Future Intense: Unwound at the Grog Shop
by Owen Neaman
We’re halfway through the 2020s, and the musicians of the post-Nirvana alternative rock boom seem to be having a field day. Tours celebrating 30th anniversaries of beloved records are revitalizing bands that have dwelled in relative obscurity in the shadow of Grunge. Among them is Unwound, the Olympia, WA-based post-hardcore group of the renowned indie label Kill Rock Stars.
Originally a trio featuring guitarist/vocalist Justin Trosper, drummer Sara Lund, and bassist Vern Rumsey, the group saw a resurgence in popularity five years ago after Rumsey died at 47 from organ failure. Social media brought Unwound’s music to an entire new generation of listeners, and Trosper and Lund have been touring with bassist Jared Warren and auxiliary guitarist Scott Seckington ever since. This year marked the 30th anniversary of the band’s cult classic The Future of What, and also saw Lund returning to touring after a breast cancer diagnosis. Despite never having listened to the album, I snatched (obscenely cheap) tickets for the September 6th Cleveland show the second they went on sale.
When fellow fan Beck Robertson and I got to the Grog Shop in Cleveland Heights, it was packed with an eclectic mix of faces: college-aged devotees crowding the stage, internet-era converts, parents who brought their teenagers, and aging scenesters who had probably seen the band here 30 years ago. After a somewhat shaky set from Kent, Ohio’s Harriet the Spy, the crowd was clearly antsy for Unwound. Beck and I hustled to the front as the band took the stage. In front of us, a couple quietly schemed to snatch the setlist post-show.
A cold quiet washed over the crowd as Trosper plucked the panicked riff of album opener “New Energy.” As Lund swooped in with simmering drum rolls, the crowd pressed towards the front, and Seckington and Warren locked in with their bandmates. Lund and Warren’s bulldozer rhythm section plowed into the verse, as Trosper and Seckington’s guitar parts circled each other like downed power lines in a hurricane. The audience writhed with the music as if it were the only way to ride out the whirlwind. Trosper’s voice bounced between a coarse yet commandingly articulate bark and a desperate, primal shriek. Beck and I turned to each other in disbelief: this was the same voice from the 30-year old Unwound album we bumped in his car on the way here—52 years old, it was as arresting as ever.
Unhalting, the band kicked through song after song, as if too entranced by the hum of their amplifiers to address the audience. Songs like “Demolished” and “Natural Disasters" had the guitarists firing on all cylinders. The crackling buzz of Trosper’s leads sounded like an angry hornets nest, with earsplitting leads fit to be sung by rabid harpies. It paired perfectly with Seckington’s lower-register parts, which had the metallic scratch and heady roar of a car engine. Trosper’s vocals briefly mellowed after the opening numbers, allowing slithering guitar lines to emerge. His voice would wane to a possessed whisper before slowly building to his signature yelp.
Being unconcerned with hooks and choruses, some of the earlier songs blended together, and Trosper’s vocals were sometimes illegible under the oppressive torrents of feedback erupting from his guitar. But even when the guitar lines waned, Warren and Lund’s tightness was dazzling. Lund lashed through dizzying song forms and start-stop riffage, deftly laying down fills between passages that would give most drummers a headache. Paired with Warren’s churning basslines, their acrobatic rhythm section made slow-burners like “Descension” and "Disappoint" hypnotic.
However, Unwound were most in their element when they tapped into their punkier side. When they launched into the power drill riff in “Petals For Bricks,” the crowd exploded like bulls spotting a red muleta. Lean guitar lines, sharp as jackknives, whipped off the stage as the crowd frantically tossed and turned behind me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more thrilled to be engulfed by a crowd. The seasick rip-current of the rhythm section egged on the moshpit through the screeching “Here Come The Dogs” and the epic “Swan.”
When the playthrough of the album came to an end, a bouquet of flowers was put on the foot of the stage, then passed to everyone in the front row. The band played the opening notes to the encore “For Your Entertainment.” Trosper played the piercing, soaring lead while lunging about the stage like a fencer. Lund’s drums and Warren’s bass bludgeoned the crowd. Dazed and dangerous, the crowd slammed into each other with delight. I looked on, paralyzed and clutching my flower for dear life. Trosper, screaming the anthemic chorus as if the guitars were trying to kill him, looked gleeful. Re-emerging after their battles with death and disease, the band brought the venue to pulsating, roaring life. I could picture Vern Rumsey devilishly smiling down on his bandmates that night.
After two more earth-shatteringly loud numbers, the band exited to howling applause. The couple in front of us grabbed the setlist. I didn’t care. When Beck and I returned to Oberlin, I went home and put the flower in a cup of water by my window.
