Jeff Rosenstock @ Stereo, Glasgow, 21 May
The thrill of following most bands is in watching them grow with the years. Evolution is key to keeping fans interested, as well as to just being a sane human. Weirdly, the thrill of following Jeff Rosenstock lies in him being stuck in the same place he’s always been. No growth, except for a few pounds. No change, except for bigger crowds. Now he’s in his thirties, dressed in a neon green tank top covered in ice-cream cartoons that sticks to his sweaty chest as he bounces around on stage like a teenager — it’s glorious.
Rosenstock's latest batch of albums has dealt with the panic festering inside thanks to this lack of growth; while his friends get married and move on from the DIY scene, he’s still a punk kid who gets high all day because he hates himself. Of course, there’s been plenty of music growth for Rosenstock this past decade, and watching him excavate these deeply personal jams in the flesh it’s clear he has it more together than he lets on. These are tightly constructed songs, delirious in their melodic agility, and impeccable in their approach to dynamics. What’s most impressive is how Rosenstock delivers it all like it’s off the cuff, like he hasn’t worked his whole life sharpening his skill as a performer.
Since his Bomb the Music Industry days, spontaneity and a giddy messiness have been at the core of his pull. During the band’s warm-up, they jam along to Talking Heads' Burning Down the House, which plays over the venue's speakers, while Rosenstock tunes his guitar with one hand, flamboyantly gesturing to the crowd with the other. He tells dumb jokes to rile us all up, like he’s talking to lifelong friends, and in some corner of the room he’s sure to be, given his cult status.
When the set gets going, it’s pure catharsis. Thrashing drums, sing-along choruses and oddball lyrics, delivered at a pace that means they’re often swallowed by the thick, bright guitars — not that it matters; most of the crowd seem to know these anthems word for word. Fists are in the air for Nausea, an off-kilter piano rocker about not wanting to talk to your loved ones for fear of disappointing them. What’s a better tone than that to throw a party to? The band careen through much of his new album, Worry, in one dizzying swoop, the tracks merging into a sweaty rave.
Even in this abridged context, these songs don’t lose their power. In fact, each piece adds to the momentum. Volatile is an understatement, but it’s the kind of crash landing that beckons us to enjoy the spectacle.
At the encore, fans jest by shouting out requests for Weezer (Rosenstock’s gimmick bears an eerie similarity to the one River’s Cuomo has been peddling for just as long now). The band oblige, tearing through The Sweater Song until it falls apart when they forget to modulate, according to Rosenstock’s camp howls. It could be a gig at your friend’s party if it wasn’t for what follows — an elongated version of You, In Weird Cities, the angst stretched to its upper limits. It’s enough to make you want to rock up as a roadie, wave goodbye to education, and scream "WE’LL NEVER GO BACK" for the rest of your time.