We Never Close

In the age of the "indefinite hiatus," what if we just normalized changing our minds?

Patron Saints of the Indefinite Hiatus: At the Drive-in, live at the First Unitarian Church. Philadelphia, PA, 1999. Photo by Michael Dubin.

I.

Not too long ago I was asked a very pointed question: “Why did you feel this need to say that everything Texas is the Reason at the end did was the ‘final’ thing?”

It’s a good question. There were practical reasons, first and foremost. If you are going to be playing shows that you know will more likely than not become your “final shows” for various reasons, then I don’t think it’s unethical to let your audience know that—regardless of whatever the future might hold. But on a more personal level, I have always tried to do things intentionally. In the case of Texas is the Reason, I knew my intentions in 2012 were to track the two songs we never got to record in 1997 (both of which were released as part of Do You Know Who You Are?: The Complete Collection) and then play as many shows as we could logistically work out in support of that new release (which turned out to be 21 shows across the U.S., Canada, and Europe). Beyond that, I never had any intention to continue, and I didn’t hide that.

Of course, these are the kinds of conversations that rub up against personal relationships. All bands are composed of multiple individuals, and band dynamics—as a rule—dictate that some members will more deeply share the same intentions, whereas others will not. The position I took was never going to make me the most well-liked member of our group, but it was clear and it was honest and, in my mind, it yielded a favorable outcome: When I look back at video from the final song of “the final show” in London, which happened ten years ago this month, I still see something beautiful and perfect—and not the least of which because letting something end and knowing that it’s ending is a privilege. It was something every single person in that room clearly had the opportunity to cherish in real time; it was a feeling of deep closure and accomplishment that would not have been possible if we hadn’t called it The Grand Finale.

II.

If you want to put a fine point on it, I think it’s safe to say that the death of The Big Band Breakup occurred on the morning of March 27, 2001. That’s the day when At the Drive-In guitarist Omar Rodríguez-López released a formal statement concerning the future of his band—who had only released their breakthrough album, Relationship of Command, six months earlier.

“After a nonstop, six-year cycle of record/tour/record/tour, we are going on an indefinite hiatus,” he wrote. “We need time to rest up and reevaluate, just to be human beings again and to decide when we feel like playing music again.”

At the time, I remember it feeling like a show of ambiguity that no one quite knew what to do with. We’d seen “break-ups” and we’d seen “breaks,” but an “indefinite hiatus” was something new—and deliberately vague. It was exactly the kind of slippery language we’d come to expect from a band with lyrics like, “Tease this amputation / Splintered larynx / It has access now,” and every bit as frustrating to translate. The “indefinite hiatus” is neither we’ll be back nor we’re taking a break forever, and also, it is both.

Since then, a quick Google search will turn up “indefinite hiatus” announcements for everyone from Straylight Run and Best Coast to Fifth Harmony and BTS, and—if we’re being honest—in most cases it’s pretty obvious which groups are actually breaking up and which ones are just taking a break. (See you soon, BTS!) But some artists do take this ambiguity to heart, and I get that. It’s like the difference between a separation and a divorce; it’s a chance to date other people and see how that feels before making anything “official.” Fans don’t play a role in that kind of discovery process, nor should they. When it comes to our favorite bands, we may feel a need for clarity or closure, but we are entitled to neither.

Which is why, twenty years later, even the announcement of an “indefinite hiatus” has become seemingly unnecessary. When Title Fight played Outbreak Fest in 2017, for example, singer/bassist Ned Russin closed the set with a curious note: “If this is it,” he said, “it’s been a wild and beautiful ride. Thank you so much. We’re Title Fight. See you on the other side.” Unlike the Texas clip, the video of this goodbye feels fraught and tentative. It was neither we’ll be back nor we’re taking a break forever, and also, it was both. Title Fight played once more in 2018, and then, nothing.

There were obvious questions about “coming back” that I could have asked Ned when we sat down for a conversation—to be published in full on Thursday—but I decided that I was actually more interested in why they left things the way they did and how that suspended ambiguity makes him feel, even so many years later.

“Part of it, I think, is that ‘the big breakup’ is just something I do not care to be a part of,” he explains, “but it’s also something that doesn’t really exist anymore. There is a chance that any band will play again, no matter what. It doesn’t matter if everyone hates each other; it doesn’t even matter if people have passed away. The bands will find a way to make things work if they want to and that’s totally fine. I get that 100-percent ‘yes’ or 100-percent ‘no’ is a thing people want to hear, but then as soon as you give one of those answers, people start pestering you—like, ‘Oh, what will it take for you to do this?’—and that’s also a thing I’m not interested in… [But] of course I’ve felt uneasy. I’m a human. I have felt so many different complicated feelings towards this subject.”

One comment from a now-deleted Reddit account confirms Ned’s concern, but still holds out hope for clarity.

“I know they don’t owe us anything and that they will make music when and if they feel compelled to do so, but just addressing or engaging with waiting fans a bit more would be nice, idk,” they write. “But again, Brand New played dead for eight whole years between Daisy and Science Fiction, so who knows.”

As far as At the Drive-In’s “hiatus” went, they did eventually regroup—twice, in fact.

III.

Before I say anything else, I need you to know two things: First, it’s OK to let something end. And secondly, it’s OK to change your mind.

On some level, the concept of the “indefinite hiatus” always struck me as a linguistic sleight-of-hand, a sort of preemptive strike against the “reunion”—which, for several years, put bands on the receiving end of brutal derision. On paper, it makes sense: if you don’t “break up,” you can’t reunite. But in spite of that initial hardcore skepticism towards “reunion bands,” the fact is that many of these so-called reunion bands are still packing venues and making people happy years after the fact. I went to Gorilla Biscuits’ final show at the Marquee in New York City on February 21, 1992, and 31 years later, being broken up hasn’t slowed them down in the slightest. The future revealed that GB were only on hiatus, but when they broke up, their intention was sincere. Two things can be true at once.

That original question I mentioned, then, might have been posed a different way: “Why do you feel the need to close the door on future opportunities for your band by permanently breaking up?” And that’s a more interesting question to me, because it implies that there is such a thing as permanence to begin with.

In my case, I believe that being open to the future does not preclude closing doors. I also believe that there is nothing noble about holding onto a past decision if circumstances change or if you decide it’s no longer working for you for any reason. I braved a blizzard to get to Snapcase’s final show in Buffalo in 2005, but I still asked them to play the book release party for the Anti-Matter Anthology two years later, hoping they would reconsider their breakup. Gratefully, they did. (As of now, Snapcase are still playing shows.) Similarly, when Texas is the Reason was asked to reunite for the Jon Bunch Memorial Concert—three years after our final show—there was not even a second when I thought, “We can’t do that! We already played our final show!” The future came calling, and we opened that closed door because we felt like it, as is our right.

For the sake of my own mental health, the idea of “playing a final show” has always only ever meant that being a member of an inactive band is one less thing I have to think about. Although I have to assume it works for some, the idea of living inside of an “indefinite hiatus” requires a level of detachment that I simply do not have.

IV.

I remember December 20, 2011, as the date of one particularly amazing final show. My boyfriend and I drove out to Philadelphia for it. Familiar faces from all over the East Coast came to the Theater of Living Arts to say goodbye to a band that I’d truly grown to love over the years—as a fan and a friend. I had the honor of working with them in 2006 for a documentary film about their long and complicated history, and all things considered, this seemed like the right time for them to let go. When it was over, I saw at least a half-dozen people crying backstage, separately and together. It was beautiful and perfect.

Thursday were an incredible band and they were missed dearly. I’ve been playing guitar on tour with them for the last two years.

Coming on Thursday to Anti-Matter: A conversation with Ned Russin of Glitterer.

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