Ted Leo “The Hanged Man”
Three brothers from New Jersey.
It sounds like the first five words in the set up for a mob movie, but it’s not like that. All three of these brothers are musicians. The youngest plays the drums and looks like he could hang drywall, but also like he could teach high school math. He’s solidly Jersey, but also attended a prestigious design school. The middle one is downright pretty — lithe and maybe a little bit fey. He plays guitar and sings in Hardcore Emo bands before those two words were put together. Girls really like him and he seems to really like them. Both of these younger brothers love to make music, but it turns out not to be their careers. Or at least not entirely. The oldest brother, however, is not like the others. He’s a lifer. The real deal. He can write and play and sing. His songs jump off the page. His voice explodes from the mic. He’s quite possibly important. His name is Ted Leo.
Outside of Minor Threat and (as a result) Fugazi, I never paid much attention to east coast Hardcore. So, while the Leo brothers were regulars in the scene during the Nineties and though I would soon begin to see them playing out in their respective bands, in early 1997 I knew nothing about any of them. But then one night, I arrived early at a concert in a tiny basement room of a Cajun restaurant, and accidentally heard Chisel for the first time. From the very first moments of their very first song (“Hip Straits”), I knew that Ted Leo was different.
He doesn’t look all that different. He lacks the hipster grace of his brother, Chris, and the “this guy could be a party or he could be trouble” weight of his brother Danny. He is average height and build. He dresses in jeans and basic buttondowns. He’s neither menacing nor waifish. He looks more like a rhythm guitarist or bassist than a frontman really. But, once he starts to play, he transforms into an Irish freedom fighter by way of a London mod by way of a D.C. Punk by way of Jersey. In Chisel, the sound leaned just slightly more Minor Threat than The Jam. But, by 1999, the year he formed The Pharmacists, Ted Leo located his sound — an incendiary mix of Elvis Costello, Billy Bragg, Big Star, Fugazi and a dash of Thin Lizzy.
From 2000 through 2010, Ted Leo was the mainest of Indie Rock mainstays. Recording for three beloved indies (Lookout!, Touch & Go & Matador), he and his band released a string of reliably thrilling albums, full of purpose and epic story. But it wasn’t just the messages. Yes, his politics were heady and his stories were literate. But his super power was how he did all of that and wrapped things up in hook after hook, making it feel less like big ideas and more like big fun.
Ted Leo’s music was fun! He was fun — in ways that Folk music and Punk Rock and Hardcore rarely were. Even when the subjects were serious (which was not uncommon) and the chords minor (which was less common), he and his band were joyful. Some of this pleasure was surely his voice, that high tenor that bends but never breaks. Some of it was the familiarity of his riffs, which bridged the gap between Seventies Power Pop and Arena Rock. Some was his onstage banter, which soothed the bite of his politics. But mostly, it was just him — a ball of energy, neck craning towards the mic, having a blast.
In 2005, I saw Ted Leo and The Pharmacists play a smallish club show in Montreal. After a rousing version of “Me and Mia” (the only song I know about an eating disorder that is also an Indie Rock singalong), the venue’s sound started to give. The band fought their way through things for a few minutes before the challenges required intervention. But whereas others might have grumbled or stalled, Ted Leo simply told his band to hang on while he plugged in and played “The Boys are Back in Town” — solo and directly through his guitar amp. No vocal mic. No board. No band, really. Just a songwriter — a working musician, a troubadour — who realized his job was — first and foremost — to help people have fun. And, for three minutes, with just his guitar and naked voice, Ted Leo confirmed that he was most excellent at that job.
So excellent, in fact, that it seemed a foregone conclusion he would one day break through into the mainstream. That Ted Leo would soon be an important prestige felt inevitable. If they could have their Billy Bragg and their Elvis Costello, we could have our Ted Leo. He was simply too good — too musical, too smart, and too hard working to imagine an alternative.
Throughout the Aughts, the sparkling reviews continued, along with the admiring interviews, the college radio hits, and the steady sales. Until, eventually, he reached the height of sub-popularity. And then, just when we all assumed something monumental was going to happen for Ted Leo, it did. But it was not what anyone expected. It was the inverse of what we expected. Times a billion. In 2011, Leo and his wife lost a newborn daughter. It would be another three years before he released any new music.
I’ve no idea how parents who lose a child make it to the next day, much less the day after that. The idea of returning to normalcy — or to whatever came before — seems impossible. And yet, heroically, many parents find their footing. They work again. They love again. Nothing is ever the same, but also maybe the perspective is wider and the feelings deeper. Whether that was the case for Leo and his wife, I have absolutely no idea. What I do know is that, after releasing seven albums and several EPs with The Pharmacists between 2000 and 2010, and after working his way right up to the thin line between Indie stardom and mainstream crossover, Ted Leo sought cover. “Brutalist Bricks,” from 2010, was the final album from Ted Leo and The Pharmacists.
When he reemerged, it was not alone, nor was it with his band, but rather alongside Aimee Mann as “The Both.” The Both were a singer-songwriter super-duo who, on their surface, didn’t make a whole lot of sense but, at their core, were an obvious fit. Leo’s excitable high tenor contrasting with Mann’s laconic lower range. His east coast hardcore edge blending with her west coast cool. His songs are full of sharp corners while hers unfurl gradually. But, for all their superficial differences, the pairing worked. They are both writers’ writers. They share progressive politics. They value craft. They look great together. They were everything that NPR listeners wanted but had never considered.
Between 2012 and 2015, The Both toured regularly, delighting packed houses of aging Indie parents, young at heart New Wavers and Starbucks devotees. They released one completely lovely, predictably skilled album, trading vocals, sharing stories and ideals. “The Both” debuted in the top one hundred of the Billboard album sales charts and stuck around towards the left of the dial for more than a year. It was the project that could have — should have — nudged Ted Leo up a rung or two, from Indie darling to mainstream prestige artist. But, alas, it did not. At a time when album sales were plummeting but before streaming services had become entrenched, when Barrack Obama was President and progressive ideals were assumed, The Both were warmly embraced an easily released. The bi-coastal act was hard to sustain. It was expensive and logistically complicated. And so, three years after they arrived and five years after his last “solo” album, Ted Leo was once again a beloved artist with uncertain career prospects.
On the other side of forty, without a label and having done so much and having come so close so many times, Ted Leo did eventually reemerge. It was obvious he still needed to make music. What was less clear was whether he still wanted to make music — whether the tragedies he’d endured, the changing political climate and the impossible economics of his chosen field were surmountable. As for the former question, we’d need to wait and see. As for the latter one, we soon found out. Rather than work with a label or band, and in a move that was as desperate as it was shrewd, Leo took to Kickstarter. And though he was by no means the first to do so, Leo’s crowdfunded album was among the most successful campaigns of its kind. Over three thousand backers donated over $165,000 to make his next album — his first billed simply as “Ted Leo” — a reality.
Released — as promised on Kickstarter — in the fall of 2017, “The Hanged Man,” sounds unlike every other Ted Leo album. Specifically, it does not sound like the work of a band. Or rather to whatever extent it sounds like the work of a band, it sounds like a one man band. There are ostensibly three credited musicians on the album — Ted Leo, Chris Wilson (who adds occasional drums) and Adrienne Berry (who adds even more occasional saxophone). And so, naturally, “The Hanged Man” leans on the singer and his primary instruments — voice, guitar and keyboards. Bass is employed regularly, but modestly. And rhythm is created more through Leo’s pacing than through percussive instruments. You can almost hear the one man avoiding the instruments he struggles with and filling their spaces with more vocals, more guitar and more piano.
Whereas for most of his career, Leo’s high tenor was mixed forward and unadorned, on “The Hanged Man” it is frequently doubled (and tripled) up through delay effects and peppered with reverb and distortion. At fourteen songs and with a one hour run time, the album has both an obsessed over quality and a slightly unfinished feel. It doesn’t sound so much like demos as it does like the product of an artist who wanted to over-deliver and arrive on time, but who could have used extra hands in the studio and more runway before the clock ran out. What Leo gives up in concision, however, he pays back in vulnerability — “The Hanged Man” has lots of feelings.
The press surrounding the album was understandably interested in the pain and setbacks that Leo had endured — the loss of a newborn daughter, the revelations of childhood sexual abuse, and the disappointment of the 2016 presidential election. The narrative that developed was of a once unbreakable spirit who’d either buckled or broken, but who was picking up the pieces. And, without question, there are moments on the record that are consumed by tragedy, wherein the version of Big Star that Ted Leo is nodding towards is more “Sister Lovers” than “Radio City.”
“Moon Out of Phase,” for example, which opens the record, is a dark spiral about the disorientation that (more than) half of Americans felt on the morning after the 2016 election. Tonally, it’s menacing and heavy — like a bad fever dream. Whatever gloom or doom that the opener portends, however, mostly passes through. What’s left behind is less sunny idealism and more partly sunny pragmatism. “Can’t Go Back” is a knockout vocal — Leo’s elastic voice clear as a bell — on top of a delightful piano jaunt. It evokes many things, but mostly mid-Sixties McCartney and the very best of Rufus Wainwright. Its sweet melody thinly veils a deeper anguish, but that’s precisely why it works — and why it works better than the outright brooding tracks. Leo’s gift is not his angst or torment, but rather his craft and energy.
The cost of the sprawl is an occasional lack of fit and finish. The benefit, though, is variety. On “The Hanged Man,” we get many versions of Ted Leo. There’s heavy and dark, pert and pop, relaxed and acoustic, and fast and excited. He takes on religion (“Nazarene”), he ponders marriage (“Make Me Feel Loved”), he wrestles with middle-aged ennui (“Can‘t Go Back”) and he, of course, gets political (“William Weld in the 21st Century”). That breadth can feel like a compilation of essays united by author and era more than by theme or thesis. But, just when you fear that he’s either lost you or lost himself, Ted Leo sharpens his focus. “Run to the City” has undeniable, Punk urgency, recalling The Jam’s “In the City,” while “Anthems of None” channels Paul Weller’s easy charm. Time and again, just when you think he’s adrift, Leo’s hard work starts to work again.
If the first half of the album sounds hesitant — unmoored even — its second half consistently lands. Much has been made about “You’re Like Me,” which alludes to childhood sexual abuse, and about “Lonsdale Avenue,” which is about the death of his daughter. But Leo’s greatest asset is not his vulnerability (which is beautiful and laudable) but his craft. And nowhere is his craft more evident than on “The Smug Little Supper Club,” a master class in the style of “Armed Forces” era Elvis Costello. Big hooks. Bouncy bass. Electric guitar and keyboard. Sharp turns. Biting satire. And more syllables than you think a Rock song could reasonably contain:
And all the kiddies at your table sipping vinegar from flutes
You tell them it's champagne and then you charge them to believe you
For the sake of what they're paying, oh, I wish that it was true
'Cause I remember heady days when they were my friends too
One hour after it starts with “The Moon Out of Phase,” Leo returns to Earth’s satellite, opting to watch the pain from afar on “Let’s Stay on the Moon.” It’s a dirgeful bookend to an album that is sometimes deeply sad, and occasionally hopeless, but never, truly defeated. On the one hand, “The Hanged Man” is an astounding accomplishment, a sprawling work of art, made possible by fans, and produced with love and hope just after the darkest hour. On the other hand, it’s merely a good Ted Leo album rather than a great one, constrained by a lack of collaborators and an urge to overdeliver. More important than what it sounds like or sings about, though, is what it represented — the return of a great talent; a beloved fighter, a lifelong contender, the guy we expected to one day hold the belt — who’d been badly bruised and who we feared might not get back up.
After leaving the Jersey Hardcore hive, Danny Leo became a career creative, producing cultural events, making art and, every now and again, playing drums. Chris Leo went on to write novels, import organic wine and, most recently, revive The Van Pelt, his slightly known but highly obsessed over Nineties Emo outfit. As for Ted himself — the oldest brother, the can’t miss brother, the one who just kept writing and singing and playing and working — he’s now fifty-two years old. In 2019, he reunited with Aimee Mann to make a podcast about the creative process. Two years later, he began releasing a string of EPs direct to fans through Bandcamp. And, in 2022, for the first time in a quarter century, Leo toured with Chisel in support of Numero Group’s re-release of “Set You Free.”
When he was twenty-seven, playing that show at Under Acme, I was convinced that Ted Leo could do absolutely anything. In many ways, he still can. Or he could do nothing at all. And that’s the thing. There are lifers, but then there’s life. And life always wins out.