Worship and Tribute: the difficult world of Glassjaw fandom

When you’ve waited 16 years to see your favourite band play live, emotions run high. Last Tuesday, I saw New York post-hardcore band Glassjaw for the first time. Yes, it felt strange having a balding 35-year-old man screaming songs I remember from secondary school straight into my right ear for 45 minutes. But I was there. Part of a cohort of 40 girls and guys with their fists in the air, eyes screwed shut, shouting every word of the Glassjaw back catalogue in total solidarity. That might sound like a desperate attempt to live vicariously through early 2000s metal, a romantic way to cling on to my youth. But being at this gig was like being out on the football terraces, with absolute unconditional devotion to my team. It was magical.

But being a Glassjaw fan hasn’t been easy. They’ve only put out two albums in the last 16 years – 2000’s Everything you ever wanted to know about silence and 2002’s Worship and Tribute. And many of the band’s UK tours have been cancelled as tough schedules caused singer Daryl Palumbo to suffer relapses from Crohn’s disease. I’ve missed out on seeing them so many times I’ve lost count. I remember on 13 April 2003, walking up to the entrance of Manchester University’s Academy 3 for their show, and there was nobody around. All I saw was a white A4 sheet of paper taped to the door that read: TONIGHT’S SHOW HAS BEEN CANCELLED. I assumed that Daryl had been rushed back into hospital (he had), and I started to accept I’d probably never see my favourite band play live.

Glassjaw came out of the Long Island hardcore scene in 1993, playing frenzied gigs with bands such as Burn and Quicksand. Many of the bands didn’t drink, smoke or take drugs and it was a natural extension of the straight-edge New York hardcore scene. But it was 2000 when I first heard Glassjaw’s music. British metal magazines were featuring producer Ross Robinson in almost every issue. He was on a mission to destroy the ‘Adidas Rock’ of nu-metal bands like Limp Bizkit.

And, to Robinson, Glassjaw was the answer. The dissonant melodies of the band’s two original guitarists, Justin Beck and Todd Weinstock, clashed in awkward ways – the bass and drums fell in and out of sync, which felt like jazz. Singer Daryl was fanatical about bands like the Cure, Squeeze and Elvis Costello. In photo shoots he wore Stiff Records T-shirts in tribute to the underground British label, and the crooning of 80s British pop records blazed across the post-hardcore of Glassjaw’s songs. I had no idea what to make of them. But I was totally in love.

With no live shows and no new albums, for me, Glassjaw was a band based on merchandise and mythology. There’s a standard-issue look for a Glassjaw fan: you need a massive GJ sign on the front of your T-shirt and a monochrome GJ symbol tattooed on your forearm. The most devoted fans have three black Xs tattooed on the inside of their bottom lip – a tribute to the band’s straight-edge origins. The band’s online store, selling tees and hoodies, is the shrine at which legions of fans worship. There’s an online mythology that’s been created within message boards, where you can find leaked demos, new artwork and the occasional updates on new albums that never quite see the light of day.

Sixteen years have passed, but Glassjaw fans are still struggling on. The latest instalment of the saga came this December. US radio station NPR played a new track, New White Extremity, and with it came the promise of a new album. (I’ve taken it with a pinch of salt, however, as there’s currently no album title, no release date, and no label to release it.) But seeing them live last week gave me that bit of faith that the devoted need. For 45 minutes, the apparition of Glassjaw was real.

No one knows if a third full-length album will ever surface. But for a Glassjaw fan, that uncertainty is part of the experience. And most of us have learned to live with it.

Glassjaw’s US tour starts at House of Blues, Boston on 22 February, touring until 27 March