A degree of separation comes good for those who wish to separate their frontman capabilities and behind-the-scenes wonders. Jack Antonoff has come good producing Lana Del Rey and Taylor Swift, though recent efforts have slipped through his fingers and provided little for the inevitable, shining stardom of powerhouse lyricist Rey and pop-turn phenomenon Swift. Bleachers, then, is an escape for Antonoff, who is forever tethered to more popular musicians through his dab hands in the recording studio. Moving as Bob Dylan did under the Jack Frost moniker, Antonoff presents Bleachers, the self-titled work which finds him pulling another massive audience. He has learned little from being in close contact with fine lyricists.
Continuations of dead love linger on opener I Am Right on Time – a sharp Antonoff piece which notes the dying days of love, be it with a partner or family member, is just the beginning. Sharp bits like this should come frequently enough to Antonoff, though Bleachers finds itself without consistency. I Am Right on Time is a neat opener, a comfortable welcome to an album which soon darts for this blur of Bruce Springsteen-like jazz and Saturday Night Live show opening. It works. Modern Girl is decent enough, though the words “decent enough” only get you so far – and for Bleachers, the frustrations of Antonoff’s production come clear. These tracks feel weightless because little life or love is truly embedded in them.
Yes, the jazz sections and saxophonist Evan Smith may be a great pleasure when given the spotlight, but it does not fix up the questionable lyrics of Jesus is Dead or the flatlining university days of Alma Mater. These tracks flutter through with some sudden barrage of emotional clarity, a reserved Antonoff turns the mood down and tries to strip back the most interesting part of the band, its instrumental players. Woke Up Today and Self Respect have all the same pacing and flourishes of a Taylor Swift track but without the emotive clarity which, whether genuine or not, Swift can make the focus. Bleachers struggle to mount those emotional surges because their songs, at the best of times, sound ripped from decade-old coming-of-age films. Imagine some suburb in America where a lead character is running down the street and you can already hear the instrumental mix of Self Respect.
Antonoff may be affected by truth and grief, but he cannot create anything to separate himself from the already busy pack of musicians vying for attention in the same spots. Hopes, hate and maturity are bedfellows of artists across the globe and for Bleachers to have this sense of being the first to address them is acutely dense. For all of Antonoff’s wordplay, very little of it marries the specifics of his emotions and the broad metaphors which could benefit the sudden interpretations these instrumentals are capable of. The more it goes on, the more this self-titled effort feels like it is squandering the good faith placed on its opening tracks. It dwindles and dwindles, never finding the courage to make something like We’re Gonna Know Each Other Forever feel truly emotive or connected to the real world. It exists as a constant frustration, an artist who fears putting his feelings in the spotlight yet uses them so clearly for inspiration.
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