The American Analog Set “For Forever”
Honestly, I’m still not sure how I pulled it off. I was restless and bored — coasting my way through the final months of high school, certain that any place was better than there. But then, with a couple grand saved and a spotless record as a trouble avoider, I convinced my parents to let me fly to Austin for the sixth annual South by Southwest. I did not have my own computer. I was not online. And so I can only vaguely recall how I arranged everything. And yet, some way, somehow, I made it from New York to Texas intact, picked up my $100 festival wristband, and walked a couple miles to the bed and breakfast where my $89 a night bungalow seemed positively luxurious, but was nothing compared to the $1200 a night that a hotel at the very same location would charge thirty years later.
In 1992, I knew almost nothing about Austin and barely more about SXSW. Months earlier, I’d read a short blurb about the conference in The Village Voice. But, at a time when I was trading all my old Kirby Puckett rookie cards for Pixies CDs, the trip felt timely and necessary. On the other hand, I had zero friends in Texas, did not own a credit card and had no real plan other than to get there, see a lot of concerts, and strike up at least one conversation with a local girl.
Well, as Meat Loaf said, two out of three ain’t bad. While in Austin, I mostly just wandered Sixth Street, Red River and South Congress, flashing my wristband and seeing bands I’d never heard of. If I subtract the bartenders at various clubs who served me Coca Cola, the hotel staff, and waiters at Guerros and Las Manitas, I probably spoke to a half dozen people — none of them girls, much less women. And yet, it was the greatest trip of my young life. Every day had a high of exactly eighty degrees. Everyone looked tan. All the shirts were t-shirts. All the pants were jeans. There were tacos! For breakfast! Nobody seemed to have a “real” job but everyone seemed healthy and, more so, happy.
From the moment I walked out of Robert Mueller Airport, taking in the smell of warm mold and pollen, I was enraptured with Austin. Unfortunately, it would be another five years before I would return. In between, I started college, talked to college girls, bought lots of records, sold half of them for store credit, finished college, got a job, got a computer, signed up for AOL, and — for the first time in my life — had lots of my own bills to pay. Which meant that another trip to Austin was not in the cards — at least not in the immediate future.
Before I got online, most of my information about new music came from Spin and The Village Voice. I was aware of the existence of local scenes — Grunge and Sub Pop introduced me to the concept. But those scenes were just imagined communities. I didn’t know what was happening in Chicago with Touch and Go, or in Olympia with K, or in Chapel Hill with Merge. Indie music felt abstract and wholly diffuse. But once I got online, I was able to read show listings from all over the country. I could mailorder fanzines and have them sent to my apartment. I could lurk on messageboards and see what people thought about Pavement and Built to Spill and thousands of other less famous, more mysterious bands. Bands with names like June of 44 and Bardo Pond and Codeine.
If I could anonymously, comfortably explore a world of new music through AOL, the same could not be said about my (almost) daily visits to Other Music — the uber-indie, uber-cool record shop that opened up next to Tower Records on West Fourth Street in New York City. Just barely four hundred square feet, the shop was filled with curious CDs and an air of judgment. My sense that I was being judged for my naïveté — for not knowing who The Van Pelt were or why The Boredoms were actually amazing — was, of course, imagined. But also, not entirely. About half the clerks at Other Music delighted in introducing customers to new music. The other half delighted in a brand of sneering that was generally reserved for disgruntled grad students, record store clerks and, most of all, disgruntled grad students who were also record store clerks.
Which is why, in the early autumn of 1996, when I walked up to the counter of Other Music with a CD and a question, I was more than a little nervous. “Can you tell me about this one?” I asked. “Sure,” the not sneering but definitely not smiling clerk responded. “They’re kind of like Stereolab meets The Feelies.” Two bands I knew and loved! My ears perked up. “And I think they’re from Texas.” The album I bought that day was “The Fun of Watching Fireworks,” the debut from The American Analog Set, who were based close to Dallas but who would soon move to Austin, and who would eventually bring me back to the city of breakfast tacos, sunkissed post-grads, SXSW and deliciously moldy air.
For a few months, I listened to that record over and over and over again. It did, in fact, sound a little like Stereolab — but that was just the drone of the Farfisa. It did, also, sound a little like The Feelies — but that was just the patience and repetition. There was something vaguely threadbare about its production that endeared me — it sounded like it was recorded on four track, but with a sophistication that outpaced the equipment. I’d read a fanzine review that called them “Slowcore,” but since I’d never heard another Slowcore band, that meant nothing to me. The thing that most stood out about The American Analog Set, though, was the thing that was the most set back. And that was the vocals. Whispered more than sung. A gentle, androgynous tenor. I could barely parse the words. Maybe he was sad. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was in love. Really, I had no idea. All I knew was that it sounded magical. And secretive. And quite probably located in Austin.
Despite my negative bank balance and sub-junior status at work, the universe smiled upon me in 1997 when my employer (a record label) offered to send me to SXSW. I could not believe my good fortune. I made a reservation to stay at that bungalow B&B (which by then cost $119 per night). I planned where I would get every taco every morning. I made lists of all the bands I wanted to see. All of them, with the exception of The American Analog Set — the band I most wanted to see, but the band whom I could not find any listings for. SXSW ‘97 was everything I hoped for. Everything, minus The American Analog Set. I returned home drunk on spring in Austin wondering if maybe the band had broken up. Or maybe they’d changed their name. I didn’t know. And I didn’t know anyone who knew.
But, just a few months later, I received proof of life. In the summer of ‘97, while browsing the new release shelf at Other Music, I saw it — “From Our Living Room to Yours,” the second album from The American Analog Set. If their debut was intriguing, their sophomore record was nothing short of enthralling. It still sounded like it was made seated on couches in a living room — just as its title suggested. But whereas the first record had that D.I.Y. quality, their second was meticulous. Warmer. Cleaner. By then, I’d dipped a toe into Slowcore — Low and Bedhead and certainly Galaxie 500. I’d also dabbled in Space Rock — Duster, Slowdive and Spiritualized. At the time, AmAnSet (as they came to be called) were frequently tagged as both Slowcore and as Space Rock. But they were different from all of those bands. Their arrangements were more sweeping. Their silence more dramatic. You had to lean forward to hear them. But when you did —when you really listened — you could hear multitudes.
I returned to SXSW every one of the next dozen years. In 1998, I was on my way out from that record label gig and on my way towards starting an online Indie record store that I imagined would be like Other Music, but online, more fun and less obtuse. By 1999, after nearly a year faking like we knew anything about anything, we launched that startup and called it Insound. And, about a year later, when we realized that we were not only a retailer but also, accidentally in the business of distributing records for bands, we decided to make it official. We started a record label and we called it Tiger Style.
Tiger Style was born for two pretty good and, I assume, pretty common reasons. First, to put structure around things we were already doing generously but not thoughtfully. Second, to help bands that we liked succeed just a little bit more. In 2000, during our first year, we put out a half dozen or so albums, EPs and 7”s that ranged from post-hardcore instrumental stuff (Tristeza) to post-hardcore folkie stuff (Ida). Because Tiger Style was part of Insound, it was born into privilege — we secured a global distribution deal quickly and we had a direct to consumer platform that reached hundreds of thousands of customers each year. We had a tailwind, a world of opportunities and a lot to look forward to. But we didn’t have the thing that I really wanted when we started our little label — an American Analog Set record.
And so, sometime in 2000 when it was not SXSW, I made a trip to Austin, resolved to meet this darling, elusive band. Less than year earlier, they’d released their third album, “The Golden Band.” Both an immaculate distillation and a total flex, “The Golden Band” was hypnotic. It glimmered. It whispered. It sounded like a fever dream about falling in and out and in and out of love. Meanwhile, and unbeknownst to me, my timing could not have been better. Emperor Jones, their label, was decelerating while Analog Set were ascending. Both parties agreed that a change would be in the best interests of the band. And so, after a live set at Emo’s, where most of the audience was restless but the true believers saw and heard what I saw and heard, I approached the band’s singer, songwriter and reluctant frontman, Andrew Kenny. Somehow, my awkward elevator pitch, punctuated by low key fawning and sweaty palms, landed better than I feared. Over the next couple of months, my people followed up with his people. And, by mid-2001, we were excitedly planning the release of “Know by Heart,” the fourth album from The American Analog Set.
“Know by Heart” was different from its predecessors. The songs were shorter. The hooks were sharper. The Farfisa was traded in for vibraphones. The vocals were nudged a couple inches forward. It is likely their best known and best loved album. Two years later, we released “Promise of Love,” which was made while Kenny was moving from Austin to New York, and which has aged more gracefully than it was initially received. But then, in 2004, we made the decision to shut down the Tiger Style. The thing I came to understand about record labels — but which I did not learn until it was too late — is that they succeed in correlation to flukish hits and voluminous catalogs. It’s a business that relies on luck and extraordinary patience. And given neither of those things, the end of Tiger Style was less surprising than it was wistful. But I was ashamed, nevertheless. Ashamed that I couldn’t make it work. Depressed that people lost jobs. And bummed that I’d never work on another American Analog Set album.
In spite of our label’s buckling, The American Analog Set kept going. They put out a record on Barsuk, the home to their friends and tourmates, Death Cab for Cutie. In fact, before The Postal Service and before “The O.C.,” Death Cab opened for Analog Set. By 2005, of course, those roles had reversed. Death Cab for Cutie were bonafide stars and Analog Set were more a part time concern, complicated by the fact that Kenny was in New York, working on a graduate degree, while the rest of the band was back in Austin, also working on graduate degrees.
Sometime between 2006 and 2008, The American Analog Set disbanded — or pressed pause, or stopped touring and recording, or whatever the right euphemism is. Ultimately, it was not the distance that broke the band. It was the less glamorous thing that spells the end for most bands — economics. With very few exceptions, bands don’t make money. And unfortunately, growing older — mortgages, marriages, families, health care — costs a lot of money.
It was more inevitable than surprising that they went away. They’d released six albums in ten years. They’d toured America and Europe and Japan. They had legions of admirers and a small club of obsessives. But ultimately they were a band to be treasured more than they were a band destined to break out. Their music was so quiet — their transcendence so gradual. Their pleasures demanded time and commitment. But that was the whole point. While they were frequently dismissed for making balmy, pretty “background music,” their greatness was revealed only to those who actively listened — who treated it as the opposite of background music.
Sadly, that was a small group. Even for casual fans, Analog Set could all be a little too restrained, too heady. Their concerts were passive aggressive battles between those of us who wanted stillness and silence and the average concert goer who wanted volume and action. If they were a treasure — which surely they were — maybe they were a treasure meant to be left alone.
In the years that followed their break up, Andrew Kenny moved back to Austin and released two intentionally modest records as (with) The Wooden Birds. But, in 2009, when they were still in that space between hiatus and breakup, I managed to convince Analog Set to reunite for SXSW and play a show alongside The Hold Steady, Obits, Handsome Furs and The Thermals (we used to be a proper country). On the third Friday of March, they played “The Golden Band” — my absolute favorite — start to finish. Nothing had changed.
But, obviously, so much had. Two and a half years after that concert, my wife and I were parents, packing up all of our belongings and preparing to move from New York City to (obviously) Austin, Texas. And while there were many reasons for our move — the weather, the space, the opportunity — it would not be inaccurate to say that we ended up there because of The Golden Band. Had I not bought that record that day at Other Music. Had I not gone to SXSW to find them. Had I not made the trip down to tell them about Tiger Style. Had I not seen them play so many times on their home turf. Before we moved, my images of Austin were so closely tied to the sound of that band.
Austin has a tag line that adorns bumper stickers, mugs, hats and t-shirts: “Keep Austin Weird.” And certainly, in The Seventies and Eighties, when Outlaw Country arrived and before the internet boom, when most of the town was ensconced by hilly ranchland, those words rang true. But the Austin that I discovered in the Nineties, and which survived into the Aughts, was not particularly “weird” at all. It was dreamy. It was full of possibility. It was a great big town whose soundtrack featured slow Country (Willie) and slower Indie Rock (AmAnSet). And for a little while, even after our arrival, Austin felt just like that — dreamy. Food trucks all over. Bars in bungalows on Rainey Street. Restaurants in old houses on the East Side. Breakfast tacos on every corner. Things were still affordable. Startups were blooming. Even if there was no more Club DeVille, no more Las Manitas, and no more American Analog Set, it still felt like a dream. I wanted to keep Austin dreamy.
If my post-college life in New York was serpentine and languid — not unlike those early Analog Set records — my life in Austin, ironically, was the opposite — more like a race, a blur. Part of this sensation was the sleepless pace of new parenthood. Some of it was the speed of a new startup. And some of it was the rate of change in Austin, which was becoming less weird and less dreamy by the day. During those early days in The Lone Star State, I’d semi-regularly run into Andrew Kenny. And after small talk and reminiscing, he’d update me about D.I.Y. home improvements he was undertaking. It made odd sense to me that he was building a sunroom or re-doing his garage. He’d always struck me as a polymath — the kind of guy who excelled at figuring things out. I was surprised to learn, however, that these improvements were designed, at least partially, to accommodate his regular meetups with Mark, Sean, Tom and Jesse — all members of The American Analog Set.
My perception was that the guys were meeting up for the purest of reasons — they liked hanging out and playing together. It was familiar and comfortable, And it was a relief from the grind of day jobs and the malaise of middle-aging. In no way did I consider those weekly jams to be a reunion or even a precursor to a reunion. On the other hand, it did beg the questions: If a band plays in a living room (or on a patio) for no one but themselves, are they even a band? if a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound?
In 2013, I probably wondered about that question. But, in the years that followed, I stopped wondering. The mystery of Austin — and perhaps along with it the mystery of the American Analog Set — had begun to fade. The city got hotter and hotter. Frothier and frothier. To the point that, aside from Barton Springs and a couple Tex Mex spots, it was unrecognizable from the place we once swooned for. Over the years, I’d come across mentions of The American Analog Set. Shout outs on social media. Casual namechecks in album reviews. But then, a year or so ago, I heard a pop. Numero Group, the esteemed label who specialized in private press rescues but who’d recently started to rescue out of print Nineties gems, had plans for those first three Analog Set album. In time, those occasional mentions grew into something resembling chatter. The love for the band which had been tucked away in dusty shoeboxes, along with old 7” collections, began to swell. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, and not even related to the Numero deal, it was announced that The American Analog Set were releasing “For Forever,” their first album in eighteen years.
Though it was not illogical to read the news, it was surreal nonetheless. It was hard to imagine Andrew Kenny not writing songs or playing music. But my mind never took the next steps — I never expected those songs to become recordings or those recordings to come to light. I assumed that the tree would fall but nobody would hear it. At the same time, it was easy to project — to receive the news as the answer to some personal calling. I’d spent the last few years, the post-pandemic era, wondering if it was time to leave Austin. Maybe we’d gotten the best the city had to offer. Maybe it was a city for billionaires and tech bros and Gen Z post-grads. Maybe it was time to admit the truth — Austin was not dreamy anymore.
Which is why, even before I heard a single note of the album, “For Forever” felt like a “wait, not yet — don’t give up yet” response to my questions. And which is also why, just minutes after it was announced, I pre-ordered a copy of the album. When the fifty-eight minute, green vinyl, double gatefold LP arrived ten days later — a full three days before the music hit streaming services — I felt the thrill of anticipation and the pinch of something else. That something else was loss — the passage of time. The fellas in AmAnSet were fifty-ish. Their new album was made over the course of a decade, like the musical equivalent of “Boyhood” (also an Austin product). How could it not evoke feelings of loss? Or worse, what if too much time had passed — what if it evoked nothing at all?
It took me roughly one half of one second to conclude that my concerns were unwarranted. “Camp Don’t Count” opens the album with a woofer-rattling bass, a muscular, slightly (yes) grungy guitar hook, and a rhythm that sounds like barely controlled anxiety. True to form, it’s roughly two minutes before we hear Andrew Kenny’s vocals, which retain their lovely, reedy quality, but which are treated with delay and echo in ways that they previously were not. The organ is spare and in the distance — it might be a Farfisa or Moog or Mellotron even. If their initial run was characterized by dreamy highs and dulcet backgrounds, their return is weighed down by gravity. In middle age, they are defined by the bottom of their sound. They are the same band, but nothing around them is the same. Everything else is darker, heavier.
By AmAnSet standards, “For Forever” is loose. But, compared to almost any other band, it is still tightly wound. In its more animated moments, it grooves just enough to turn a toe tap into a hip shake. It ebbs and flows. But they never recede into extended drone or silence in the way they once would. And yet, they are still tightly wound, like a bunch of former grad students revisiting their theses with newfound wisdom and nagging regret. Their precision is less a matter of exacting arrangements and more a product of a band that has spent years learning a hard to master language.
For longtime fans, the album will be more familiar than not. Julie, presumably, from “Come Home Baby Julie, Come Home” returns for “Long Limbs.” “Konika and Maliko” could be about old friends. Or it could be about fans they met while touring Japan in 2002. But, it’s probably about two housecats, which feels very on brand. Meanwhile, vibraphone peeks in and out. Moog floats in and fades out. There is more space than there are words. Most of their trademarks have survived. But also, there are wild surprises. The former yearning had become a warning. There are fucks and cocks and cunts. There’s more than a little distortion. And at the end of “Quiet Dark,” which shares the taut hooks and tender aches of their “Know by Heart” material, Kenny does something he’s never done on record before —he screams. And not only does he scream, but he confesses. He has “blood on my hands.”
It’s a startling turn for a band who spent a decade dulling their blades and deadening their pans. But it’s not exactly shocking. On the twelve minute title track — which is as stunning and restrained as Slowcore gets — Kenny warns us, “Oh my god / it’s coming on.” Torture has never sounded so gorgeous. Which is not to suggest that it is pain-free. With a different title, the shakes on “Gin Shakes” might sound like heart beats or, even, nervous energy. But, nearly two decades removed from their last album, it might be an exorcism.
Not that “For Forever” is ever so direct or so despondent. Analog Set are nothing if not coy. On “Mountain,” the closer, Kenny sings “I don’t know what I’d do / If you turned on me” — kind of a threat and kind of a confession. It’s humbling and revealing in the way that middle-age can be. It’s an ellipsis at the end of a record. It begs: “Is this the end? What comes next? Did all that other stuff even happen?” Obviously, I wish I knew.
Since 1998, more than once every year, I have a recurring dream that Eddie Murray, my all time baseball hero (who retired in 1997) has unretired and is still playing. Sometimes he is old in my dreams — far too old to be playing Major League Baseball. Sometimes, he is still in his twenties, cracking his bat through frozen amber. I never know when the dream is going to come. And I am surprised and a little embarrassed that, twenty five years later, I can’t seem to shake it. But, also, I love the dream. It lets me press rewind and return to a time when everything still seemed possible. “For Forever” reminds me of that dream. Of trying to preserve something that cannot be held and trying to chase something that can never be reached. It reminds me of the Austin that I first visited as a teenager. Of the mold and pollen in the air at dusk. Except now it’s well past dusk. Or maybe it’s not dusk yet. Honestly, I’m not sure. But it certainly was dreamy. And it really happened. It wasn’t a dream. They came back.