See Your Heroes on a Tuesday
Seeing Jawbreaker take to the stage and break into “I Love You So Much It’s Killing Us Both,” from the record that broke them was so disorienting that it took 45 seconds for me to figure out what song they were playing, despite knowing it as well as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
I first heard Jawbreaker on Revolution Radio in the fall of 1995. I was alone in my living room. It was cold. It was dark. It may have been raining. The moment “Fireman,” from their major label debut Dear You, transmitted through the airwaves and onto the three-disc changer AIWA bookshelf audio system, I was instantly hooked. The clashing guitars, the pop of the Rob Cavallo-produced snare drum and the smooth delivery of lyrical poetry grooved a much needed neural network in my brain, one that would soon be treated to an entirely new canon of music. As soon as I discovered Jawbreaker and their then - and even more so now - revered back catalogue, they disappeared - a major record label deal gone sideways and a once welcoming - on the fringes, at least - punk rock community disowning them for abandoning life in the van. Fans were left crushed. Having just discovered the band that could save our generation, and then after coming to terms with the fact that we would never get to see them perform their genius on stage, was disheartening at best. It was akin to discovering The Beatles’ catalogue in 1966, only to shortly after learn they had put the brakes on live performances. In a way, this was worse. At least The Beatles continued to record and release music for another four-plus years. Yes, Jawbreaker were our Beatles - at least in a very underground and imaginative sense.
Blake Schwarzenbach gives Adam Pfhaler (not pictured) a nod
You can imagine that, 30 years after first hearing “Fireman,” finding myself on my way to a small club in Osaka’s Umeda district with a ticket to a Jawbreaker show in my left breast pocket was a tad more than surreal. Seeing Blake Schwarzenbach, Chris Bauermeister, and Adam Pfhaler take to the stage and break into “I Love You So Much It’s Killing Us Both,” from the record that broke them was so disorienting that it took 45 seconds for me to figure out what song they were playing, despite knowing it as well as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” That neural network was reconfiguring itself in real time, barely able to process what was unfolding five metres in front of me. It wasn’t until five or six songs into the set that my mind settled in and actually began processing what was happening: my heroes playing the melodies and singing the lyrics that carried me through so much of my teenage angst, 20-something coming of age nonsense, 30-something self-rediscovery, and my now mid-40s, reflectively sentimental self. A single tear streamed down my right cheek when Pfhaler perfectly queued the voice sample on “Condition Oakland.” The driving guitars complemented the cruise-control drums all the way to the final breakdown, with all its double snare hits and intermittent rhythmic patterns. This is my condition.
Chris Bauermeister (bass) and Adam Pfhaler (drums) dialing in the rhythm
The remainder of the set was a blurry dream-like euphoria, like the opening and sharing of a bottle of a 1995 Château Cheval Blanc to celebrate a 30th wedding anniversary. I tried my best to take it all in, to be fully encompassed by the noise, and to let the memories of listening to Jawbreaker over the last 30 years simply exist. To finally hear Blake sing “1, 2, 3, 4: Who’s punk what’s the score!?” in the same room, in real-time: his guitar perfectly out of tune, a broken string, a crowd-surfer, a sing along.
Blake Schwarzenbach offers a cheers to the crowd with a freshly cracked near-beer
Listening to Jawbreaker sounds different now and in the best way possible. I can reflect on a memory I once thought impossible, while revisiting late-night drives, mixtapes with “Jink Removing,” and the fantasy of how spectacular it would have been to actually see them play live. Go see your heroes, even if it’s a Tuesday.
Jawbreaker at Club Quattro | Osaka, Japan | December 2, 2025
30 Frames Has November
One photograph a day for 30 days.
A photo-a-day project is nothing spectacularly new and on the surface may seem pretty easy, albeit an inconvenience at worst. Simply press the shutter but once a day, have a decent archiving method, and after a predetermined period of time (in this case 30 days) the project is complete. However, to pose a question in tag form: Nothing is as easy as it seems, is it? Yet with persistence and a daily goal of just getting one slice of life, it is and was very possible.
For this particular project I wanted to challenge myself a little bit more than a simple snap each day, so I set the following guidelines/rules:
1: Portrait framing only.
2: Set the ISO to the ridiculously high level of 51200.
I have always enjoyed pushing a camera to its absolute limits and since my camera does not go any higher than 51200 ISO that was the limit I chose. Honestly it did feel like the camera was dragging itself through the month and I missed a ton of shots due to its slower response to the request I persistently gave it. But I just imagined I had ISO 512000 film in the camera and let it fly - no excuses or questions asked.
Overall it was a challenging and rewarding month of photography. I did tire a bit of only portrait orientation and when I finally lowered my ISO it felt like I had a brand new camera. I am quite happy with most of the photographs and even caught one or two that I would be happy to rediscover years down the line. I would welcome round two of this next year, especially in November when the light softens and leaves begin to change and twirl to the pavement.
Below are a few of my favorites from the month. The entire project can be viewed here.
The Same Route Every Day
The goal of this short set of paragraphs is to explain why carrying a camera every day and letting the scene dictate your path can lead to new discoveries and a childlike sense of wonder.
The goal of this short set of paragraphs is to explain why carrying a camera every day and letting the scene dictate your path can lead to new discoveries and a childlike sense of wonder.
As a creature of habit, and similar to one of the characters in The Weakerthans’ “One Great City!”, I typically follow the exact same route from Hankyu Okamoto Station to Konan University every day. This involves hanging a left out of the station, taking a right by the park, a left after the park, and following the hill up to the campus. I cross paths with the same people and generally nothing really catches my eye as far as a photographable moment is concerned. Although I do occasionally achieve photographic success by way of some interesting shadow or an umbrella approaching me at just the right angle.
The other day as I was about to take a left at my usual hang-a-left location I spotted a Charlie Brown t-shirt (see above). It seemed kind of interesting and I wanted to frame a shot and capture the essence of this not completely rare - but rare enough to warrant a photo - moment. But in order to get the shot I needed to proceed straight instead of left. In a split second decision, I headed straight, quickly adjusted my exposure, framed the shot the best I could, and snapped the shutter. Could I have lived without this shot? Indeed. But it turned out pretty decent and since I was on a new path, I had a chance to explore a neighborhood. I came across this most peculiar Mallard trailer resting atop an apartment building - as if it were placed there by accident, or by the orders of some Hollywood movie director. Or it flew up there as its name would suggest and decided that it would be a great place to land. Stranger things have likely happened. Anyway, I snapped a couple photos and continued on, reflecting in awe of just how odd it was to see this trailer suspended on top of this apartment building.
Moral of this short commuting story: Always keep your metaphorical camera at the ready. Keep the settings dialed to whatever light is happening at the moment. And if you see something, go for it. It may lead to all sorts of new discoveries, randomness, and could possibly even make your day that much brighter. But then again, I wonder what I missed on my normal route that morning? We can never and will never know.
I Owe Jeremy Messersmith a Five-Spot
This isn’t just the story about how I owe Jeremy Messersmith five USD. It is the story of how simply asking can sometimes get you things you want.
Wednesday, August 27, 2025.
I can barely sleep. I am way too excited to take the always magical drive north up 35 to the home of my alma mater, the birthplace of the press-dubbed conscience of the 1960s, and a mall on a hill that needs to be preserved forever (at least in photographs). I bring my golf clubs thinking I may sneak in nine somewhere near Moose Lake. After a pit stop outside of Hinckley, golf is the furthest thing on my mind and my entire focus shifts to a quiet morning at Park Point. I have also packed my guitar just for this occasion. Even though I have completed this drive hundreds of times before, it never fails to pull at every last heart string, especially when Duluth’s city limits come into view and 103.3 FM shifts from static to clarity. I flip on said radio station and am greeted by what I think for a second is Matt and Kim, but then soon realize it is Mates of State. Perfect welcome back to Duluth. The next song I am not quite feeling so I slide in the new Matt Berninger CD and scan to track three, “Bonnet of Pins,” as this feels like a good way to soundtrack myself into the city. It proves to be a wonderful choice.
I cross the Lift Bridge over to Park Point and think I should go back to 103.3 FM as it always helps me connect more centrally to the local community. Lo and behold they are playing “Bonnet of Pins”. I catch the last 45 seconds, smiling all the way, park the car and head to the beach. I am greeted by a flock of seagulls and a pristine shore that could easily compete in a beauty pageant with the likes of Oahu’s Lanikai Beach. Remnants of what must have been a late Tuesday night back-to-school Park Point bonfire sprawl into my periphery, but only add to and not detract from said beauty. It’s a spiritual place to say the least and after snapping a few photos of the calm water and city center, I head to a picnic table in an adjacent field to play guitar under some trees. It is still quite comfortable out - near sweater weather - and I begin strumming “Wheels on the Bus,” a song I performed live for my nephew in Longfellow, Minneapolis just a few nights prior. From those simple chords a song about traveling to Duluth pours out and new melodies are formed on top of borrowed rhythms.
Park Point
From Park Point I head to the West End for a highly suggested burrito and a bit of record shopping. Not thrilled by the record store’s prices, but dazzled by the delicious burrito, I leave the West End satiated and head for the Miller Hill Mall, a place I once attempted to make dough rise like the best of them at Cinnabon. Interestingly enough, that shop has expired, but a sign on the other side of the mall states a new one is coming soon. I visit the mall for one reason only: to try and capture the essence of a dying midwestern mall in photographs. I leave feeling somewhat successful and with zero regret about making the somewhat lengthy drive up the hill. It is about coffee time and I navigate back downtown for a cup and recharge myself and my smartphone before the concert on the pier at Glensheen Mansion.
West Duluth and Miller Hill Mall
I thankfully find a parking spot at Glensheen, get in line near the entrance, and not 10 minutes later the gates open and I step inside the hallowed grounds. Just beyond the entrance I come across the merch stands for both performers that evening: Sophie Hiroko and Jeremy Messersmith. I’ve been searching for Jeremy Messersmith’s 2024 live album, Live at the Bryant Lake Bowl, but I haven’t been able to find it at record stores in the Twin Cities.
Alas, it’s part of Messersmith’s merchandise line-up, and I’m excited to finally make the purchase. However, there’s a slight problem. I have no cash. And I don’t have, nor can I get, Venmo, which is the only other payment method his merch table accepts. I ask the person working the table if Messersmith takes PayPal. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. I explain that I live in Japan, and I can’t download Venmo on my phone because of my App Store settings. I also don’t have a local number to retrieve whatever pin I’d need, even if I did switch the app store to the U.S. and managed to download Venmo.
I then ask if I could have someone else Venmo the money to Messersmith’s account, and the merch person says that would likely be okay. I think about calling my sister, who has helped me out in this fashion before. Then, the merch person mentions that they have PayPal and that it would be fine if I PayPal them the money for the CD, and they’d then Venmo the same amount to Messersmith’s account.
While all of this discussion is going on, I realize I might as well also buy this really cool-looking Jeremy Messersmith shirt with a kitten on it. Actually, I decide to buy two. One for my wife as well. I mean, why not? Especially now that I can successfully complete the transaction via PayPal. So I settle on two shirts ($25 each) and the live album ($15). According to my arithmetic, that comes to $65, right? But somehow the merch person and I agree on $60, and amidst the confusion of how to pay, I quickly and anxiously fire over the $60 to their PayPal account without realizing it’s actually $5 short of the real price.
Meanwhile, Messersmith himself makes his way over to the merch table. After discussing the simple, yet somewhat complicated merch transaction, he casually mentions that he’s grateful to sell any merch that would otherwise take up room in his garage in Minneapolis. I still don’t realize I’ve undercut his asking price by $5 and go on to tell him I’ve been a longtime fan, listening to his music all the time in Japan and beyond and how it connects me back to life in Minnesota. I also tell him my wife likes his music very much, that I’m buying a shirt for her, and that I’d love for him to sign the CD and address it to her, which he kindly does.
I shake his hand, thank him again for his wonderful music, wish him luck on the pier performance, and then head off to explore this unique mansion-turned-music-venue on the shores of Lake Superior.
It’s halfway through Sophie Hiroko’s set—incredible, by the way—when I realize I’ve shortchanged Messersmith $5. I think about re-PayPaling the merch person with a note to re-Venmo Messersmith, but I refrain. I video-chat my wife to show her a bit of Sophie Hiroko’s set, tell her the story, and she convinces me it was an honest miscalculation. I agree, and I begin to move on.
Sophie Hiroko
By this time, Messersmith and cellist Dan Lawonn take the pier and whisk us all away into an hour of his often amusing and sometimes startling storytelling. Magical doesn’t quite do the performance justice, but it’s downright magical, a magic on par with that of the early morning drive North. An hour later the sun is setting, Messersmith is jumping fully clothed into the Great Lake, and we all drift off into one of those soft summer nights that there are never, ever quite enough of.
Jeremy Messersmith, when you read these paragraphs, just know I’d like to somehow get you that $5 I owe you. Funny enough, I came back to Japan with exactly 5 USD in cash. I’m sure I’ll be at a show down the line and we can square up then. Or maybe I’ll pay you an extra $5 on Bandcamp for your latest single, Boomers. Until then, thank you for your art and for bringing us all together that incredible August night in Duluth.
Jeremy Messersmith
