When American Football released their self-titled debut album in 1999, they ushered emo and math rock into the mainstream, defining the genres for generations to come. American Football became the album that teenagers everywhere would turn to to learn what, exactly, “Midwest emo” meant. The band left just as soon as it had arrived; in 2000, it dissolved and the members pursued their own projects, reuniting once in a while to re-release singles off their LP. Luckily for us, they reunited in 2014. (The house featured on the American Football album cover remains a mainstay for parties hosted by students at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign).

It’s ironic to consider how the band that came to define teenage angst during the noughties was already well past their teenage years when they released their first album. Mike Kinsella was 22 when he first sang “Honestly, I can’t remember / All my teenage feelings and their meanings” on “Honestly?” Now he’s singing it at 48, and it’s hard to miss the nostalgia that ties the album together. The bandmates are clad in flannels and cardigans. A time-lapse of the famed American Football House is projected behind them. It looks like they’re just guys playing old tunes on the lawn of their old college stomping grounds. 

Maybe it’s gratifying to play as the headliners to a music festival — Something in the Way, at the Roadrunner —  populated by younger acts who are influenced by music they made almost 30 years ago.“These are songs we wrote a long time ago,” Mike says to the crowd. “Wait ‘til you’re my age when you get paid to do shit… to do something you made when you’re your age right now.” Maybe this is a preemptive attempt to get ahead of the haters. But there’s something even more resonant about fathers singing about their feelings. 

Being the seasoned veterans they are, the band is cleaner and sharper than ever. The music is still minimalistic, but there are a few fun instruments in the mix — their thick tripled guitar lines are punctuated with trumpet, tambourine, and, of course, a Wurlitzer. Steve Holmes is smiling nearly the whole set, concentrating on his guitar, eyes closed. Occasionally, he and Mike will face off and riff. Sometimes, Mike will throw a couple dad jokes out to the audience. He jokes about the other headlining act. “I have something to get off my chest: as a basketball daddy, I’m offended by Soccer Mommy.” 

For the most part, Mike looks off wistfully into the distance. Since he’s become a father of two, music has been deprioritized on his list Mike told Bandwagon in 2019: “I keep my daughter's guitar in the kitchen so every time I pass by I can pick up the guitar, play it while I'm going somewhere, and take it to another floor of the house.” He doesn’t take an opportunity to tour for granted, and we shouldn’t either. 

When they get to the end of “But the Regrets Are Killing Me,” Mike’s voice is almost a vibrato. Their premature sentimentality bodes well for an album that itself has become an object of nostalgia. The emotion that laces lines like, “And how we say goodbye / To these four years” and “Just fragments of / Another life / Not dead / Yet” transcends the time that separates us from our own teenage years. Pitchfork reviewer Ian Cohen put it best when he wrote: “American Football operates from a mindset where everything is about to happen, and that inability to stay present is a feeling that’s neither teenage nor see-through nor false.”

Mike’s repeated mantra of “But the regrets are killing me” gets louder and more impassioned with each repetition until he’s practically shouting. It’s especially startling for a band that is otherwise pretty quiet, no earplugs needed. Their brand of “emo” is more the reflective and brooding kind. 

It is also confessional. They wear their hearts on their sleeve, and their songs give themselves away by their titles. “You Know I Should Be Leaving Soon” and “I’ll See You When We’re Both Not So Emotional” are cheeky — they’re nothing if not self-aware.

They end the night with a crowd-pleaser, “Never Meant.” This song about long-dead love could double as their manifesto. In 2014, Mike told Filter that they "never had any ambitious goals. [W]e weren't kids who wanted to...tour all summer.” It was never meant to last. They never meant to be as influential as they became. All they wanted to do was capture a fleeting moment. We’re listening to a photograph of their youth. Similarly, their set tonight is short and sweet. You find yourself missing it even before it ends.  

// Amber Levis ’25 is a staff writer and DJ for Record Hospital.