The Runners Four Turns 20

Is there a band that captures the charm of buying a CD discovered on a blog better than Deerhoof? Though I came of age towards the tail end of physical media's prime, I sincerely doubt it. I'm now 27 — just old enough that streaming platforms were still a curiosity as my teenage friends and I explored indie classics at the dawn of high school. Of the acts we unearthed through swapped MP3s and burgeoning online magazines, Deerhoof were among the strangest. The San Francisco noise pop quartet's covers were doodly and visceral, the music within similarly crude. To precocious 13-year-olds blasting Wavves and watching rips of Hausu, albums like Milk Man and Friend Opportunity were unvarnished in their magic.

Launched in 1994, Deerhoof materialized in an experimental corner of the Bay Area underground. Early output was crafted on 4-tracks, bridging themes of mythology, peace, and leftism. They sparked as the improvisatory bass and harmonica project of Rob Fisk, before Greg Saunier entered the fold on drums within a week. Upon moving to America from Japan, first time band participant Satomi Matsuzaki joined as a vocalist. Fisk was replaced by metalhead John Dietrich in 1999. By 2003, with Chris Cohen in the mix, the crew had collectively quit their day jobs and completely devoted themselves to Deerhoof. Operating out of desolate New Mexico offices and cramped minivan cockpits, every lineup has been characterized by nerdy fearlessness.

Deerhoof's stage presence is magnetic, with larger-than-life Saunier guiding each performance. He darts around his stripped-down kit with virtuosic theatricality. Diagnosed with tourettes, rhythms became therapeutic for him as a teenager. Serrated melodies crinkle around his fluid rolls and earthy cymbal chokes. On a whim, hushed West Coast jazz escalates to math-y catharsis. Bearing witness to this dynamic live contextualizes Deerhoof's froggy studio concoctions.

The average Deerhoof album — if there is a thing — holds a Crayola-streaked middle finger to systemic injustice. This ethos defines The Runners Four. Released 20 years ago this Saturday, Deerhoof's 2005 double LP recounts a fable of comrades deciding what to salvage in the apocalypse. For months, they labored on a free version of Pro Tools in a windowless Oakland practice space. Matsuzaki and Cohen switched instruments, and all members sang harmonies. "It was just a very intense situation. There was so much on the line in our interpersonal relationships. I think I felt so much pressure. Actually, I remember thinking, 'If we don't start making money at this, we're going to have to stop,'" Cohen reflected on the Life Of The Record podcast.

Perhaps these stakes informed the grave subject matter of The Runners Four — imaginations of a decimating flood are cartoonishly executed. "Twin Killers" is carried by garage-y strums and a pounding beat. "O'Malley, Former Undergod" is ascendant, and "After The Deluge" toys with murky freak folk. Back half standouts such as "Spy On You" or "Lightning Rod, Run" are driven by no wave-y fretwork. In glowing reviews, critics heralded The Runners Four as Deerhoof's most approachable effort while also granting comparisons to Sonic Youth. Two decades on, these 20 cuts remain eclectic.

If asked to define the overused writer-ism "angular," I would point no further than The Runners Four. One can sense its gnarled impact on emerging stars Editrix, Godcaster, and Open Head; screamy favorites YHWH Nailgun, captained by percussion, palpably channel Saunier. For as alien as they once seemed, Deerhoof's legacy has aged like fine wine. Growing up, I assumed I was the only oddball in my suburb sheltering a copy of Reveille on vinyl. As it turns out, I was not alone.