Of course we loved them. After The Strokes and Interpol we needed something seriously less serious. We asked, and Saint Paul answered with The Hold Steady, a bar band that was also a bard band. Five guys who liked to drink and who sounded like Thin Lizzy covering The E. Street Band covering “Tangled Up in Blue,” but with Randy Newman on vocals. Seriously — after Julian Casablancas and Paul Banks, how could we not love The Hold Steady?

Initially, it was just a bunch of us in New York and a smattering of Minnesotans. We adored them for the one liners and for the balls of their gambit and for their elevated semi-pro-ness. Plus, they hardly looked like a band. They looked like us! Or like guys we worked with or saw after work at Brownies or Niagara or Lit. And that’s because they were those guys. They were thirty-somethings, not twenty-somethings. Not one of them had great hair. Craig looked like Clark Kent after a decade of shitty jobs and shitty beer. They wore jeans and untucked button downs — workplace appropriate and completely unfancy. But they were perfect. Each and every one of them.

Pretty soon Pitchfork adopted them, which made sense because Pitchfork was from Brooklyn but they were really from Minnesota, just like Craig and Lifter Puller. And while a bunch of us loved The Hold Steady, Pitchfork really loved The Hold Steady. Take a bullet for them sort of love. Which cemented the band’s status in Minneapolis and Chicago. Which gave them the Midwest. Which begot the Heartland. Which, in spite of their Brooklyn-ness, Midwest-ness and Heartland-ness, eventually won over LA, San Francisco and — not so slowly and very surely — everyone, everywhere else.

It was not as though their appeal was merely their contrast to those younger, hipper bands who preceded and surrounded them. No, it was also the music. “Almost Killed Me” and “Separation Sunday” were to The Boss and The Mats what the early Guided by Voices were to The Kinks and King Crimson. The Hold Steady were a pastiche of arena rock gusto and punk rock mayhem, with a poet’s wit on top. Those big guitar leads. The silly solos. And the glorious ones. Those cities and the scenes. The anti-heroes and character actors. The crazy nights and the morning afters. They were amazing — on record, but even more so live. They were not yet popular, or even semi-popular. But all that was about to change.

“Boys and Girls of America” was the watershed. Released in 2006 on a “major indie” (Vagrant), The Hold Steady’s third album was both their best selling and best reviewed record to that point. It reached the top two hundred on the album sales charts — not the Alternative or Indie sales charts, the real deal, big league chart. “Chips Ahoy” got played on actual FM radio stations that were not managed by college students. The guys in the band quit their day jobs. The venues swelled from two hundred to two thousand. They traded the van for a comfy bus. Where Finn’s lyrics had previously sounded like clever one liners scribbled on beer stained napkins, they now sounded like Raymond Carver short stories. We were just five years removed from 9/11 and two years away from an economic recession, but we had them. We had The Hold Steady.

By the end of 2007, they were no longer just a regional act. Or even just a regional act that could also make money in major cities. The Hold Steady were an almost mainstream, nationally beloved, internationally known Rock and Roll band. They got to do a series well-deserved, fully appreciated victory laps. They performed on late night talk shows. The reviews were glowing. There were no objections. But if you listened closely, you could hear it. A lot more buzz. A little more polish. And you could see it too. Faces on magazine covers. Nicer jeans. Better haircuts. It looked and sounded like progress. Surely it was earned. But, also, maybe it was something else. Something more complicated — gentrification.

That looming gentrification spawned “Stay Positive,” which sold even better than its predecessor, and which topped many critics lists, but which also received a slightly cooler reception from the Pitchfork crowd. The noise was less noisy. The rage was less rageful. And the drinking less drunk. Plus, that title. “Stay Positive.” Really? The first album had the word “killed.” The second one had “separation.” Finn’s losers might have been lovable, but they lost nonetheless. Their judgment was questionable, but their fate was certain. In 2008, however, he was asking us to see the bright side — to stay positive. Something about “Stay Positive” didn’t square. Was it the bougie embrace of NPR? Were the new songs a bit too tidy? Was this what gentrification sounded like?

Apparently it was. The two albums that followed “Stay Positive” were high profile letdowns. Franz Nicolay left the band before “Heaven is Whenever,” creating a void that was addressed but not totally filled. His piano and keys were not only part of the albums and live performances, they were part of how the songs were written — they were in the fabric of the compositions. Without them, the alchemy was off. The distance between “Separation Sunday” and “Teeth Dreams” was like the distance between The Replacements’ “Let it Be” and “Don’t Tell a Soul.” The cost of professionalism was the loss of excitement. In tightening things up, everything sounded tight. It’s the devil's bargain — the more you have, the more you have to lose. And so, caught between middle-aged hope and their more youthful angst, The Hold Steady began to sound like a generic Roots Rock band. Most everyone still loved them, but more and more people found it hard to like them.

It was four years between “Heaven in Whenever” and “Teeth Dreams.” Before the former, Tad Kubler, who’d twice been hospitalized for pancreatitis, got sober. And in between the two, Craig Finn started making solo albums. The band traded their grueling tour schedule for more reasonable, and more lucrative residencies in Brooklyn and Chicago. They never broke up, but, by 2015, they started to take longer breaks. For the first time since “Boys and Girls of America,” The Hold Steady felt like a part time gig. But also, who could blame them? In their mid-thirties those nights in Newport News and Beverly Hills were a blast. But, a decade after they started The Hold Steady, Craig, Tad and Galen were on the other side of forty. They were needed back home. Not just for partners and kids, but for themselves. If they were going to survive, they needed to hold steady.

In 2016, Franz Nicolay returned to the band, which felt promising — exciting even — except for the fact that The Hold Steady already had a keyboardist. So, rather than fire Steve Selvidge, who’d replaced Nicolay in 2010, they opted to expand the line-up from five to six. And that six does not include Josh Kaufman, who had been collaborating with Craig on his solo records and who would become the band’s house producer. While not credited as a musician on any of their records, Kaufman is a Swiss army knife in the studio and as much a member of the band as he is an arranger, engineer or producer. So, Nicolay plus Kaufman made seven. The Hold Steady that reemerged in 2017 was bigger and older, but also healthier and happier.

And hesitant. It had been three years since their last album and that won had floundered. So, rather than go for broke or underwhelm, they started to release digital singles. “Entitlement Crew” came first. Followed by “Eureka” and then "The Stove & The Toaster.” With each successive release, ears began to perk back up. This wasn’t the same band who’d misfired with “Teeth Dreams.” It also wasn’t the same band who’d made “Almost Killed Us,” though it was not so far off. Craig and Tad sounded more muscular, more assured, less winking and less drinking. And those two keyboardists? They totally worked! The Hold Steady 3.0 was an upgrade, trading the sloppy glory of The Replacements for the sturdy glory of The E. Street Band, which is not a comparison of equals so much as a suggestion that there is a comparison to be had.

After they sent out those three digital flares, the band returned to the studio and recorded the songs that became the “A side” of “Thrashing Thru the Passion.” Released in the summer of 2019, The Hold Steady’s seventh studio album was formally unique in that it (a) featured two keyboard players and (b) was compiled over several sessions and a couple of years. Historically speaking, there is nothing particularly unique about an album born from singles — it’s how the format originated. But whereas every previous Hold Steady was held together by either a loose concept or a specific moment of time, “Thrashing Thru the Passion” stood out for its long gestation. By any reasonable standard, it was a comeback album.

The cover for “Thrashing Thru the Passion” is the least Hold Steady album cover in their oeuvre. It’s simple and illustrative, rather than busy or photographic. Along with a tidy, top left aligned announcement of the band and the album’s title, there’s a digital rendering of a city intersection. There are no skyscrapers. It’s not downtown Chicago or midtown Manhattan. It’s a residential, urban neighborhood — condos, a bougie bodega, maybe a new restaurant that you read about and want to try out. It’s the picture of gentrification.

While it might look pretty after the fact and on the surface, gentrification is violent. It causes pain. People get displaced. Buildings get razed. Costs skyrocket. Whether we are talking about real estate or a band, gentrification is brutal. On the other side, there may be greater net worths and nicer cars and fancier vacations, but there are also divorces and therapy sessions and rehab and, most of all, the realization that everything can go away. Before gentrification, there’s always a thrashing — a resistance. There’s a hope for something better but more so a reluctance to accept the the loss of time and self. And while it might be more meta-text than text, “Thrashing Thru the Passion” is a record about gentrification.

The theme is rarely explicit. If anything, the stories are familiar — looking back more than forward. Finn is still dealing with less than beautiful, but still lovable losers. These are not Bob Seger’s losers. These are men and women whose glory days are far past and whose demise is always one bad decision away. And whereas Finn’s solo records are empathically hopeful, “Thrashing Thru the Passion” lands somewhere closer to ambivalence — or regret. But, if you ignore him (which is hard to do) and just listen to the band, you hear a different story. The Hold Steady minus Craig — with those extra keys and horns — sound full and full of hope. Regardless of the characters or the plot, they play with the zeal of Clarence, Little Steven, Roy, Max, Garry and Danny.

Released as a single almost two years before the full album arrived, “Entitlement Crew” begins, “Tequila take off / Tecate landing.” It’s a great couplet and an greater validation of their brand. It’s purpose is less to set the scene and more to confirm, “We’re back!” And, alas, they are. “Thrashing Thru the Passion” is an acknowledgment that it’s impossible to “Stay Positive.” And that if “Heaven is Whenever,” then to hell with heaven.

Of that first batch of digital singles, “The Stove and The Toaster” is the standout. More “Darkness on the Edge of Town” than “The River,” it’s moody and tense — a Classic Rock hook wrapped around an Elmore Leonard novel. Finn sings:

Got some new information from the chef and the chauffeur

They put the stash in the stove, they keep the cash in the toaster

Down in Las Cruces, they don't play with jokers

I hope I still know you when this is all over

Though frequently thrilling, the second half of the album (which actually contains the first songs released) pales slightly in comparison to the first half (the five songs recorded together later on). By the time of the later recording session — presumably 2019 — Nicolay and Selvidge had found their spots and Kaufman knew exactly what kind of album he was making. From that batch, “Denver Haircut” opens the album and introduces the first of many characters who are at the end of their lines, just barely holding on. There’s loads of pathos, but there’s also a buoyant, E. Street shuffle to it. Where Bruce’s flame still burns, though, Finn is all hedged pragmatism:

It doesn’t have to be pure

It doesn't have to be perfect

Just sort of has to be worth it

On an album full of wondrous moments — Boss guitar, Preston keys, Memphis horns — and excellent songs, the high water mark might be its lowest point. “Blackout Sam” is an ode to a “local legend with faraway eyes” — the guy who was up for anything, always hanging around, but also always running away. He was never OK, and everyone knew it. He had great stories. He made for great stories. Sometimes he was almost good. But most of the time he was not. He was the underside of gentrification — the opposite of thrashing. “Blackout Sam” is a great, sad song. It’s the truth.

Back in 2019, it was tempting to call “Thrashing Thru the Passion” a “return to form.” I’m sure that phrase was lobbed out by music journalists more than once. And it seems like a fair enough use of the cliche. “Thrashing” is certainly an excellent record, superior to its two predecessors and bearing marks of The Hold Steady’s older, greater work. But more than a return to form, it's a return to place. It’s a band reconvening at their old spot and taking stock. It’s the exact same location, but everything’s changed. All the guys are older, grayer. The nights end earlier. That bodega is gone. The town houses were razed and replaced with luxury condos with big windows. The pizza joint got pushed out. It’s gentrification. Everything changes. Nothing lasts forever. It really hurts. And it’s all in the name of growth.

by Matty Wishnow