximalized their scope and ostensibly acted in defiance of their association, thanks in no small part to the increased compositional involvement of nonoriginal member (and cousin) Nate Kinsella. So now that they’ve successfully charted a new course, where do they go from here? LP4 gets to answer that exciting question.
Any opportunity Mike’s afforded to sing in his various projects over the past several years skews intensely autobiographical with a self-deprecating, piteous slant. “I’ve got a reputation of fucking up to uphold,” goes the refrain of “On With the Show” from his solo project Owen’s The Avalanche; a line that encapsulates the emotional well he’s been drawing from since LP2’s depictions of the rocky beginnings of the end of his marriage. The streak of shame he carries has peppered everything since with varying degrees of histrionics and nakedness, blurring the lines between projects. Regardless of these diaristic extensions, American Football is still very much a band. As proof, the first thing heard on opener “Man Overboard” is Nate’s creeping, shamanistic vocals, eventually giving way to Steve Lamos’s beguiling drum pattern. The master timekeeper anchors his count with the steady click of the hi-hat but its audibility is faint, serving merely as an internal metronome while he pounds away at every other surface in a complicated, wobbly cascade. Seasick to the core, LP4 boldly kicks things off dispensing of any pleasantries, painting a fateful walk across a vessel’s deck in the middle of a squall, praying for a return to balance. Mike, the siren to his own shipwreck, echoes in among the sturm und drang, “It’s hopeless.”
The bad vibes follow this ominous outset on “No Feeling” assisted by Brendan Yates of Turnstile, whose tempered backing vocals could easily be mistaken for that of Mike’s. The guitar textures order recklessly off the à la carte menu, starting with a heavy treble and thick flanger combo indebted to an affinity for Bernard Sumner, trading off for a spectrum of thrashing distortion, thickly coated in reverb. When the vibraphone hits over the sulky bars of “Help me dig a hole / I’m already cold / I honestly never planned on getting old,” they sound rightfully atonal; seemingly accidentally so, until you hear it repeat as intended. If the band sounds like they’ve been hired to provide mood music to a haunted house in this moment, it’s because Mike’s headspace cannot help but set a similar scene.
“Bad Moons” is an eight-minute opus that offers the final word on LP4’s downer habit, and it makes for one hell of an exit. Nate has overachieved when it comes to “earning” his place as a permanent member of the group despite not being around for the slimmer lineup responsible for all the mythmaking in the first place. So many of his clever low-end grooves are responsible for granting Mike and Steve Holmes the extra space to launch their sonic palette into the stratosphere, and it’s on “Moons” that he delivers one of his best works to date. Atop melodically spun legato bass double stops, an aching guitar line weaves around it, doused in a reverb intensity that can only be described as delicious—sometimes you can have too much reverb, but this is not one of those times. The tidal wave of grief and guilt Mike’s amassed thus far comes crashing down as he lists a litany of admissions most would shy away from having broadcast publicly. It’s like someone snuck a recording device in his confessional and he’s under the impression that the simple gesture of conceding these faults out loud doubles as atonement; he may as well add abashed full transparency to his list of vices. If there is penance given in response, we only are able to hear Lamos explode behind the kit, performing a searing flurry of hits, acutely backdropping the high-tension climax before gradually fading behind the melancholy bass and guitar reverb bath that initiated this vicious cycle.
You’d never know it from the wake of “Moons”, but from then on… LP4 is super fun. “Patron Saint of Pale” claims the superlative of American Football’s most experimental tune without a doubt, while staying enduringly palatable. Reflecting on awkward and angsty earlier years, they employ an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink attitude including hyperactive handclaps, childlike vocalizations, sudden distorted nonsense, and the childlike singsong “No halo” taunt; fittingly creating an aural outdoor recess for play. As so much of its magic and flourishes lie in the juggling act of its complex production, this would surely be the most fascinating album cut to chart the evolution of. Here’s hoping a demo surfaces in the near future.
On the flipside, “Wake Her Up” spends its first two thirds as possibly the most straightforward tune in the band’s catalogue. Strutting along at an unfussy 4/4 (tough break, mathletes), it’s easy but catchy dream pop by way of The Joy Formidable paired with an overdriven guitar solo so barebones and direct that a novice could learn it in minutes. Wisp—born five years after LP1—shatters any divide between Gen Z and Gen X with her cottony ethereal vocals; the key ingredient and titular hook to the song. “Desdemona” shifts focus to an imperfect romance, still infinitely breezier than anything tackled on the record’s front end. It’s the hope for a happily ever after that resides in wounded hearts that keeps this song walking on air, levitating inches off the ground due to the undeniability of its own drunken affection. The pining fills every cranny; even Nate’s bass phrases in the verses end with a rare string bend, soaring upward; the only direction for the smitten. If this monument to fools rushing in doesn’t get you woozy with longing, Gelsey Bell’s hypnotic walls of alveolar stops will.
“No Soul to Save” closes out LP4 with a modest choir joining Mike in some unexpected dabbling in faux-gospel, letting the sun’s rays shine on the final word in his snarky mantra: “I’m not afraid / I’ve no faith and no soul to save.” For all this album’s initial bellyaching and self-loathing, the sequencing chooses a trajectory that insists it will all come out in the wash. It’s a delightfully arrogant anthem for the enlightenment of being unenlightened. A touch of Mike’s humorous petulance goes a long way in conveying his comfort level—however reluctant that may be—with being himself, warts and all.
If this latest namesake full-length bears any unique answer for what makes this persistence so exciting, it’s that American Football—much like their accompanying legacy—have ballooned in every conceivable way. Through word of mouth and the internet, an absolute gem from University of Illinois hit the big time and now has the momentum to make enlisting the likes of modern-day icons like Brendan Yates and Hayley Williams more than reasonable. Multinational tours—once a far cry from gigs at Fireside Bowl—are in demand. It will always be impossible to overshadow the gravitational pull of LP1’s nostalgia, but their ongoing victory lap as adults breeds genuine curiosity and inspired searching.
You may purchase the record here.
