Jack Antonoff and His Band Play It Safe on Bleachers

For some time now, it’s been argued that in-demand producer/songwriter Jack Antonoff waters down the music of the artists he collaborates with. Some have labeled him a “bland pop prophet,” others dislike his easily detectable production style, many yearn for his downfall. There’s a ton of validity to the criticisms around his crowd-pleasing appeal and omnipresence in the pop landscape, especially given how much more recognition he’s received in the music industry compared to lesser-appreciated but still just as prolific producers like Rostam Batmanglij and Dev Hynes. The visceral ire he arouses online, however, does sometimes feel a bit overblown, particularly considering how Antonoff is partly yet crucially responsible for helping create some of the most remarkable pop music over the past decade.

His work, for instance, on Lorde’s Melodrama, Lana Del Rey’s Norman Fucking Rockwell!, Taylor Swift’s folklore, and Clairo’s Sling propelled each artist to thrilling, unexpected artistic heights. Sure, Antonoff’s had a few misses as well, but for every Midnights or Solar Power, he’s co-penned a total banger like Olivia Rodrigo’s “Deja Vu” or Lana’s “A&W.” Antonoff has shown he is capable of making exciting, boundary-pushing pop music, which makes it all the more disappointing that he doesn’t always apply the same level of sonic ambition to his own indie pop project, Bleachers.

Since starting the group in 2014 after his previous award-winning outfit fun. went on hiatus, Antonoff has established Bleachers as a band with heavily retro, nostalgic influences—fusing late ‘80s stadium-sized rock with small-scale, radio-friendly songwriting. While that formula has produced some addictive earworms (“Rollercoaster,” “Don’t Take the Money,” “Stop Making This Hurt”), it’s also inhibited Antonoff from truly expanding on and experimenting with his art.

Like the band’s previous outputs, Bleachers is handsomely crafted but ultimately hollow—a consistently pleasant yet never transcendent listen. Even with a label move from RCA to Dirty Hit, very little of Bleachers’s dreamy yet palatable sound has been shaved off. The 14-track album contains all of Antonoff’s usual trademarks: blaring saxophones straight out of Born to Run, heart-swelling strings, gentle-turned-seismic synths, rousing vocal harmonies, lyrics that are as cleverly rhymed as they are emotionally generic. It’s not necessarily a bad thing to stick to something reliable, but one begins to wonder how many more starry-eyed songs about chasing dreams and unrequited romances can Antonoff and his bandmates churn out before it feels like they’ve dried up on ideas.

To be fair, Antonoff’s middle-of-the-road presentation doesn’t render Bleachers completely inessential. Opener “I Am Right On Time” begins the record with promise, backed by a groovy, upbeat synth and a jittery guitar riff reminiscent of Spoon’s “Don’t Make Me A Target.” “Tiny Moves” is a fun, catchy offering that delivers on what Bleachers does best: taking a delicate, simple little ditty and blowing it up into something widescreen while still maintaining its gentleness. The soulful “Call Me After Midnight” benefits from an inspiring co-write with Kevin Abstract and the Brockhampton bandleader’s collaborators, Ryan Beatty and Romil Hemnani.

Still, one does long for a body of work from Bleachers that’s more than just merely competent or, more pointedly, a retread of familiar touchstones. The most egregious examples of the latter on Bleachers would be the saccharine “Me Before You” and the obnoxiously over-the-top “Modern Girl,” both very obvious Springsteen imitations that lean hard into Antonoff’s not-so-subtle desire to be the millennial ascendent of The Boss—which, if that’s the true intent, he’s running away with it now.

Even the few new stylistic flourishes we get from Bleachers don’t leave enough of a lasting impression, despite being intriguing on the surface. “We Are Going to Know Each Other Forever” has Antonoff briefly posturing a funny, snarling twang—but you could feel his bashfulness in fully committing to that affectation. “Alma Mater” almost gets to a place of ingenuity with its amusing pop culture and New Jersey references (“Screaming fuck Balenciaaaaaga / Right past the Wawa”), but stays at a slightly sluggish simmer the whole time and features an underused Lana Del Rey. On the closing track “The Waiter,” Antonoff coos in auto-tune over a spare instrumental—a fascinating choice undermined by the meandering quality of the song.

This isn’t to say Antonoff and his band should make a sharp pivot into a new sub-genre of pop just to yank themselves out of neutral. But, four albums in, you’d think they’d take a detour instead of staying so firmly in their lane. Because of this seeming resistance against leaving their comfort zone, Bleachers becomes so opaque it practically evaporates by the time you finish it. And without indulging in any kind of musical curiosity or playfulness as the leader of Bleachers, Jack Antonoff remains inert in his quest for the epic grandeur he often reaches for but rarely grasps despite certainly capturing it in the company of others.

Sam Rosenberg is a filmmaker and freelance entertainment writer from Los Angeles with bylines in The Daily Beast, Consequence, AltPress and Metacritic. You can find him on Twitter @samiamrosenberg.