The Antlers w/ Unknown Mortal Orchestra
The Liberty Room of The Ace Hotel
Friday, August 5

Better than: Perusing the photo galleries the Monday after.

The Antlers' Friday-night gig at the Ace Hotel had all the makings of one of those exclusive New York City shows that you hear about after the fact on blogs. The band announced the show on Twitter and gave away tickets on Turntable.fm; the sponsors had arranged for a pop-up bike shop outside, an open bar, and popsicles that were laced with one of the night's freely flowing liquors. The Antlers promised an intimate evening, and in the video above you can get a sense of just how close to the band the crowd was; the stage was barely a foot off the dance floor, and the taller people in attendance stand at eye level with the performers.

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​Back in 2009, the Antlers burst onto the scene with an explosive, utterly sad album called Hospice, which vocalist/guitarist Peter Silberman wrote about the relationship between a hospice worker and a terminally ill patient. They garnered a handful of Arcade Fire comparisons (which kinda bugged Silberman) while being critically lauded for balancing their willingness to be utterly human on record with powerful live shows that could move even the most stoic individuals.

This week, the Antlers return with Burst Apart, a ten-song collection that relies less on the swells that dominated Hospice and more on intricate, atmospheric compositions. They've slowed themselves down a bit, but that doesn't mean they've become boring. Silberman's still one of today's best brooders--and a big dog lover, too. Sound of the City spoke with him last week from his home in Brooklyn.

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The Antlers: (center) Peter Silberman

When Brooklyn's the Antlers self-released their 10-song debut album Hospice this past spring, quick accolades from NPR and the usual Internet suspects prompted Frenchkiss to grab hold of it and give it a proper release this past Tuesday. And it's easy to see why: Hospice is a sprawling mix of brooding guitars and dense atmospheres, delicately narrated by Silberman's whispering falsetto. The back story to Hospice is just as compelling: Silberman spent a year-and-half in a kind of self-imposed isolation, processing the deeply personal, emotionally wrought events that inspired this record. And although the 23-year-old tends to avoid revealing too many specifics, "for the sake of everyone involved," Silberman does explain that Hospice "tells the story of a psychologically abusive relationship, some of which took place in a children's cancer ward. The record sort of drifts in and out of the hospital, which is true of the relationship itself. To an extent it's autobiographical, but I guess the best way to say it is that there's a few ways to lose someone. It's not always through death, even if it resembles death." All together, Hospice is a cathartic, therapeutic, mesmerizing piece of work that makes for a strikingly haunting debut.

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