Why I think my sertraline is doing its job and other tales from The Front Bottoms at Roadrunner
By Julia Norkus
New Jersey has a solid track record when it comes to churning out musicians; Bruce Springsteen, Jack Antonoff, Bon Jovi, to name a few, have had wild success around the world and continue to maintain their star status.
One name that doesn’t typically come to mind, however, would be The Front Bottoms. New Jersey natives Brian Sella (he/him) and Mat Uychich (he/him) formed the group and have only grown in popularity since their inception in 2006.
Now you may be thinking, “Julia, isn’t that a euphemism for a vagina?”
Yes. And I’m sorry you found out this way, but aren’t most of you in your twenties anyway? Grow up, nasty freaks. It’s not that deep.
Their lyrics are often just as raunchy and tongue in cheek, despite being two of the dorkiest looking men I’ve ever seen. Except I wasn’t worried about the euphemisms or the vulgarity at 15. The one thing I did want from those songs? A way to heal from heartbreak.
I sat on my bedroom floor for most of sophomore year of high school listening to my holy trinity: “Peach,” “Father” and “Twin Size Mattress,” respectively. Sella’s whines were my gospel, Talon of the Hawk (2013) my bible and my love of TFB only grew from then on.
That is, until I got to college and everyone told me they were simply two average white guys playing shitty music that was easily replicable. And I believed them. I fell out of love with the band that had once meant so much to me and pushed me through some of the hardest times in my pubescent life.
It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when a friend—Ms. Izzy Desmarais—asked me to go to The Front Bottoms concert with her at Roadrunner.
The conversation easily went like this:
Izzy: “Roadrunner is really far and I’m planning on going by myself, so we’ll see how it goes.”
Julia: “I’ll go with you, I love The Front Bottoms.”
And so, we went.
The concerts that I’ve attended in the past year have been dominated by one type of demographic—queer people. Chappell Roan and MUNA audiences are some of the safest and most darling crowds I’ve ever been in and I will stand by that.
Meanwhile, I think during my personal TFB hiatus, I forgot the demographic that midwest emo typically draws—men. Of all kinds, some of them not so savory.
Amidst pushing and shoving from rude concert goers and wondering whether or not I would leave with both feet attached to my body, we watched as someone hurried past us with something that looked like blood trickling out of their mouth into their hands.
As we began to wonder if they had gotten kicked in the face or it was just a nosebleed, the lights dimmed and the opening bars of “West Virginia” hushed the crowd. Once rowdy, now soothed by Sella’s sweet whines I remember so well.
But the real show didn’t begin for me until the second song began—“Maps.” To hear it live began to open something within me, unraveling a six year knot that has rested deep in my belly amidst blurry memories of ex-boyfriends and hook-ups of years past.
It’s also worth noting that Sella knew how to talk to a crowd, despite his awkward vocals on most of their records. At one point, Izzy turned to me.
“Oh he has jokes! They’re doing bits!” she said. Obviously, I laughed.
They played other songs across all of their albums and EPs, including “Joanie” and “Punching Bag” from their most recent album, You Are Who You Hang Out With (2023). It wasn’t all that surprising when they pulled out an inflatable wrestler during “Punching Bag” and hurled it into the audience amongst crowd surfing maniacs and moshers.
I was simply along for the ride.
But what spoke to me most was the band’s live rendition of “Jim Bogart”. Off of their EP Rose (2014), it was always one of my favorite TFB songs, if not my favorite song of theirs. With lines like, “And today we could do something that we’ve never done before / And today, we could do something more,” the song’s sucker punch of a chorus always had a way of picking me up when I was down. The climax of screams and chants punctuate the intensity of the chorus and somehow verbalize the way I feel a lot of the time.
Except now, instead of screaming in my head, I found myself screaming along with the other greaseballs in the audience. That knot that started to unravel was becoming less and less of a—well, a knot.
The gut wrenching feeling I always got from listening to “Father” to the elation I felt listening to “Jim Bogart” came flooding back along with memories of my life before college—before coming out, before discovering my gender identity, before falling in love with someone who valued me and everything I stood for.
It became reflective for me and it was no longer just a stupid concert—it was an introspection on the ways I’ve changed and that I can appreciate the music I once loved, just now in a different way. It’s like your favorite pair of jeans—you might outgrow them, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be repurposed into something better. Just because you’ve grown doesn’t mean you have to toss them away and forget about them, much like my memories of being 15 and all of the things that came with being an awkward high schooler.
To end my wild ride, the boys played “Twin Size Mattress” as an obvious encore to their set.
I screamed. And also wanted to puke.
The things I used to feel and associate with the songs I heard live that night don’t really appear on my radar anymore. I am, in fact, no longer 15. And The Front Bottoms are no longer just sad white guys. They helped me see that I’m 20 and that my sertraline is working and I’m doing a lot better than I was all those years ago.