The first Braid album in 16 years ends with a song called “This Is Not a Revolution” and man...it’s hard to resist tweaking its title to comment on its surrounding circumstances, i.e., “this is not a revival.” Or, in the case of Braid themselves, “this is not a reunion.” It’s been called one for understandable reasons. So many of their peers have gotten the band back together recently and the excitement of seeing American Football or Mineral for the first time since the late 1990s might lead you to overlook Braid having played Fun Fun Fun Fest in 2012 or a couple of gigs in 2004. Or maybe it’s just that their 2011 EP Closer to Closed is better off being forgotten. It was a Braid release in name alone—one cover and three nondescript, tentative Braid originals made less because they wanted or needed to, but because they could. The one lyric I remember was fitting: “I want a do over.” Consider No Coast a promise kept.
No Coast doesn't pick up where Frame & Canvas left off. It doesn't sound like a band in their mid-20s, though you could hear the antsy, arms-akimbo “Put Some Wings on That Kid” and “Lux” as an effort by Braid to show they’re still capable of playing songs from their under-appreciated second album The Age of Octeen. Rather, this is precisely the kind of album you’d expect out of Braid if they kept going after Frame & Canvas and learned how to adjust with age. Unlike Closer to Closed, No Coast retains an identifiable Braid-ness, the knotty musicianship that subsequent offshoot Hey Mercedes untangled and straightened—the sudden stops and cuts, vocals in friendly competition, an active, inventive rhythm section that never calls attention to its trickery. Singer Bob Nanna was hoping people would consider Braid as a forerunner and a peer of You Blew It! and A Great Big Pile of Leaves, and you can definitely hear where their new label-mates got some of their moves.
But the new guys operate at full speed; Braid don’t have the athleticism or explosiveness of their earlier days, but in a Tim Duncan way, they’re craftier, better about picking their spots. “Bang” and the title track showcase Braid’s rhythmic double clutches, their pivots after sudden silence in more methodical, midtempo ways, patiently working towards conventionally pleasing codas. Other times, Braid just goes straight for the big, alt-rock chorus, as “East End Hollows” and “Damages!” show Chris Broach channeling his agitation into legitimate, singalong (not shout-along) hooks. His vocals have developed a high, Mark Hoppus nasality, which has the occasionally unfortunate effect of stressing some of No Coast’s too-cute lyrical puns. But it plays wells with the more measured and mature Nanna. While they maintain the exuberance of having too much to say at the same time, the two vocalists are less likely to topple over each other; check the one-man give-and-go on “Many Enemies”, or the pick-and-roll performed during the bridge of “East End Hollows”. In fact, on a song-by-song basis, No Coast is actually more consistent than Frame & Canvas, though it wants for something as scene-defining as “The New Nathan Detroits”.
But maybe they’re in a position define an entire new “scene”, or at least a demographic. With the exception of Lifetime’s 2007 self-titled return, I’m not sure if there’s much precedent for artists from this world making such a strong statement in their late-30s as the same band. And so No Coast is an inspired record for a very tangible reason that goes beyond associating with an in-demand producer (Will Yip) and a hip new label: Braid have taken stock of their own lives as unintentional elder statesmen and treat it as worthwhile subject matter.
“Light Crisis” begins with an old recording from Nanna’s grandfather, while “Put Some Wings on That Kid” obliquely references the adoptee’s recent discovery of his birth parents. But such direct, autobiographical details are less frequent that the generational resonance found in the title track’s opening line: “No coast/ Is how I feel the most/ In the middle, a little invisible, the ghost.” The title of No Coast was intended as positive reinforcement for the band, and it’s also indicative of a spiritual displacement, of being overlooked and at the same time, not quite sure if you're confident enough to be looked at. Two of the first three songs contain the line, “This is the life,” most notably in “No Coast”: “This is the life we chose”. That life being one that hasn’t gotten Nanna or Broach much separation from the scene and people who might refer to Braid as “legendary” or Frame & Canvas as a “classic”; they probably get recognized in bars, have some nice email exchanges and the occasional shout out from an up-and-coming band. But these aren’t the sort of things that would satisfy the nagging parent in “The New Nathan Detroits,” the one asking them if all of this will ever compare to a house, kids, and everything else that seemed for the taking for a band of Braid’s ilk right before emo's commercial breakthrough.
Nanna spends a lot of time in that "middle" he speaks of, not quite domesticated, but not young and untamed either; when he calls himself a "runaway train" on "Bang", it sounds like an admission of being set in one's ways rather than out of control. No Coast is very, very Chicago in both sound and spirit (specific streets are name-dropped on “Light Crisis”), though in Nanna and Broach’s lyrics, you’d think it was the world’s biggest college town and any given day can be a class reunion that allows you to feel the same twinge of warm nostalgia and cold reality of time moving forwards. “East End Hollows” initially sounds laudatory, Broach dreaming of “drunk lust and punk love” and reveling in a DIY spirit where “happiness is in the doing, in the making.” The catchiest song on No Coast is the most conflicted as well, as Broach notes the false sense that happiness is also tied up in the gossip of “who knows who and what happened” and bars where diehards balance “Another drink/ Another lifetime of regret.” The chorus “You take these dreams and throw them out the window” can sound like a command rather than a lament, of Broach try to live the ideals of “no coast” surrounded by people who aren’t doing shit besides resting on their laurels.
But there’s no bitterness in No Coast, just perspective and empathy for those who actively seek to follow in their path. Nanna understands the inherent, nostalgic pull of listening to Braid in the first place and his lyrics often follow suit; he’s wishing for his bucket of old tricks in “Damages!” and grapples with young love transitioning into suburban comfort on “Pre-Evergreen". Meanwhile Broach laments faded friendship on “Many Enemies” and marvels at the blind energy of youth of “Doing Yourself In”. Or at least that’s what I hear; Nanna and Broach are more careful about choosing their words as well and while No Coast is always emotive, it’s open-ended and serves to point out that for many, the “emo” established by Braid and their ilk and sought after by their fans constitutes a set of musical values as defined and worthwhile as “post-punk” or “house”. Nanna expressed that he wanted No Coast to be “exciting and vital for people that aren’t in their late 30s,” and those who’ll check it out simply because it’s on Topshelf won't be let down. But if you're a Frame & Canvas lifer who's made a home and put the kids in their beds, No Coast lets you know the great mistakes to make and chances to take are still out there.
