“I was there.”
Those three words serve as a proclamation of being present in a particular nexus of time and space, of being a witness to events in the flesh. Three words serving as bragging rights in an age where we live in fear of missing out, of being the Johnny-come-lately, of being born too late. We live in a digital age where we’re told everything will last forever. But to say “I was there” is to acknowledge that things are, in fact, fleeting. We’re saturated with entertainment—endless distractions are toted around in our pockets and purses, encouraging us to squander our time monitoring the lives of others instead of living our own. But being there? That’s something that no screen can replicate. And at the time these words are being put to paper, we’re just beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel after a year spent shut away from public spaces, and consequently, there’s something even more sacred and special about being a part of a moment, not just as a spectator, but as a participant.
Over the course of their seventeen-year run, Minus the Bear excelled at both capturing and fostering those resonant moments. This is what great music should always do—it should make us exist purely in the present by taking our minds off the regrets of the past or the worries of the future. Yet there’s no shortage of music that basks in nostalgia or is so consumed with looking forward via innovation that it becomes more of an intellectual exercise than an emotional or spiritual event. This isn’t meant to diminish artists with different aims. Rather, it’s meant to highlight an aspect of Minus the Bear that didn’t really get discussed by critics, but that undoubtedly added to their appeal: they struck a unique balance between pushing their music into uncharted territories while crafting melodies and lyrics that felt like snapshots of our collective past. And that unique balance placed us firmly in the present. Musically, they found a way to make guitar-based indie rock seem futuristic. They employed new technology, borrowed production tricks from the latest electronic artists, and reimagined their approach to guitar riffs to make them sound more like glitchy MPCs. Many an artist has become so fascinated by the possibilities wielded by their tools that they forget the importance of a song’s core. Fortunately, Minus the Bear never compromised a good song for a neat trick.
Yes, there was certainly plenty of technical dazzle with Minus the Bear, but there was always a strong human component to their music too. Jake Snider’s lyrics offered up vignettes of modern life that were sometimes wistful, sometimes revelrous, sometimes candid, sometimes coy, but always relatable. From Highly Refined Pirates’ tales of nights out on the town, onwards through Menos el Oso’s tour stories of navigating Spain like the ex-pats in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, and arriving at the reckonings and reflections of VOIDS and the Fair Enough EP, Minus the Bear navigated and documented the freedoms and falls from grace of adulthood in real time. Snider’s voice always hovered in a tenor’s croon, developing the central melody with a sense of distanced melancholy, as if withholding judgement while understanding the full implication of his words. The overall effect is a bit like catching up with an old friend whose life forked off from yours at some point but followed a parallel path. Even if you weren’t actually there, you felt like you were.
You could spin your Minus the Bear records at home and be successfully transported away to some Catalonian beach or the rare snow day in Seattle or a two-star hotel near Saint Germain, but Minus the Bear were the most enrapturing and evocative when they were on stage. Early tours opening for acts like Cursive and Piebald put the band in front of packed rooms at a point in their development where most bands are still begging local pubs to give them slots on weekday nights. And it was deserved. From the get-go, the band had a chemistry together—likely stemming from the fact that they’d all done their time toiling in the underground with other music projects and had developed a comradery as drinking buddies on the Pike / Pine corridor of Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. Consequently, no amount of booze could derail their razor-sharp performances. If anything, alcohol boosted the boisterous spirit of their music, and their live shows gained a reputation for being rowdy, celebratory experiences. The party atmosphere was infectious, and the invitation was open to anyone that wanted to buy a ticket.
There was another facet of their live show that elevated Minus the Bear above and beyond the hundreds of young upstarts hitting the national circuit in the early ‘00s. Yes, they were energetic performers. Yes, they were dialed in and tight. But there was so much sonic information on those albums, and in an era where bands were basking in the limitless potential of ProTools and the orchestral vibes of reigning indie darlings like Arcade Fire and Sufjan Stevens, it was easy to take Minus the Bear’s densely layered compositions for granted. In the live setting, however, the technical aptitude was on full display. Watching David Knudson alternate between elaborate finger-tapping arpeggios and the pedalboard dance of triggering and manipulating sampled guitar lines was a show in and of itself. Realizing the flourishes of drum machine breakbeats and fat synth lines weren’t just studio embellishments but fully integrated components provided by Matt Bayles, and later replaced and further augmented by Alex Rose, who added saxophone and additional vocals to the multi-instrumentalist role, imbued their sound with a whole other modern dimension. The rhythm section was certainly nothing to scoff at either. Original drummer Erin Tate inserted his adoration for hip-hop and R&B into the mix, swapping out the typical cymbal-heavy ham-fisted rock drummer approach for souped up hi-hat accents and a steady four-on-the-floor dance pulse, leaving big shoes for final drummer Joshua Sparks to fill on these live recordings. Bassist Cory Murchy was responsible for anchoring the poptimist club-banger drum approach to the lofty guitar gymnastics, an under-appreciated feat that he handled with smart, syncopated bass lines and a trademark thumbs up to the crowd between songs.
Minus the Bear were adept performers, and it’s hardly a surprise that they became staples in the North American touring circuit for nearly two decades. Fans were loyal, catching every show, which often meant seeing the band on their Spring run and again when they came through in the Fall. These were five men who had cut their teeth in the world of hardcore, where the live experience was the ultimate manifestation of the music. And while Minus the Bear bore little sonic resemblance to the flailing noise-niks of the ‘90s DIY scene, there was an obvious thread to that past in their show’s sweat-drenched energy and urgency.
“I was there.”
It’s a boast made by thousands of fans across North America, Europe, Asia, Australia, and South America with regards to witnessing Minus the Bear live on stage. But as of December 16, 2018, the number of witnesses is now set in stone. On that date, Minus the Bear played their final show after a three-night run at their beloved hometown venue The Showbox. The band announced their break-up earlier that year, allowing fans the chance for one last dance as Minus the Bear made a final sweep across the States. Not surprisingly, the farewell tour was the biggest run in the band’s history, with an epic two+ hour setlist that spanned the entire discography. While Minus the Bear never adhered to one setlist across an entire tour, they did their best to make sure they covered all the personal and fan favorites on their final run, and this album does the best possible job at recreating an average night’s song selection from that last tour. Maybe you were there. Maybe you weren’t, but this gets you pretty damn close. If you were in Seattle, Santa Ana, Philly, New Orleans, San Francisco, Pittsburgh, Detroit, or Sacramento and you cheered loud enough, you might hear your voice between songs, forever cementing your place in this document of a communal experience.
Minus the Bear always had a predilection for tinkering and re-shaping their songs—look no further than the remix album Interpretaciones del Oso or the unplugged renditions of old favorites on the appropriately titled Acoustics and Acoustics II records—so it’s a bit of a shock that the band are only now releasing a live album, especially considering how crucial the live performances were to the band’s legacy. Better late than never, I suppose.
“I was there.”
No, really. Apologies for breaking the fourth wall here, folks. But I was there when Minus the Bear were taking a short break from recording This Is What I Know About Being Gigantic at Bayles’ house in the Wallingford neighborhood of Seattle. The band hadn’t even played a show yet, but I got to hear little snippets of the songs before their public debut. Later on, I was there in a support slot with my own band on one of the Bear’s victory lap tours late in the Highly Refined Pirates tour cycle, and I was there with my bandmates again on the first two stateside Menos el Oso tours. I was also there in the backstage room at the last concert wondering how to put into words all that I felt at the moment, saying goodbye in the short term to individual friends, and saying a final goodbye to a beloved entity and a chapter of our lives. I saw Minus the Bear more times than I could ever possibly count. I don’t say this to brag (okay, maybe a little) but to emphasize that what you hold here in your hands isn’t just a physical archive of a couple dozen songs. These are moments. These are memories. I can tell you where I was when I first heard “Pachuca Sunrise” (our booking agent’s living room in Chicago) or “Fine + 2 Points” (in our band van with a CD-R demo somewhere between Hamilton and Toronto). Every two years or so there was a new Minus the Bear album, and every two years I was a little older, a little wiser, and a little more aware of the impermanence of things. Like so many fans, I was probably a little guilty of taking Minus the Bear for granted. Certainly they would always be a band, right?
Hearing these songs now is a bittersweet experience. For me, Minus the Bear sounds like the encapsulation of my life between the ages of 24 and 41. It’s the sound of reckless abandon, sobering realities, and the bumpy road between. Will I ever hear “The Fix” and not think of a show at Swarthmore College just outside of Philly where Minus the Bear, These Arms Are Snakes, Criteria, and The New Trust managed to go through six cases of beer and two handles of liquor before the Bear even took stage? Hell, how do I even remember that night? Will I ever hear “Diamond Lightning” without thinking of driving into Chicago on the Fourth of July at the end of another tour, Infinity Overhead on the van stereo, Humboldt Park feeling like a warzone with its endless firecrackers and air choked with smoke? Will I ever hear “Invisible” and not be transported back to my apartment in Brooklyn where I closed out the second half of my thirties, feeling very far away from my friends and family in the Northwest, lost in the din of the big city?
I’m sure it’s the same situation for the people you hear cheering between songs on this album. I’m sure every beating heart in the room had their story about when they first heard Minus the Bear and how certain songs were accompaniments to profound or pivotal life moments. I have friends who talk about Pirates as being the sound of their first apartment, or Planet of Ice as the guide on their first psychedelic experience, or OMNI as the soundtrack to their last summer before entering parenthood. “Seventeen years sounds like a long time, but once you’re standing on the stage after 17 years, doing this, it doesn’t seem long at all,” Snider says in a break between songs on Farewell. “Every day is this day, tomorrow is just a concept. You have to just be here now. It’s gonna go by as fast as you can imagine.”
And today turns into yesterday, and yesterday eventually fades into some vague composite of the past. But put on your favorite song and time becomes irrelevant. The past folds into the present. The future is just the next chorus.
I was there, and I am here right now, dropping the needle onto the spinning platter. And as the opening keyboard drone and stick-click four count ushers in "Drilling," I'm comforted by knowing we’ll all be young forever.
Brian Cook
Seattle / Spring 2021