Since the band's last show, 15 years ago at the Great American Music Hall, the idea of A Minor Forest has grown to make more and more sense. Sort of an ironic fate for a group whose number-of-fucks-given quotient always hovered perilously close to zero, but look at how much of the San Francisco trio's legacy has been ratified and perpetuated by indie-rock posterity: Hypnotically slithery emo jangle? Check. Appealingly disruptive math-spazz freakouts? Check. Twitchy dynamic shifts under drawling voice recordings? Check. Exquisitely crass song titles? Check (cf. “Putting the Gay Back in Reggae”; “Jacking Off George Lucas”). You can catch the Foresters around town now and then in bands like Lumen and Threnody Ensemble and Tic War, but this is your sole chance, maybe for the next 15 years, to trace all those threads back to the source. Checkmate.
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