Jeff Gomez

Author: Jeff Gomez

Title: Math Rock

Publisher: Bloomsbury

Pages: 135

Price: 18.47 euros

The concept of math-rock is thirty years old: what better time to dedicate a book to the genre? That must have been the thinking over at publisher Bloomsbury, which has just released, in its "33 ⅓ – Genre" series, the slim volume "Math Rock", written by California-based Jeff Gomez: 135 concise pages taking stock of a movement that for a while captured the attention of a section of the alternative rock audience, but which in the indie/alternative imagination today is often relegated to a late-Nineties American curiosity: a scene localized in time and space, with a few intriguing offshoots in Japan or around the turn of the millennium, but with almost no connection to the present.

Jeff Gomez's little handbook shows just how off the mark this perspective is. Contacted by email, the author immediately agreed to an interview: with his help, and drawing on the rich accompanying playlist, we try here to bring some order and clarity to the subject, looking at the genre from a broader angle and debunking a few clichés that still narrow its appeal today.

Since the term first appeared, in connection with two New York bands, Chavez and Wider, its meaning has gone through several shifts. Initially, the expression was synonymous with a dissonant, muscular, intricate sound, full of odd time signatures and built heavily on the interplay between guitar, bass and drums. It was associated above all with American alternative labels such as Touch And Go (Shellac, Slint, Don Caballero, Polvo, Strom And Stress), Discord (Hoover, Shudder To Think, Faraquet, Q And Not U), Skin Graft (Dazzling Killmen, U.S. Maple, Cheer-Accident, Colossamite, Ruins) and, to a lesser extent, Quarterstick (June Of 44, Rodan), Homestead (Trumans Water, Bastro) or Thrill Jockey (Tortoise, A Minor Forest). The boundaries, always blurry, mapped onto broad overlaps with the noise-rock and post-hardcore categories, and as the years passed math-rock came to be increasingly perceived as one of the possible declinations of post-rock, a term initially tied to British bands with an electronic bent, but which, from Tortoise onward, was also "adopted" across the Atlantic to describe more or less anything with a strongly instrumental bent and a tendency to move away from the song form.

The image of math-rock, rather varied if you look at the genre's earliest exponents, crystallized in the early 2000s with the "canonization" of Pittsburgh's own Don Caballero as the quintessential math-rockers. The genre's range of possibilities was reduced to a precise trademark: robust, sprawling drumming, precise, cutting riffing straight out of a King Crimson wannabe playbook, tortuous yet repetitive compositions, no keyboards, no horns or anything of the sort, and above all no vocal parts whatsoever (let alone singing). An overloaded, paradoxically maximalist less is more, which quickly won over part of the alternative crowd and just as quickly grew tiresome to them. And yet, just as the formula was first revealing its disruptive edge and then its stifling limitations, other musical possibilities were emerging on the horizon. And other audiences too, less bound to the imperatives of leanness and sonic "nakedness" cultivated within the punk/hardcore/noise/alternative continuum of which Steve Albini's productions were the supreme interpreters in the Nineties.

Right around the turn of the millennium, new ideas that would change the rules of the game began to emerge in fields connected to emo, to metalcore, and to the soft/loud school that had started building itself on the vertiginous climaxes of Mogwai and Explosions In The Sky. The genre's expansion into new geographical areas, moreover, further contributed to hybridizing the ultra-lean blueprint it had by then become associated with, blending it with more varied sensibilities, at times more progressive ones, and in some cases even airy and (in their own way) pop ones.

Still in the western United States, the midwest emo of American Football found room for voice and songwriting, easing the tension of the sound to arrive at atmospheres that were almost tender. Above all, though, it brought along a broad toolkit of odd-time arpeggios and alternate guitar tunings beyond the standard E-A-D-G-B-E. Widespread since the days of Joni Mitchell in the singer-songwriter world, remapping the notes on the fretboard also opened the door, in the math realm, to imaginative combinations of scales and chords, which could more easily move away from punk/hard-style power chords to explore jazzy harmonies or folk colors. On the opposite end of the sonic spectrum, bands like Dillinger Escape Plan reached a new benchmark in terms of power and ferocity: the mathcore they helped bring to life also put vocals back at the center and drew heavily on jazz constructions; the way they did it, however, leaned fully into frenzy and cacophony, pairing the structural focus that gives math its name with the exploration of increasingly chaotic, extreme landscapes. Those who, a little later, borrowed the crescendo device from soft/loud dynamics along with a distinctly prog passion for shifting moods could therefore draw on a far wider dynamic range from the outset than early math had offered: bands like Japan's Toe and Lite thus crafted a sound capable of drawing in listeners more interested in an emotional "journey" than in a single, specific feeling, and more curious about nuance and rearrangement than the pursuit of avant-gardism at all costs that had become associated with other strands of the genre.

The overview offered so far has already strayed far enough from Don Caballero to give a sense of how misleading it would be to flatten the whole scene onto their paradigm. But even the broader horizon sketched out here falls short of the genre's true vastness: venturing only a few years past the turn of the millennium, and limiting the scope to Japan alone, still means missing most of the genre's richness — which consists, beyond a good twenty extra years of history, of a tangle of hyperlocal scenes, cult bands who built a following first via Myspace and then Bandcamp, and countless offshoots and hybridizations with prog, dance, avant-garde, pop, metal, acoustic and electronic music — too much to cover fully not just in an article like this one, but even in a book twice as long as Gomez's.

Perhaps this is also why the author chose a "cookbook" approach for his book rather than a history-book one: rather than attempting an organic chronology of the field and all its branches, he instead chose to "take it apart" into its constituent elements, devoting dedicated chapters to influences, sound construction, related genres, and the role the internet played in the genre's global spread. By treating bands, records and songs more as working examples than as monuments to be celebrated, he also manages to put well-known acts (besides the many already mentioned, this applies to more recent artists such as This Town Needs Guns, Giraffes? Giraffes!, Tera Melos, Covet) on equal footing with lesser-known names like Floral, Clever Girl, Palm, Rooftops, Foster Parents.

The highly personal angle Gomez takes naturally has its limits (as would any attempt to condense thirty years of music into just over a hundred pages): the author is above all a fan of instrumental math, and only touches in passing on artists more oriented toward song form (including the math-pop contingent: Tricot, Hot Club De Paris, or early Foals, and from there the jigsaw pop connection); his treatment of the relationship with progressive rock and post-rock, while informed by a solid appreciation of both strands, falls back on a few not-quite-accurate clichés (the punk/prog antithesis, the conflation of post-rock with soft/loud); and the commendable aim of showing the genre's geographic reach ends up amounting, in practice, to a few mentions of Asian and British bands (missing out, for instance, on rich scenes like the French and Italian ones). Other choices, shaped mostly by the author's own leanings, prove more effective: chief among them, devoting considerably more space to the genre's post-2000 phase, while staying rather vague about its pre-Don Caballero roots in the Nineties. A disorienting approach, but ultimately a well-judged one, since it's precisely the post-2000 era where most alternative music fans lack a frame of reference. Similarly, the emphasis on the abundance of irony within the genre's ethos comes across as a sharp choice, given that it's too often associated with a detached, humorless, sterile-virtuosity image that turns out to be more a convenient stereotype for dartboard use than an accurate portrait.

In the questions put to Gomez, the aim was above all to highlight what's original about the book, which is certainly not the definitive text on math-rock (assuming such a thing could even exist) but, as a first attempt at an organic treatment of the genre, manages to be not only a solid introduction for newcomers, but also a decent trove of ideas for those who, even coming in with a strong grounding already, are willing to measure it against a different point of view.

What was your first approach to math-rock?

I got into math-rock five or six years ago, because I was a huge fan of Tim Kinsella/Joan Of Arc. And as I dug deeper into the various bands connected to Joan Of Arc, I came across Ghosts and Vodka. I was immediately and completely captivated by their instrumental nature and by the way Victor Villareal played guitar. Before that, I knew nothing about math-rock, even though I'd been into indie rock in the '90s, back when bands like Don Caballero were active and playing shows. And although I liked bands connected to math-rock like Polvo, Shellac (RIP Steve Albini), and Slint, I'd never connected them to math-rock (and honestly, to this day, I still don't). From Ghosts and Vodka I moved on to bands like Toe and Giraffes? Giraffes!, and then went back and discovered Don Cab, Piglet and the other early Chicago bands. And when I realized there wasn't a book on math-rock where someone like me could get a handle on the genre, I figured I might as well write one myself!

In the book you devote several pages to the role the internet played in fostering the genre's growth. Were online communities important for your own personal journey into math-rock too? Which ones in particular?

Since I came to math-rock fairly late, I used the web more to discover music through sites like Bandcamp than to immerse myself in online communities. Bandcamp is a place where a math-rock band like Tom's Story, who are from the Philippines, can put out a record digitally and connect with someone like me in California — half a world away. Math-rock has a global reach, and the internet is hugely important in bringing together fans and their curiosity. Beyond that, I've had fun watching various YouTube videos about what math-rock is and isn't, and relying on tutorials and how-to guides that explain how to learn to play it.

I get the impression that, for a lot of alternative rock fans, Don Caballero were at once the genre's unsurpassable peak and its grave. The band's distinctive sound (super-heavy, super-abstract yet rough-edged, highly rhythmic but without any groove) won the attention and respect of plenty of fans, who nonetheless quickly grew tired of their supposed "clones" and possibly of the whole approach itself. Your book seems to point in a different direction, though. Don Cab weren't the end of math-rock — you frame them as something closer to a "kickoff"! What are some new elements that emerged after Don Caballero that you think alt-rock fans might appreciate in the genre's later evolutions?

You're right that Don Caballero established the basic template for the genre: long, baffling titles, evocative imagery, heavy instrumentation with a focus on loops and tapping, and incredible drumming. The bands that immediately followed in Don Cab's footsteps stayed fairly faithful to that template (Piglet and Lynx, for instance). But by the time we get to Toe and, later, Clever Girl, we see the sound soften slightly and incorporate more jazz elements like keyboards and saxophone, and move toward a more "shimmering" tone that has since become the standard for the genre.

You made some bold choices in how you present the genre. One that I really appreciated is that you don't follow a "historical" approach (even though you clearly identify certain artists as foundational, like Slint, Don Cab, American Football, Toe, or later on Giraffes? Giraffes! and Covet). Still, there's a passage in the book where you mention "fourth- and fifth-wave math-rock bands," so I have to ask: which bands and characteristics are associated with these waves, and what are the other waves?

What drew me to math-rock, and what I think makes it vital and unique compared to other genres like grunge or Madchester, is that there's never been a single "golden age" or geographic center. Sure, you could say Chicago is where it started, but from there it quickly spread to Asia, not to mention California and then the UK, and now it's in almost every country in the world. And yes, as I mentioned, I definitely see Don Caballero as ground zero for math-rock; the subsequent waves of bands, like Toe (second wave) or Clever Girl (third wave) all the way to Standards and Covet (fourth or fifth wave, depending on how you count), have each added something new to the genre, whether that's jazz elements or fruit-based imagery (a recurring trait of Standards' album covers, ed.) and so on. The genre keeps changing, but it's still math-rock. We talk about it in the present tense, while grunge and Madchester remain tied to a specific set of bands, a city, and a brief historical era that's now passed.

Having been a fairly dedicated math-rock nerd myself, there's another aspect of the book that excited me. The text cites a ton of artists I'd never heard of before! Even among the "historic" ones, there are a few names that seem a bit esoteric, at least for those alternative rock listeners who associate the label with Polvo and June of 44, and who populate sites like Rateyourmusic. This might sound like a criticism ("You don't talk about Faraquet, but you devote whole paragraphs to Foster Parents!?"), but it's really an expression of gratitude. What criteria guided your choice of examples?

This was another reason why the book isn't a straightforward historical narrative of the genre: I couldn't accept leaving anyone out. Plus, the fact that the genre is so geographically spread out (not to mention how slippery it is to define) means it would always resist a strictly chronological narrative. Add to that the fact that I'm absolutely not the world authority on math-rock when it comes to knowing every band in existence, so what's in the book is essentially my record collection reflecting my own personal taste (for instance, I only like instrumental math-rock: that explains the absence of Faraquet).

A few years ago, I had it in mind to write an article about math-rock for this webzine. I gave up when I realized it would be an insurmountable task if I wanted to be reasonably thorough. But I kept the list I made back then. I haven't updated it in about 15 years! Do you have any recent additions to suggest?

I don't think I saw Cuzco on that list. They were a great band, who made a truly splendid album in the style of Rooftops and Clever Girl. It's also funny how many math-rock bands only ever make one album and then break up (like the three groups I just mentioned). It makes me think about how math-rock is more about making music than about achieving success, signing to a major, or becoming famous. That's also a huge draw for me: at its core, it's really just about the music.

In the chapter on influences, you cite some genres that are admittedly predictable – progressive rock, hardcore punk, thrash metal – and another one I'd never considered: free jazz. Your arguments about the similarities between the styles are pretty convincing. Do you have any direct evidence (for example, explicit musical references or statements from math-rock musicians) to support the idea of a conscious inspiration?

I don't have direct proof: no quotes from an Ian Williams saying that Ornette Coleman led him to play the way he does. But I think you can draw a pretty direct correlation between the spirit (and the end result) of what happens in the free jazz world and the experience of listening to math-rock. Both styles are chaotic, noisy and formless, and neither leans on commercial aspirations or traditional song formats. Even though putting Piglet next to a free jazz record might not make the connection obvious, I think the two styles share a similar horizon: breaking with pop song structures and venturing into uncharted musical territory. The common ground is freedom.

Another part that struck me as pretty original is the one on alternate tunings and the use of loops. The genre's metric complexity and polyrhythms always get emphasized, whereas it seems to me that those earlier elements get far less attention. I'm convinced that plenty of rock fans can "feel" a shift into an odd time signature (some might even be able to "count" it), but I think only a small number would be able to recognize an open or unusual tuning purely from the emotional quality of its sound. How would you describe that kind of feeling, in the context of math-rock?

Loops are definitely an important element: a band like Giraffes? Giraffes! builds much of its sound around them. In math-rock, loops become a multiplier (forgive the pun) that lets bands (often just two-piece outfits) layer and combine a variety of sounds, managing to create a kind of maze of noise in which the listener ends up lost. When a song doesn't need to make room for lyrics, verses and choruses, it opens up an immense sonic field to fill. The use of loops and their layering can really push things in that direction. Alternate tunings contribute a great deal to creating that slightly disorienting feeling math-rock wants to evoke (after all, if math-rock bands only wanted to make listeners feel safe and comfortable, they'd write pop songs).

What did you learn about math-rock while writing the book? Was there anything that surprised you, or that changed your perspective?

One big realization I had from the very start was just how physical and hands-on math-rock is. It gets played. By people. Using instruments. In our digital age, where everything happens by tapping a screen (certainly not a guitar neck), I think that's a huge draw for listeners. Don't get me wrong: I like plenty of digital music, and tracks made on a computer can be just as engaging and exciting as anything else. But the way math-rock puts the playing of instruments in a group setting front and center feels very, very special to me. It marks, in a way, a different pace from our internet-obsessed era – and of course, having a pace all its own makes a lot of sense for math-rock. Perhaps that, more than anything else, is the fruit of its bond with odd time signatures!

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22/03/2026