By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
Halfway through its set, the band started slowing things down. After switching on an array of effects pedals, which they had used only sparingly before, the foursome -- singer/guitarist Stephen Brodsky, bassist Caleb Scofield, guitarist Adam McGrath and drummer John-Robert Conners -- began morphing their music into an ethereal, nearly psychedelic assault that seemed to owe as much to Pink Floyd as it did to Snapcase. And in a gesture whose symbolism was as mind-blowing as the sounds it produced, Brodsky took out a toy laser pistol on stage, aimed into the pickups of his guitar and pulled the trigger until his speakers erupted in a spew of digitally warped space-age noise.
"Yeah, the laser guns. We were ripping off Sonic Youth," Brodsky admits with a laugh. "At that point, we were becoming more conscious of the fact that our record collections were broader than what our musical output was reflective of. We didn't really want to hide that anymore. We played this festival in Michigan where we'd only do the first twenty seconds of our heavy-metal songs and then jump right into one of our new songs, just for fun and to see how far we could go. We felt like that was something to do to set us apart.
"We come from a music scene where progression is very limited in certain ways," he continues. "Bands copy each other, as opposed to seeking outside influences to bring into their musical sphere. We were trying to antagonize people a little bit, and people were really upset by that."
Accordingly, the crowd was dumbfounded. There were a lot of split opinions heard from Cave In diehards after that tour -- a rift that grew wider when, in 2000, the group released Jupiter. Compared to Until Your Heart Stops, the disc was a slow-motion curveball; steeped in the frigid currents of space rock and shoegazer as well as the majesty of classic rock and prog, Jupiter stupefied. Gone were the riffs and the screams. In their place were interstellar lullabies and Brodsky's soaring, stranded-on-a-planetoid wail.
"I wanted to develop myself more as a singer and invite as much melody into the picture as possible," Brodsky explains. "It was impossible to get any heavier than we already were, and at the time, there were bands like Coalesce and Dillinger Escape Plan who were playing very heavy and doing it in such a way that we felt humbled by it. We couldn't compare to that. So Jupiter was our way of pushing our own boundaries."
Long before the album was conceived, Brodsky had settled on the title. He was intrigued by Jupiter because it was "the largest planet in our solar system, but also a failed star," he wrote in the act's bio. Those words proved prophetic. Soon after the release of Jupiter -- which would go on to inspire acts like Pelican, the Mars Volta and Denver's own Vaux (whose first incarnation, Eiffel, had opened that legendary Raven show) -- Cave In signed to RCA. Jupiter's major-label followup, Antenna, came out in 2003. And while the massively ambitious record didn't necessarily make failed stars out of Brodsky and company, it was still a letdown to many of the band's fans -- not to mention to Cave In itself.
"I think you can still find it in the bargain bin," jokes Brodsky, who confesses that he doesn't even know, or particularly care, if Antenna is still in print. It's not hard to see why. Although there's no denying the force and inventiveness of some of its tracks, the disc was ultimately an overproduced, unsatisfying compromise between highbrow abstraction and arena-rock pomp.
"With Jupiter, there was no trickery involved, no vocal overdubs or studio magic. It was something we were very conscious of," Brodsky reveals. "We certainly could have recorded Antenna that way, given the amount of rehearsing and pre-production and shrink-wrapping of the songs that we had done. I feel people were a little disappointed that we weren't more courageous with the record. It didn't feel bold enough. More than anything, we felt that we, as musicians, fell a bit short."
One of the main reasons Cave In chose RCA out of its many major-label suitors was a contract that promised the band complete creative control over its output. But as Brodsky eventually found out, a corporation's dominance over its employees can be insidiously subtle.
"We did get a lot of money to sign to the label, and when you take a lot of money, you do forfeit a bit of control," he notes. "Maybe a better way of putting it would be, you invite more opinions into the mix. We were told that it would be much more helpful to everybody involved if some of our songs were playable on the radio. Who knows what that means? That's open to interpretation. What goes to radio is usually decided by ten people at the label. That's kind of weird, when you think about it."