A synth swell, a heartbeat pulse, the kind of thing that makes you check your own wrist, just to confirm you’re still here. Bleachers don’t so much start as emerge—Jack Antonoff appearing like a man who’s already halfway through a conversation, mid-sentence, mid-sprint, like he’s been chasing a thought around in his head and now he needs to drag the rest of us into it. “I Am Right on Time” lands like a thesis statement. Antonoff wears his neuroses like a Springsteen wears a bandana—sincerely, unironically, like armor. The crowd sways, leans in. We’re all agreeing to this fiction together.
There’s something about Bleachers live that makes you nostalgic for things you’ve never actually done. Driving along an American highway at dusk, wind in your hair, even though you don’t own a car and haven’t left Brixton in six months. Kissing someone at a gas station under flickering fluorescent lights. A breakup that hurt in a good way. The music manufactures these memories for you, assembles them like a scrap book you forgot you had. “Modern Girl” kicks in and the crowd lifts as if on command, but not like it’s forced. This song is a neon sign buzzing above your head, a promise of something new, something immediate.
Jack Antonoff does not stand still. He is a man in motion, a wire fraying at the ends. When he’s not gripping his guitar like it owes him money, he’s flinging himself towards the mic, towards the edge of the stage, towards the crowd, as if proximity could make the connection stronger. There’s a moment in “How Dare You Want More” where the saxophone takes over completely, and it’s absurd, really, how this should not work, this 80s movie montage heart attack of a song, but the room gives itself to it completely. The sax solo stretches, unfurls, and suddenly it’s the whole world. You could live in this moment forever, if only it wouldn’t collapse under its own euphoria.
The problem with being a producer, a fixer of other people’s sounds, is that when it’s your turn, you carry too many ghosts with you. You hear them all in the DNA of these songs: a little Fun. in the chorus swells, some Lana Del Rey melancholy hanging in the air, St. Vincent’s precision peeking through in the arrangements. And of course, Springsteen—always, in the way Antonoff yells into the void like he expects a response, in the way these songs seem built for a stadium that doesn’t yet exist. “Don’t Take the Money” is pure catharsis, sung back in one communal, defiant howl. A song about love, or betrayal, or some ineffable longing that has no name.
Somewhere in the back, a man in his forties clenches his fist and screams along. A couple twirl each other in the flashing lights. Someone throws their hands up like they’re trying to catch the melody itself. “Stop Making This Hurt” closes the set and for three minutes, the whole place is moving as one, an entire venue bouncing in the glow of its own emotional exorcism.
Antonoff lingers after, takes a breath, shakes his head like he’s just woken up. The lights come on too quickly. The spell breaks. We file out into the Brixton night, neon-streaked and slightly dazed. Like something just happened, but we’ll only realize what it was later, when we’re halfway home, staring out the window, and a song from tonight loops in our head, unshakable, still vibrating in our bones.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
“We Love Live Music” is a new platform dedicated to celebrating the energy, passion and joy in live music – thank you for visiting our site! You, the gig goers & festival goers, are a big part of the “We..”. So we’d love to hear from you, share your views or gig stories in the comments below the reviews, or tag us in your socials in your posts from the shows. Look us up on TikTok/IG/Facebook/YouTube where we’ll be posting regular content
