If you haven’t heard the name Jack Antonoff, you’ve almost certainly heard his work. The American producer’s list of collaborators reads like a laundry list of this century’s most influential artists: Taylor Swift, Lorde, Lana del Rey, Sabrina Carpenter. It’s easy, then, to get the impression that Antonoff’s band Bleachers is somewhat of a passion project. Many reviews of Bleachers’ work put it that way: “Antonoff’s career is built on giving artists an emotional outlet,” the subtext often brays. “Bleachers gives him that emotional outlet.”

Ironically enough, Bleachers tends to be at their best when Antonoff steps aside: the festival-ready choruses of ‘Rollercoaster’ and ‘Don’t Take The Money’, two of Bleachers’ most enjoyable tracks, succeed largely because the production is unfussily clean, and the lyrics are vague enough that you can sing along without really thinking about it (like many of the greatest rock songs). It’s why Bleachers’ previous album, their 2024 self-titled effort, fell kind of flat; the lyrics were often smugly convoluted, the production crowded and clumsy. It was trying so hard that it ended up amounting to not that much.

everyone for ten minutes arrives as a minor course correction, less immediately personal than Bleachers’ past work, but also something more transcendent and striking than any of the band’s previous records. It is a body of work that, at its heart, is engaged with the idea of boundaries, about the joy of being seen by those you love and the horror of being perceived by strangers. It’s a theme that is undoubtedly influenced by Antonoff’s celebrity, but its autobiographical nature does not hinder the writing. On the contrary: everyone for ten minutes is some of the band’s most illuminating work yet.

The record arrives after a period of criticism for Antonoff; his ubiquity in popular music (his work with Swift in particular has shifted millions of units) has led to an air of Antonoff fatigue in recent years. Not one to internalise things and move on quietly, Antonoff channels this public scrutiny into sharply focused lyrics. The dewy-eyed love song ‘i’m not joking’ speaks of bravery in the face of adversity, of “[drawing] them big lines” when the “stakes get wild”. If it’s not wholly original, it’s nonetheless compelling.

In fact, much of the album’s duration is peppered with these kinds of familiar yet memorable observations: the nuptials on ‘dirty wedding dress’ are tainted by boarding up the venue’s windows and shooting down drones, but the eventual realisation that “only my people can see me” arrives as a relief. On the awestruck ‘you and forever’, Antonoff admits that “I had never known my name until you spoke it from your chest” – a reminder of love’s affirming qualities, whose profundity increases tenfold within Antonoff’s biography. This is the kind of career that comes with people making snap judgments about you; for anyone to really know you is the deepest kind of emotional intimacy, the stuff that true love is made of.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a Bleachers album without rock’n’roll pastiche, and everyone has bangers to spare. Highlight ‘take you out tonight’ is especially warming, with its clappable instrumental passages that sound like they were recorded at your hometown’s open mic night. I love ‘dancing’, too, which begins acoustically with close-tracked vocals and threatens to build, but despite some string flourishes it never gets there – smartly mirroring the restless grief that Antonoff sings of. The album occasionally veers outside of its comfort zone – is that autotune on ‘we should talk’? – but mostly it wisely sticks to the sonic palette Bleachers have been painting with for more than a decade. Sax abounds, choruses are chanted, a little synth here and there never hurt anyone.

The record isn’t flawless – ‘i can’t believe you’re gone’ is the only proper skip, trudging in and out of the ears – and Antonoff occasionally retreats into the clunky lyricism that’s held him back on previous Bleachers albums. But this is overall a confident, hard-won step forward for the band, and another worthy addition to Antonoff’s lengthy catalogue. At a point where some albums feel like a data dump put out for the sake of cultural relevance (cough cough, Drake), everyone is a cohesive, distinctive artistic statement that couldn’t have come from anyone but Antonoff. It feels, most of all, like a cautious exhale.

8/10

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