Welcome back to the Deep Dive. Today we are tuning
our instruments, we are checking the mic levels,
and we are getting ready to open a file that
I have been absolutely dying to get into. I've
been looking forward to this one. We're looking
at a band that, by all conventional logic, really
shouldn't have worked. They were, I mean, they
were too weird for the radio, too pop for the
punks, and maybe a little too anxious for the
cool kids. It is a fascinating case study. You're
absolutely right. We're looking at a group that
managed to exist between genres, between business
models, and even between breakups in a way that
very few artists ever managed to navigate. They
didn't just survive the music industry's most
volatile era. They essentially, well, they hacked
it. They did. They totally hacked it. They pulled
off a literal heist of their own music from a
major label, which we will absolutely get into.
They predicted the creator economy. A decade
before YouTube was even a thing. For sure. They
were so ahead of the curve on that. And they
managed to break up, reunite, and then kind of
break up again without ever losing that diehard
connection with their audience. It's really something
else. It's a masterclass in artistic integrity,
you know, doing things your own way. We are,
of course, talking about the dismemberment plan.
The dismemberment plan. And before we get into
the music or the industry politics, which, spoiler
alert, includes that heist I mentioned, we have
to start with a name. You have to. Because if
you were walking through a record store in, say,
1995, and you saw a CD labeled The Dismemberment
Plan, you might think, OK, what is this? Scandinavian
death metal. Right. Or, you know, some kind of
Norwegian grindcore, something aggressive. Exactly.
It sounds violent. It sounds like something that
involves fake blood and, I don't know, spikes
on stage. But that's not it at all. Not even
close. Not even close. It's actually a reference
to one of the greatest comedy films of the 90s.
We were talking about Groundhog Day. That's right.
1993 Bill Murray classic. Yeah. A perfect movie.
It really is. So for anyone who needs a refresher,
picture the scene. Bill Murray is Phil Connors.
He's trapped in this time loop, reliving the
same day over and over and over. And every single
morning, without fail, he runs into this guy,
Ned Ryerson. Ned the head. Am I right or am I
right or am I right? The insurance salesman?
I mean, probably one of the most memorably annoying
characters in film history. Oh, for sure. Badgering
Bill Murray, just pitching every possible insurance
product under the sun. It's this rapid fire monologue,
single premium life, term life, whole life. And
you can just see Bill Murray's soul leaving his
body as it's happening. And buried in that pitch,
just a total throwaway line, he offers him the
dismemberment plan. It's such a brilliant blink
and you miss it moment of dialogue. It's corporate
jargon that's designed to sound both terrifying
and completely mundane at the same time. Right.
It's a policy for, you know, losing a limb, but
he sells it like it's a toaster oven. It's just
another product on the list. And the band heard
that line and apparently just went, that's it,
that's our name. They've said it's darkly funny
and it just stuck. And fans eventually just shortened
it, right, to The Plan or D -Plan. Yeah, The
Plan or D -Plan, which sounds so much more like
organized and tactical. Yeah, it sounds like
a spy movie or something. But the origin is literally
Bill Murray being harassed by an insurance agent
about losing his legs. And in a way, that origin
story, that name, it just encapsulates the band
perfectly, doesn't it? They took something standard,
a rock band setup, and twisted it into something
eccentric, a little bit neurotic, and just deeply
memorable. That's a perfect way to put it. That
juxtaposition of the terrifying and the mundane.
Yeah. So let's orient everyone. Who are we dealing
with here? The dismemberment plan is a seminal
American indie rock band from Washington, D .C.
And they formed, fittingly enough, on New Year's
Day, January 1st, 1993. I love that detail. It
puts them right in the middle of a really specific
cultural moment in D .C. And, you know, that
specific date seems so right for a band that
would go on to write so much about time and anxiety
and new beginnings. Oh, for sure. And if you
try to pin down their genre, well... Good luck.
Right. You see indie rock, obviously. But then
you see dance punk. You see math rock. Let's
break that last one down for a second. When we
say math rock, we're not talking about songs
about algebra, are we? No, though with this band's
lyrical style, maybe you're getting close. No,
math rock refers to music that uses complex,
atypical rhythmic structures. You know, most
rock music is in a very standard 44 time. You
can tap your foot to it. One, two, three, four.
It's comfortable. It's predictable. Exactly.
Math rock just completely disrupts that. It starts
and stops in weird places. It uses time signatures
like 78 or 54. It feels angular, jagged. It almost
forces you to... count along to figure out what's
happening. It definitely keeps you on your toes.
You can't just nod your head mindlessly. You
can't. But what made the dismemberment plan so
special, and this is really the core of their
genius, was that they took that intellectual
mathematical complexity and they somehow made
it danceable. They made it feel like pop music.
It was this weird, amazing fusion. And that unique
sound is what set them up for this incredible
story. They're famous for slipping through the
cracks of the major label system. Oh, the slipping
through the cracks story is just legendary. We're
going to spend a lot of time on that. We have
to. And, you know, they cultivated this diehard
fan base not through massive radio play, but
through really unique and, frankly, ahead of
their time engagement. They broke up right when
they were at their creative peak. peak which
is such a classic rock and roll tragedy it is
but then they successfully reunited multiple
times so today we're going to rely on the band's
detailed history their discography touring logs
all of it to really map out how this bizarre
brilliant career happened all right so let's
rewind the tape let's go back to northern virginia
in the early 90s segment one origins and the
dc sound who is in this band well the core lineup
that most people know the classic lineup consists
of eric axelson on bass Jason Cadell on guitar,
and the frontman, Travis Morrison, on vocals
and guitar. And the drummer, Joe Easley. Right,
but Joe wasn't the original drummer. Originally,
it was a guy named Steve Cummings. Okay, but
the connection here goes back way before the
band officially formed on that New Year's Day,
right? This isn't a situation where your manager
put an ad in the paper. Oh no, absolutely not.
These guys had deep roots. They all knew each
other from high school, specifically Lake Braddock
Secondary School in Burke, Virginia. I love that.
It's the classic friends from high school starting
a band story. There's just something about that
dynamic, isn't there? You develop a shorthand,
a way of communicating that you just can't replicate
with, you know, hired guns. It provides a level
of chemistry you can't fake, and you can hear
it in the music. The way the bass and guitar
lock in together, that comes from years of playing
together in garages and basements. They formed
the band officially while they were in college,
but that foundation was laid in the hallways
of Lake Braddock. So, Steve Cummings, the original
drummer, he was there for the beginning. He was.
He played on their debut album, which is titled
Just an Exclamation Point. Which is a complete
and total nightmare for search engines, by the
way. Oh, it's impossible. Try googling Exclamation
Point album and see what you get. You'll get,
like, panic at the disco or something. It's almost
impossible to find if you don't know exactly
what you're looking for. It's a very pre -internet
band name for an album, but after that record...
cummings left and this is a really pivotal moment
because you know usually when a founding member
especially the drummer leaves that early on it
can destabilize a band it changes the entire
rhythmic dna right the engine of the band is
gone it is but in this case the change was arguably
for the better they brought in joe easily and
joe easily is just a monster behind the kit a
completely different kind of player he really
is his style is so intricate but also so powerful
Joe Easley joining the band is what really cemented
what fans consider the classic lineup. And this
is where we start to hear that truly unique D
-Plan sound emerge. The chemistry just clicked
into place. It did. So let's talk about that
sound. You mentioned math rock and dance punk.
When I listen to the band, particularly the stuff
after Joe joined, I hear a lot of anxiety. Danceable
anxiety. That is a perfect description. Emo -tinged
is another label that gets thrown around a lot,
especially from that era, but it's just too simple
for them. Yeah, it doesn't really fit. It doesn't
capture the whole picture, because if you really
listen to the rhythms, especially with what Joe
Easley is doing on drums and what Eric Axelson
is doing on bass, there is a heavy... heavy influence
of R &B and dance music. It's funky. The bass
lines are melodic and propulsive. Which is pretty
unusual for a bunch of indie rock kids from the
D .C. suburbs in the 90s, isn't it? Yeah. That
wasn't really the sound of the moment. It was
incredibly distinct. You have to remember the
context. The Washington, D .C. music scene in
the 90s was completely dominated by Discord records.
Yeah, Fugazi. Yeah. Jawbox. Shutter to think.
Exactly. It was the post -hardcore, post -punk
revival. It was serious music. It was political.
It had a strong ethical compass. There was this
whole DIY ethos. And the shows were often very
stoic. It was very stand still, fold your arms,
and nod your head appreciably sometimes. Exactly.
It was intense. It was cathartic, but it wasn't
necessarily fun in a dance party kind of way.
And the dismemberment plan took that post -hardcore
energy, the intensity, the volume, the jagged
guitars, and the... injected this offbeat, rhythmic,
almost joyous quality into it. They wanted you
to move. They absolutely wanted you to move.
Travis Morrison's stage presence was and is manic.
He's dancing, he's flailing. They weren't just
rock. They were incorporating experimental textures,
keyboards, samplers, and his vocals. They weren't
just shouting. No, it's this whole range. Sometimes
he's singing these really beautiful melodies,
and then suddenly he's almost rapping or just
talking in this frantic stream of consciousness
style. The lyrics are so specific and strange,
full of these little mundane details of life
that suddenly feel epic and terrifying. It feels
like the musical equivalent of having a panic
attack at a disco. That's it. That is the perfect
summary. It's like they took the raw, nervous
energy of punk, but the structural complexity
and groove of like Prince or Talking Heads and
just mashed it all together into something new.
And that willingness to blend genres. to be uncool
in a very cool way, is what set them up for the
drama that was about to unfold with the actual
music industry. It really is. They were too weird
to be easily categorized, which made them a very
risky bet for a big corporation. Okay, let's
unpack this because this is my favorite part
of the story. Segment two, the Interscope incident,
or as I like to call it, the great rock and roll
heist. It really is a heist story. And it's one
of the most fascinating and frankly, funniest
business stories in... indie rock history. So
to set the stage The band starts out recording
for DeSoto Records. Which is a cool, respected,
independent DC label. It was owned by members
of the band Jawbox, right? That's right. So they
were among friends, part of the DC community.
But in the late 90s, you have this alternative
gold rush still happening. The post -Nirvana
explosion. Exactly. Nevermind had changed everything
earlier in the decade, and major labels were
still scrambling to sign anything with a distorted
guitar and a flannel shirt. They were handing
out these huge contracts like candy, trying to
find the next big... thing. They were just throwing
money at walls to see what would stick. And they
didn't care where it came from. A weird band
from D .C. Sure. Why not? Precisely. So the dismemberment
plan, this quirky, funky, anxious band gets signed
to Interscope Records. And Interscope is a massive
label. This is Dr. Dre, Nine Inch Nails. No doubt.
This is the big time. This is the major leagues.
They release an EP on Interscope called The Ice
of Boston. The Ice of Boston is such a great
track. I have to pause on it because it captures
their whole personality so perfectly. It's basically
just Travis Morrison rambling over this groovy
track about being lonely in Boston on New Year's
Eve. Right. He's drinking champagne by himself,
watching the tea in the harbor. It's hilarious.
It's deeply sad. And it's incredibly catchy all
at once. It's that neurotic storytelling style.
So here's the setup. They are on the payroll
of a major corporation. They have a budget. They
go into the studio to record their breakthrough
album. This is supposed to be the big one. This
is Emergency and I. Of their masterpiece. And
they record it with a major label budget. We
are talking high quality production, months in
a professional studio, the best gear, the works.
They are spending the corporation's money to
make their art with very little oversight, it
seems. There's always a but with major labels
in the 90s, isn't there? Always. Shortly after
they complete the album, the entire industry
shifts. There is a massive corporate merger between
Universal and Polygram. Interscope was part of
this. And what happens in a merger? It's a corporate
bloodbath. Redundancies. Restructuring. Entire
departments are wiped out. And hundreds of bands,
the smaller, riskier signings, get dropped from
the label rosters. They just cleaned house. They
cleaned house. And the dismemberment plan was
one of the bands on the chopping block. So usually
this is where the story ends in tragedy, right?
The band gets dropped, but the label owns the
master tapes because they paid for the recording.
And the album just sits in a vault forever. It's
called label limbo. That is the standard heartbreaking
story for so many bands from that era. Not only
is your album shelved, but you, the artist, often
owe the label all the money they spent on you.
The recording costs, the video budgets, the tour
support. It's a debt you can never repay. And
you can't re -record the songs for another label
for a certain number of years because of clauses
in the contract. You're just stuck. You're completely
stuck. It has destroyed countless careers. But...
The dismemberment plan, specifically their management
and the good folks at their old label DeSoto,
pulled off something truly miraculous. The heist.
The heist. They managed to negotiate their departure
from Interscope. and they took the completed
album with them. They walked out the door with
the master tapes of Emergency and I. Okay, wait,
let me make sure I understand this completely.
They got Interscope, this giant corporation,
to pay for the entire recording of their masterpiece.
Yes. A major label budget. And then when Interscope
dropped them, they just left with the tapes.
Yes. They took the album back to their indie
label, DeSoto Records, for release. But what
about the debt? Did they owe Interscope all that
money for the studio time? No This is the truly
insane part. They had no debt to the major label.
They walked away free and clear. They essentially
recorded a major label budget album and got to
release it independently with zero financial
consequences. That is unbelievable. That's like
getting a bank to build you a mansion and the
bank just hands you the keys and tears up the
mortgage because they're too busy firing the
loan officer to care. That's a perfect analogy.
The band later described it simply as slipping
through the cracks. It was such a chaotic time
in the industry. Executives were getting fired
and rehired. Entire A &R departments were being
shuffled around. Files were getting lost. In
the grand scheme of this multi -billion dollar
merger, the dismemberment plan was just a tiny
line item that nobody was paying attention to.
They were a rounding error. They were a rounding
error. And in that confusion, their team was
savvy enough to secure their freedom and, crucially,
the rights to their own art. Wow. That phrase,
slipping through the cracks, it's so key to their
whole story. Because if they hadn't slipped through,
if that album had been shelved... We might not
be talking about them today, honestly. Because
Emergency and I, released in 1999 on DeSoto,
became their critically acclaimed masterpiece.
It's the album that defined them. If that record
had been locked away in a vault, or tampered
with by corporate A &R guys trying to find a
hit single, their entire trajectory would have
been different. It would have been destroyed.
Instead, they got to make the exact record they
wanted. on someone else's dime and release it
on their own terms. It's the ultimate indie rock
dream. So they escape the Death Star with the
plans, pun fully intended, and they release Emergency
and I. This brings us to segment three, The Peep
Years, from about 1999 to 2002. This is the golden
era. Emergency and I comes out in 99, and the
critical reception is just rapturous. Pitchfork
gives it a 9 .6. College radio is all over it.
The indie press, what was then the blogosphere,
everyone loved this record. And then they followed
up with Change in 2001, a very different sounding
album, much more somber and mature in a lot of
ways. It is. It's less frantic, more introspective,
but also brilliant. And critically, these two
albums raised their profile significantly. So
they're critical darlings. Were they selling
millions of records? Were they buying sports
cars? No, and that's a really important distinction
to make. We are talking about critical and cultural
success versus massive commercial success. By
the time the band eventually broke up a few years
later, each of those albums, Emergency and I
and Change, had sold roughly 22 ,000 copies in
the U .S. OK, so 22 ,000 in the grand scheme
of things, you know, compared to SYNC or Britney
Spears, who were selling millions a week at that
time. That's yeah, that's a rounding error. It
is tiny commercially, but in. In the indie world,
that's a success. 22 ,000 loyal fans who buy
the record come to every show and buy a T -shirt.
That is a sustainable career. That allows you
to keep touring and making music. And their cultural
profile was much, much higher than those sales
figures might suggest. And they were getting
some absolutely insane touring opportunities
based on that reputation. I was looking through
the logs here. Pearl Jam. Yes. In the year 2000,
they were invited to open for the entire European
leg of Pearl Jam's tour. That is a massive platform.
Pearl Jam fills arenas and stadiums. That feels
like a really weird mismatch, doesn't it? It's
a huge mismatch on paper. You have Pearl Jam,
who are this earnest, classic rock grunge institution.
Eddie Vedder is this icon of sincerity. Right.
And then you have the dismemberment plan coming
out, playing this frantic, synth -heavy... dance
punk song about urban alienation in 78 Time.
It must have been a real culture clash for those
audiences. Imagine you're in a stadium in Italy
waiting to hear Even Flow and instead you get
this band with a song called The City where Travis
Morrison is just yelping about his life. It must
have been a trial by fire. But what an opportunity.
It exposed them to tens of thousands of people
who never would have stepped foot in a tiny D
.C. punk club. Absolutely. And then, arguably,
an even more fitting and more important tour
happened in 2002. The Death and Dismemberment
Tour. The legendary name. They co -headlined
with Death Cab for Cutie. This was a brilliant
move. A stroke of genius, really. You have Death
Cab, who are just on the cusp of breaking huge
with their melodic, deeply emotional indie rock.
And you have the dismemberment play, and the
names just fit together perfectly. Death and
dismemberment. It sounds like an insurance claim
again. It does, but it was this perfect pairing
that cross -pollinated their fan bases. If you
liked the incredibly detailed emotional lyricism
of Ben Gibbard, you found something to love in
Travis Morrison's lyrics. If you liked the jagged,
high -energy musicality of D -Plan, maybe you
learned to appreciate the subtle craft of Death
Cab. It was the perfect Venn diagram of sad,
smart college kids in the early 2000s. It really
was. And it forged these creative ties between
the bands that lasted for years. It solidified
both of their places as leaders of that indie
rock scene. Now, speaking of being leaders and
being ahead of the curve, we have to talk about
something they did in 2002 that I think just
proves they were living in the future. The remix
experiment. This is one of my favorite details
about the band because it shows how incredibly
forward thinking they were. You have to put yourself
back in 2002. The internet was not what it is
today. There was no SoundCloud, no Bandcamp.
Social media was barely a concept. Many people
were still on dial -up modems. And the music
industry was terrified of the internet. Napster
had just been shut down. The RIAA was suing 12
-year -old kids for downloading MP3s. Digital
music was the enemy. Exactly. The industry was
in full -on panic mode, trying to lock everything
down. And in the middle of that... hostile climate,
what does the dismemberment plan do? They upload
the raw music tracks, the stems from the two
most beloved albums, Emergency and I and Change,
to their website for free. Can you explain stems
for any listener who might not be a music producer?
Sure. Stems are the isolated individual tracks
that make up. a song. So you'd have just the
vocal track, just the drum track, just the bass
line, just the keyboard part, all separated.
So they gave the actual raw building blocks of
their art to the public. Right. And they put
out a call to action. They said, here are the
pieces, remix our songs, do whatever you want
with them, chop them up, add new beats, turn
a rock song into a techno track, go wild. That
is so risky. From a traditional standpoint, you're
basically handing your art over to strangers.
Yeah. You're completely losing control of it.
But that's the point. They trusted their fans.
We saw the Internet not as a threat, but as a
community. And it worked. The fans responded
in a huge way. And the result was an entire album
released in 2003 called A People's History of
a Dismemberment Plan. A People's History. A great
nod to the Howard Zinn book. Very DC intellectual
of them. Very on brand. But think about the level
of engagement here. They weren't just broadcasting
to their fans. They were actively collaborating
with them. This was Web 2 .0 behavior in a Web
1 .0 world. They were building an online community
before that was a marketing buzzword. It turned
the listeners into participants, into creators.
That kind of connection creates a loyalty that
you just can't buy with billboard ads or magazine
covers. Absolutely. And that deep abiding loyalty
would be tested very, very soon because just
as they were riding this incredible wave of creativity
and touring success, everything came to a sudden
halt. Second four, The Breakup. It's January
19, 2003. A dark day for D -Plan fans. The band
posts a message on their website announcing they
are going to break up. They promised a few final
tours to say goodbye, but the writing was on
the wall. The plan was over. Why? I mean, why
break up then? They're co -headlining the Death
and Dismemberment tour. They're releasing innovative
remix albums. They have this devoted fan base.
There were no reports of massive infighting or
drug scandals. It seems to be the classic and
in some ways most respectable reason, quit while
you're ahead. They felt they had said what they
needed to say as a unit. They didn't want to
become a band that just churns out mediocre albums
to pay the bills. They wanted to preserve the
integrity of what they had built. I can respect
that. It's better to burn out than fade away,
as they say. Yeah. But the way they went out.
The final show drama. This is straight out of
a movie script. It is. It's almost too perfect.
Yeah. So the plan was to have the final show
on July 28, 2003. And they chose a very specific,
very meaningful venue, Fort Reno Park in D .C.
Fort Reno is legendary. It's an outdoor public
space. They have free shows all summer. It's
very DIY, very punk rock. It represents the whole
ethos of the D .C. music scene. It's the heart
and soul of the D .C. summer concert scene. But
the key words are outdoors and summer in D .C.
Oh, no. I know where this is going. The weather
in D .C. in July is either a sweltering swamp
or a biblical thunderstorm. There is no in -between.
And on that night, it was the thunderstorm. A
heavy rainstorm rolled in. We aren't talking
a little drizzle. We are talking a complete deluge.
And the stage at Fort Reno is not exactly a state
-of -the -art covered amphitheater. Right. It's
basically a concrete slab. And it threatened
to destroy all their electronic gear. Remember,
this is a band that uses samplers and keyboards.
Water and high -voltage electricity do not mix
well. So the fans are there, standing in the
mud in the pouring rain, waiting for the last
show ever, and the sky just... opens up. It was
chaotic. Most fans were actually driven off by
the weather. They tried to play, but they couldn't
do their full set. It was truncated, it was messy,
and it just felt unresolved. Incomplete. You
can't end a 10 -year career on a rainout. That's
just too depressing. It feels like a cosmic joke.
Precisely. And the band realized this wasn't
the way to say goodbye. This wasn't the closure
that they or their fans deserved. So they added
one more show, the real finale. September 1,
2003. And they did it right. They booked the
legendary 9 .3 Euro Club in D .C. The holy grail
of D .C. venues. The perfect place for a send
off. They dubbed it the one last slice show.
One last slice. I assume that's another Groundhog
Day reference. Or maybe they just wanted pizza.
It's actually a lyric from one of their songs,
The Jitters, but it fits that vibe perfectly.
Just grabbing one last moment. The show was,
of course, completely sold out. It was emotional.
It was sweaty. It was cathartic. It was the proper
closure that everyone needed. And then. That
was it. Silence. The dismemberment plan was no
more. Which brings us to segment five, the post
-breakup era from 2003 to about 2010. What happens
when the music stops and the members have to
figure out what's next? Well, life goes on. But
the members, being creative people, didn't stop
making music. Travis Morrison, the frontman,
had a batch of songs that were originally intended
for a post -change D -Plan album. Since the band
was done, he took those songs and released them
on his solo debut, Travis Dan, in 2004. Travis
Dan. Now, we have to address the elephant in
the room here. That album got... let's say, mixed
reviews, didn't it? It was incredibly polarizing.
And mixed is being very generous in some corners
of the music press. The influential website Pitchfork
famously gave it a 0 .0 rating. 0 .0. That is
aggressive. That's not just, we didn't like it.
That's a statement of contempt. It was incredibly
harsh. And to be fair, the album was very weird.
It was experimental, it was quirky, and it lacked
the tight, cohesive energy of the full band.
It definitely alienated some people who were
just hoping for Emergency and I Part 2. Right.
But others found it charming and interesting.
It's a fascinating artifact of that time, and
it really shows you how powerful and, frankly,
brutal music criticism could be back then. Meanwhile,
Eric Axelson, the bassist, went in a completely
different direction. He filmed a new band called
Maritime. Oh, I remember Maritime. They were
great. Yeah, he teamed up with former members
of the Promise Ring. Another legendary band from
the emo scene. That is basically a super group
for sad indie rock kids of that era. Totally.
And Maritime Sound was very different. It was
much more melodic, more straightforward indie
pop. They released a string of really solid albums.
Glass Floor in 2004, We the Vehicles in 2006,
Heresy in the Hotel Choir in 2007. They had a
really good run. It was much less chaotic than
D -Plan. More polished, more mature in a way.
a different side of Axelson as a musician. So
everyone is busy. They're pursuing their own
projects. And during this time, usually reporters
are constantly asking, when is the reunion? Are
you guys getting back together? What was the
official stance? Travis Morrison was quoted pretty
definitively during this period. He said the
band probably wouldn't get back together except
to drink beer. Which is the most relatable reason
to get back together with your high school friends,
to be fair. It is. It seemed very clear. They
were still friends. But the musical project was
over, done, finished. Until 2007. The one -off
reunion. This wasn't a cash grab. This wasn't
a nostalgia tour. This was for a very serious
cause. It was a charity concert benefiting Callum
Robbins. That's the son of J. Robbins, right?
From the band Jawbox. Yes. J. Robbins was their
label mate on DeSoto. He'd produced for them.
He was a huge figure in the D .C. scene. His
young son was diagnosed with a serious health
condition, and the community rallied around the
family to help with medical bills. The dismemberment
plan agreed to play one show. at the Black Cat
nightclub in D .C. to raise money. Just one show.
And the reaction must have been insane. It was
immediate and overwhelming. Tickets sold out
in minutes. The demand was so high they actually
had to add a second show the night before just
to handle the overflow. Wow. The reaction was,
as the reports say, overwhelmingly positive.
It proved that even after four years of silence,
the fan base hadn't gone anywhere. They were
just dormant waiting. But that was just a one
-off for charity, right? Right. They played the
two shows, raised the money, and then went back
to their separate lives. Correct. It was a beautiful
moment for the community, but it wasn't a full
-blown reunion. That wouldn't happen for another
three years. All right, segment six, the uncanny
return from 2010 to 2015. I do love that pun.
It is a good pun. So we jump forward to 2010.
Rumors start swirling. And then the Washington
Post reports it. The band is reuniting for a
tour. And the reason, or the catalyst, was the
vinyl reissue of Emergency and I, right? Yes.
Barsuk Records was doing a high -quality deluxe
reissue of the album. The band decided to get
back together to play some shows to support it.
But Eric Axelson was very, very cautious in the
press at the time. He gave an interview where
he explicitly said, we're not planning a new
record. He said they were just taking it day
by day. The classic manage expectations move.
Don't promise anything you can't deliver. Exactly.
But the tour was a massive triumph. They kicked
the whole thing off by playing on Late Night
with Jimmy Fallon. Which is a huge national stage.
A far cry from a rainy park in D .C. For sure.
They played sold out shows at the 9 .30 Club
and the Black Cat again. They played major festivals
like the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago
and the Roots Roots Picnic in Philadelphia. And
unlike a lot of nostalgia acts that get back
together and just kind of phone it in, by all
accounts, they sounded tighter and more energetic
than ever. And usually these reunion tours are
just that. You play the hits, collect the check
and go home. But something shifted around 2012.
The creative itch came back. In August of 2012,
they booked a couple of small, low -key shows
in Baltimore and Fredericksburg, Virginia. Sweaty
shows, as they call them. Exactly. Small clubs,
no pressure, just for the diehards. And at those
shows, they debuted eight brand new songs. Eight?
That's not just a little experiment. That's basically
a new album. It was. And Travis Morrison confirmed
it. He told a reporter they were back in the
lab. And this led to their fifth studio album
and their first in 12 years, Uncanny Valley,
which came out in 2013. I have to talk about
the marketing for this album because it is so
perfectly on brand for the dismemberment plan.
They released the lead single, a song called
Waiting, via a telephone number. 252 -64 -D -PLAN.
You literally had to call a phone number on a
landline or your cell phone to hear the new song.
Who does that in 2013? We had Spotify. We had
streaming. It was already the dominant way to
listen to music. It's just so them. It's tactile.
It's mysterious. It forces you to engage in a
different way. It's very much in line with their
remix experiment ethos from a decade earlier.
Always doing things a little differently to create
a unique connection with the fans. So they release
Uncanny Valley on Partisan Records. They release
other singles like Invisible and... Daddy was
a real good dancer. Great, great song titles.
And the album showed a different side of them,
maybe a bit calmer, a bit more mature. The anxieties
were maybe a little different now that they were
middle -aged dads instead of 20 -somethings,
but it was still distinctly them. And then what
happened? They toured the album. They did. They
played the final All Tomorrow's Parties Festival
in England in November 2013. They played a big
New Year's Eve show in Boston at the end of 2014.
And then... they just went quiet again they just
slipped away there was no formal breakup announcement
this time no one last slice show just a hiatus
they slipped back into the shadows which brings
us finally to the present day segment seven the
modern era from 2023 to right now and for almost
a decade there was total silence nothing it seemed
like that was really it this time but on january
31st 2024 they just completely surprised everyone
i remember this it came out of nowhere No warning,
no press release, just a new track appeared online.
They released a cover of a song called Unrequited
by the band Circus Lupus. Circus Lupus, another
classic DC band from that Discord record scene.
Exactly. It was for a tribute album called Yesterday
and Today. DC does Discord, a compilation celebrating
the legacy of that hugely important label. And
the liner notes said they recorded it in August
of 2023. So they were secretly hanging out in
a studio again. They were. And that amazing cover
song was just the appetizer. Because shortly
after that dropped, they announced the 25th anniversary
tour for Emergency and I. Six reunion shows starting
in September 2024. They're playing festivals
like Best Friends Forever and Vegas and United
Sounds NYC. They're back. It's amazing to see
the longevity of this band. Think about it. They
started as a bunch of college kids in 1993. Now
in 2024, they're a legacy act. They can disappear
for nearly a decade, reappear with one song,
and sell out venues instantly. The excitement
is still there. It really speaks to the quality
of the music, doesn't it? It just doesn't sound
dated. You can listen to Emergency and I today.
It sounds like it could have been released yesterday
by some cool new band in Brooklyn. That's the
benefit of their unique genre blending. Because
they weren't strictly grunge or strictly pop
punk or strictly emo, they didn't age poorly
when those specific trends died out. They built
their own sonic island and it's timeless. So
let's try to wrap this all up. Let's put a bow
on it. What does it all mean? What is the legacy
of the dismemberment plan? I think if you look
at the big picture, they represent the ideal
indie success story, but a weird version of it.
How so? They maintain creative control. Almost
by accident, they survived the major label meat
grinder, that whole Interscope incident, and
somehow came out winning. They cultivated a fan
base that treats them like family, not just like
content providers. And they did it all on their
own terms. Right. When they wanted to stop, they
stopped. When they wanted to come back, they
came back. There was no sense that they were
chasing fame or money. Not at all. And their
willingness to experiment with technology and
fan engagement, the remixes, the phone number
hotlines, it kept them from ever feeling like
a nostalgia act, even when they were playing
reunion shows. They didn't chase the trends.
They kind of just waited for the trends to catch
up to them. Exactly. They avoided stagnation,
which is the death of so many bands. So here
is the provocative question I want to leave our
listeners with as we finish up. Go for it. They
released that cover track in 2024 without any
warning. They have a very long and established
history of saying, we have no plans, right before
they announce a massive plan. They said they
wouldn't reunite. Then they did for charity.
They said no new album. Then Uncanny Valley dropped
out of the sky. I see where you're going with
this. Are they just back for a quick anniversary
tour? Could there be a sixth album secretly in
the works right now? Are they back in the lab
again, getting ready to slip through the cracks
one more time? With this band, you can absolutely
never rule it out. Their entire history tells
us that the plan is always subject to change.
I really hope so. For a band that sings so much
about anxiety, their music brings a lot of people
a weird kind of joy. It really does. So if you've
never listened to The Dismemberment Plan, or
if it's been a while, do yourself a favor. Go
stream Emergency and I, or better yet, buy the
vinyl reissue. Check out that new cover of Unrequited.
It rips. And when you listen... pay very close
attention to the drumming on a song like the
city or the bass line on you are invited it is
a master class and how a rhythm section can be
both complex and groovy at the same time thanks
for diving in with us on this one it was a blast
we'll catch you on the next one keep listening
you