Archers Gate

There are bands that record songs and then figure out how to play them live.

Archers Gate seems determined to do the opposite.

Build the song.

Build the sound.

Build the atmosphere.

Then figure out how to drag every last piece of it onto the stage.

That distinction matters.

Because after seeing Archers Gate perform live, then sitting down with the entire band, one thing became obvious: these aren’t five musicians simply occupying the same stage.

They’re building something together.

Sometimes meticulously.

Sometimes emotionally.

And occasionally with a six-string bass that looks like it requires its own operator’s license.

Welcome to Archers Gate.

The Gate Goes Both Ways

Even the band’s name carries a sense of movement.

Archers Gate represents a passage.

A beginning and an end.

Transformation.

Metamorphosis.

That idea isn’t simply buried somewhere in the band’s biography. It’s woven throughout what they’re creating.

Lead vocalist Emily Schulte handles much of the band’s lyrical direction and vocal arrangements. Jake Bartone anchors everything from behind the drums while somehow also handling vocal harmonies, which feels slightly unfair to those of us who struggle to walk and chew gum simultaneously.

Joe Bartone and Justin Paris share guitar duties rather than settling into predictable lead-and-rhythm roles. Josh Curran handles bass, including the aforementioned six-string variety, while also playing a major role in the band’s pre-production.

Everybody has a job.

Then everybody seems to have three additional jobs.

Welcome to being in a modern rock band.

Harmony Isn’t Dead Yet

One of the first things that caught my attention about Archers Gate was their vocal arrangements.

Harmony has become something of a lost art in heavier music.

Not completely gone.

Just occasionally treated like someone left it at a rest stop somewhere around 2003.

Archers Gate intentionally brings it back.

Emily naturally hears harmonies and builds vocal arrangements around them, with Jake and Joe helping reproduce those parts live and Justin expected to become increasingly involved as the band evolves.

The result is another layer of dynamics in music that could easily survive on aggression alone.

But that’s not enough for this band.

They want dimension.

Jake even described rehearsals devoted specifically to singing a cappella so the harmonies become second nature before everyone returns to their primary instruments.

That’s commitment.

Especially when you’re the drummer.

Two Guitars Are Better Than One

Then there are the guitars.

Archers Gate doesn’t operate under the traditional arrangement where one guitarist handles rhythm while the other patiently waits for someone to point toward him when it’s solo time.

Joe and Justin trade responsibilities.

Sometimes between songs.

Sometimes within the same song.

Lead becomes rhythm.

Rhythm becomes lead.

Harmonies appear.

Layers move around.

It gives their live sound the depth normally created by stacking guitar tracks in a recording studio.

Justin made an important point during our conversation.

Plenty of bands with one guitarist record multiple guitar parts.

Archers Gate simply brings another human being along to actually play them.

Revolutionary concept.

It also explains why the band’s recordings translate so effectively to the stage.

They’re not trying to pretend those layers don’t exist.

They’re finding ways to perform them.

And Then There’s Josh’s Bass

I have to mention the bass.

Specifically, the tone on “Metamorphosis.”

There’s a bite to it.

A dirty, aggressive edge that cuts through the song without sacrificing the low-end foundation underneath it.

Josh explained that the distinctive grit comes from his Darkglass setup while a clean bass signal preserves the weight underneath.

But he was also quick to redirect some of the credit toward Jake.

Listen closely to “Metamorphosis,” he suggested, and pay attention specifically to the drums.

Jake isn’t simply keeping time.

His parts interact with what everyone else is doing, particularly the bass, creating much of the thickness underneath the track.

That’s the difference between musicians playing simultaneously and a band actually playing together.

The Live Show Starts Before the First Song

This is where Archers Gate gets particularly interesting.

When I saw the band perform, their show didn’t simply begin with someone walking onstage and counting off a song.

There was an introduction.

Atmosphere.

A voice discussing transformation.

Creepy ambient textures.

A concept that would eventually circle back around when the band closed the show with “Metamorphosis.”

That intro wasn’t something downloaded from a generic production library five minutes before soundcheck.

It grew from the band’s larger concept.

Emily had the vision.

Josh took that idea and began constructing the soundscape around it, finding spoken-word material, manipulating audio, and building keyboards and ambient elements underneath it.

Suddenly the set had a beginning and an ending.

A gate.

See what they did there?

And they’re already working on what comes next.

Metamorphosis Isn’t Just a Song

“Metamorphosis” might be the clearest example of what Archers Gate is becoming.

Emily wrote the lyrics around the transformation from caterpillar to butterfly.

But she’s less interested in the butterfly than the uncomfortable process required to become one.

Before transformation comes destruction.

The caterpillar doesn’t simply grow wings.

Its previous form essentially breaks down before something entirely different emerges.

That’s the part people tend to leave off inspirational posters.

Emily connected that process to the different seasons people experience throughout life.

Searching.

Growing.

Isolation.

Change.

Eventually, hopefully, flying.

The song became intensely personal while recording it. She remembers fighting back tears in the vocal booth, and those emotions remain embedded in the final performance.

That’s something you can hear on the recording.

Live, you can feel it.

That’s Why Live Music Matters

When I asked Emily about performing songs rooted in difficult experiences, her answer landed directly at the heart of what Driving Red is about.

There’s nothing quite like live performance.

For her, being onstage can be healing.

But the exchange goes both directions.

The audience isn’t simply watching someone process an emotion.

They’re bringing their own experiences into the room.

A lyric written about one situation suddenly belongs to someone standing twenty feet away who hears something entirely different in it.

That’s the strange transaction that happens at a great concert.

The artist gives you a song.

You give it your own history.

For a few minutes, somehow, both versions exist simultaneously.

Sometimes You Need to Suffocate a Little

That emotional approach also drives “Suffocate.”

The song explores pressure, the kind that can come from relationships, addiction, spirituality, trauma, or simply trying to survive whatever life decided to throw at you before breakfast.

The production reinforces that feeling.

Breathing becomes part of the arrangement.

Emily experimented with reverse breaths and unusual vocal textures while working with producer and engineer Joe Viers, creating an unsettling feeling underneath the track.

There are strange voices.

Breathy textures.

Screams.

Atmosphere.

The kind of stuff that sounds slightly concerning when described outside the context of a recording studio.

Inside the song, it works.

Beautifully.

Sonic Lounge Becomes Another Instrument

Archers Gate does an impressive amount of work before ever reaching Sonic Lounge Studios.

Songs begin in the rehearsal room before moving into Josh’s studio for pre-production.

Scratch guitars.

Bass.

Vocals.

Electronic drums.

Keyboards.

Pads.

Ideas get added.

Ideas get removed.

Everyone gets a chance to hear what’s actually happening instead of attempting to decipher it while standing next to a cranked guitar amplifier.

Then the material reaches Joe Viers.

That’s where things change again.

The band may technically self-produce, but everyone was quick to acknowledge that Viers functions as something considerably more than an engineer.

Especially for Emily.

She described previous studio experiences where an engineer would capture a vocal and simply declare it good.

Viers doesn’t do that.

He pushes.

Another take.

Another approach.

Try the line differently.

Change the emphasis.

Do it six ways and figure out which one actually means something.

There’s an enormous difference between recording a singer and producing one.

Archers Gate has found someone willing to do the latter.

The Studio Doesn’t Replace the Stage

What’s particularly interesting about the band’s production process is how much thought eventually comes back to live performance.

Justin, who studied music production at Full Sail University, handles much of the band’s technical infrastructure.

Rack systems.

In-ear monitors.

Live sound considerations.

The objective isn’t simply to create polished recordings.

It’s to figure out how those recordings inform the stage show.

How should the guitar tones translate?

How can the dynamics remain intact?

How do you reproduce the layers without sacrificing the energy of five musicians actually performing?

That’s the challenge.

Because nobody wants to watch five musicians stand perfectly still while a laptop performs the concert.

At least I don’t.

Archers Gate seems equally uninterested.

Live and Loud

Ask Jake about recording drums and you’ll discover another important distinction.

Electronic drums are fine for pre-production.

The record?

Acoustic.

Live.

Loud.

Very loud.

Having watched Jake play, this doesn’t surprise me.

The man doesn’t exactly approach a drumhead like he’s concerned about disturbing it.

That physicality matters to the band’s sound.

It’s also a significant part of their live identity.

You don’t simply hear the drums.

You feel them.

Combined with Josh’s low end, the dual guitars, Emily’s vocals, and the band’s harmonies, it creates a sound considerably larger than five people should reasonably be responsible for.

Building the Show Around the Songs

The band is also thinking beyond the music itself.

They’re working toward dedicated stagehands.

Consistent sound personnel.

Eventually lighting.

The goal is simple: stop leaving the quality of the show to chance.

That’s an important distinction for a developing band.

A great song might earn a stream.

A great show earns another ticket.

Archers Gate understands that.

They aren’t simply asking how to get booked more often.

They’re asking how to make every booking better.

That’s how bands grow.

Not through one magical viral moment.

By making the person who showed up tonight want to come back tomorrow.

It Takes a Village

Of course, none of this happens with five people alone.

The band was quick to recognize those helping behind the scenes, including Josh’s wife, Rachel, who has handled everything from merchandise to whatever emergency happens to appear on show day.

Then there’s Alan.

Stagehand.

Supporter.

Believer.

Professional carrier of things musicians suddenly realize they forgot they needed.

Every live band has people like this.

Or at least the lucky ones do.

They aren’t standing under the spotlight.

They’re usually standing somewhere behind it holding a cable, moving a drum, watching the merch table, fixing something, or solving a problem nobody in the audience will ever know existed.

Which is precisely why they matter.

What Comes Through the Gate Next?

Archers Gate is still a relatively young band.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

That’s probably because the musicians themselves aren’t starting from zero.

They’ve played in other bands.

Recorded in studios.

Learned what works.

Learned what doesn’t.

And probably accumulated enough stories about both to fill several future interviews.

Now they’re combining those experiences into something new.

An album, or at minimum a collection of new songs, is being developed.

A larger team is beginning to form.

Management discussions are happening.

The live production is expanding.

The songs are getting stronger.

The vision is becoming clearer.

And that’s what makes Archers Gate interesting right now.

We’re not watching the finished product.

We’re watching the transformation.

Metamorphosis

Maybe the butterfly imagery couldn’t be more appropriate.

Archers Gate is somewhere in the middle of the process.

Not where they started.

Not yet where they’re going.

Growing.

Experimenting.

Breaking things apart.

Rebuilding them.

Finding the sound.

Finding the audience.

And most importantly, finding ways to make everything they’re creating explode when they step onto a stage.

I’ve seen them perform more than once now.

The recordings are good.

But live is where this band makes sense.

The harmonies get bigger.

The guitars get heavier.

The rhythm section hits harder.

Emily’s lyrics become more personal.

And five individual musicians suddenly become one band.

Whatever waits on the other side of Archers Gate, they’re clearly moving toward it.

Fortunately for the rest of us, they’re making a hell of a lot of noise on the way.

Matthew Fritsch (Life After This)

Some bands write songs.

Others build movements.

The difference isn’t always found in the music.

Sometimes it’s found on a school bus full of fans headed to a concert.

Long before the first guitar chord rings out, before the lights dim, before the first scream from the stage, vocalist Matthew Fritsch is already doing what he believes matters most.

Connecting people.

For the Cincinnati-based hard rock band Life After This, the music has never been the entire experience.

It’s simply the soundtrack to something much bigger.

Vulnerability Is Louder Than Volume

Spend five minutes talking with Matthew Fritsch and you’ll quickly realize something.

Despite fronting one of the heavier bands in the region, aggression isn’t what drives him.

Honesty is.

He credits bands like Papa Roach and Slipknot, not for teaching him how to scream louder or write heavier riffs, but for teaching him that strength often comes from admitting you’re hurting.

Earlier in his songwriting career, Matthew admits he hid behind clever lyrics and poetic metaphors.

He wanted to sound intelligent.

He wanted to sound mysterious.

Eventually, he realized listeners weren’t looking for mystery.

They were looking for themselves.

Artists like Jacoby Shaddix showed him that writing about pain doesn’t make you weak.

It makes you relatable.

That’s a lesson that fundamentally changed the way he approaches every lyric he writes today.

Every Song Has Its Own Personality

Matthew described how Life After This writes music.

Unlike many bands where lyrics begin the process, Life After This starts with emotion created by the instruments.

A guitar riff appears.

The band builds around it.

Only after the music feels complete does Matthew step away to write melodies and lyrics.

He doesn’t force words onto the music.

He waits for the music to tell him what it wants to become.

He described each song as having its own personality.

Its own identity.

Its own voice.

That’s an unusual approach, but listening to Life After This’s catalog, it makes perfect sense.

No two songs feel like copies of one another.

They all belong to the same neighborhood.

They just don’t live in the same house.

That might be the simplest, and best, description of artistic growth I’ve heard in a long time.

Heavy Music. Human Hearts.

Metal has always suffered from misconceptions.

People unfamiliar with the genre often see anger.

Noise.

Aggression.

Fans usually experience something entirely different.

Community.

Matthew understands that better than most.

He doesn’t believe fans attend shows simply to hear loud music.

They come because someone finally gave a voice to emotions they couldn’t explain themselves.

Heartbreak.

Anxiety.

Loss.

Depression.

Isolation.

Those emotions become easier to carry when thousands of strangers are singing them together.

That’s why metal crowds often become families.

It’s not about escaping pain.

It’s about discovering you’re no longer carrying it alone.

A School Bus Full of Fans

One story perfectly captured everything Matthew believes about building a fanbase.

Rather than asking supporters to simply drive to a show in another city, the band rented a school bus.

Fans bought tickets.

The band climbed aboard.

The ride itself became part of the concert experience.

Music played.

Conversations happened.

Beers were shared.

Friendships formed long before anyone stepped inside the venue.

By the time they arrived, the audience wasn’t simply attending another show.

They were already part of it.

The return trip?

Much quieter.

Not because anyone was disappointed.

Because everyone had completely emptied the tank.

There’s something wonderfully old-school about that approach.

In an era obsessed with algorithms and engagement metrics, Life After This invested in actual human interaction.

Turns out that’s still pretty effective.

The Biggest Surprise Is Meeting the Band

Watching Matthew perform onstage, you’d expect him to be intimidating.

Then you meet him.

The image disappears almost instantly.

He laughed while telling me that fans frequently approach the band after shows expecting larger-than-life personalities.

Instead, they find four guys joking around, watching the other bands, hanging out at the merch table, buying drinks, and talking music.

Matthew calls himself the biggest dork in the room.

After spending time with him, I’m inclined to believe him.

That authenticity probably explains why so many fans keep returning.

The performance creates the first impression.

The personality creates the lasting one.

Brotherhood Before Business

Every successful band eventually discovers the same truth.

Talent gets you noticed.

Chemistry keeps you together.

Matthew spoke with genuine admiration about guitarist Thomas Cheek, bassist Ray Vitatoe, and drummer Matt Johnson.

Each brings a different personality.

Each contributes creatively.

Just as importantly, they actually enjoy being around one another.

That might sound obvious.

It isn’t.

Bands often rehearse together.

Life After This intentionally spends time together even when they aren’t rehearsing.

Dinner.

Drinks.

Conversations.

No agenda.

No instruments.

Just friendship.

Matthew believes those moments matter just as much as practice.

Looking at the band’s chemistry onstage, it’s difficult to argue.

The Fifth Member of the Band

Every band has people audiences never see.

For Life After This, one of those people is producer and engineer Joe Viers at Sonic Lounge.

Listening to Matthew describe their recording sessions felt less like hearing about an engineer and more like hearing about another band member.

Joe doesn’t simply press Record.

He challenges ideas.

Suggests arrangements.

Experiments with sounds nobody else considered.

Sometimes that means striking guitar strings with a pen cap through a maze of effects pedals.

Sometimes it means encouraging another vocal take.

Sometimes it simply means asking, “What if?”

The remarkable part isn’t that Joe has ideas.

It’s that the band trusts him enough to try them.

That’s what great producers do.

They don’t replace an artist’s vision.

They expand it.

There Are No Egos Here

One recurring theme surfaced throughout nearly every topic we discussed.

Humility.

Matthew repeatedly emphasized helping other bands.

Supporting local musicians.

Sharing advice.

Watching opening acts.

Building relationships.

His philosophy is refreshingly simple.

“A rising tide raises all ships.”

That’s increasingly rare in an industry often obsessed with competition.

Life After This doesn’t seem interested in climbing over other bands.

They’d rather climb together.

It’s a mindset that’s difficult to fake.

Fortunately, they don’t have to.

The Audience Comes First

Toward the end of our conversation, Matthew shared something that perfectly summarizes the band’s philosophy.

Some artists believe it’s the audience’s privilege to watch them perform.

He believes the opposite.

Fans paid for tickets.

Parking.

Babysitters.

Drinks.

Time away from home.

That means standing onstage isn’t an entitlement.

It’s a responsibility.

“It’s our privilege to be there in front of you,” he said.

That’s a perspective more artists would benefit from adopting.

Because the moment performers begin viewing fans as partners instead of customers, everything changes.

Life After This Is About More Than What’s Next

After spending an hour talking with Matthew Fritsch, I found myself thinking less about breakdowns, screaming vocals, or heavy guitar riffs.

I kept coming back to one word.

Connection.

It’s there in the songwriting.

It’s there in the live performances.

It’s there in the recording process.

It’s there on the party bus.

It’s there after every show when the band is standing in the crowd talking to people instead of hiding backstage.

The music might introduce listeners to Life After This.

But it’s the community that keeps them coming back.

In a genre often defined by volume, Life After This has discovered something far more powerful.

People don’t remember the loudest band they saw.

They remember the one that made them feel like they belonged.

Les Jansson (Steve Augieri)

Every musician has that one instrument they’ll never sell.

For Les Jansson, it’s a well-worn 1964 Höfner Beatle Bass.

Not because it’s worth a fortune.

Not because it’s rare.

Because it represents where everything began.

Long before international tours, signature basses, NAMM appearances, Journey tributes, and sharing stages with some of rock’s biggest names, there was a little kid coming home from school to find his father rehearsing in the living room.

Band practice wasn’t an event.

It was simply life.

And somewhere between those rehearsals and learning Stevie Wonder’s “Living for the City” on a single string, a lifelong career quietly took shape.

Sometimes the Best Music School Is Your Living Room

Les didn’t discover music through records alone.

He grew up inside it.

His father was a working musician whose own career nearly landed major-label success and included backing none other than Chuck Berry when the rock legend came through town without a touring band.

Those stories weren’t distant legends.

They were family history.

Watching musicians rehearse in his home made performing seem attainable instead of mythical.

It also taught him something many players never fully appreciate.

Music isn’t just talent.

It’s community.

That lesson would shape the rest of his career.

Great Players Learn More Than One Language

Ask Les what kind of music he enjoys playing, and you’re unlikely to get a narrow answer.

He grew up on Led Zeppelin.

Then came Kiss.

Eventually Rush completely changed the way he approached the bass.

Many players might have stayed there.

Les didn’t.

Instead, he absorbed each style as another tool.

Classic rock taught feel.

Rush demanded precision.

Commercial rock required restraint.

Those seemingly unrelated influences eventually merged into a playing style capable of fitting almost anywhere.

It’s one reason he’s remained in demand for decades.

Versatility doesn’t happen accidentally.

It’s built intentionally.

Don’t Become a Pattern Player

One piece of advice from music college has stayed with Les throughout his career.

Don’t become a pattern player.

His instructor encouraged students to understand music instead of memorizing shapes.

It’s deceptively simple advice.

Many musicians become trapped playing familiar patterns because they’re comfortable.

Les learned to chase feel instead.

That mindset allowed him to move comfortably between tribute acts, original artists, studio sessions, and international touring without sounding like the same player every time.

The best musicians aren’t the ones who know the most licks.

They’re the ones who know which notes actually matter.

Building the Bass You Always Wanted

These days, Les is closely associated with Michael Kelly Guitars.

Rather than simply endorsing an instrument, he helped design one.

It wasn’t about the list of specifications.

It was the philosophy behind them.

Every design choice solved a real-world problem.

Lower string height.

More comfortable neck angle.

Flexible pickup configurations.

Glow-in-the-dark side markers for dark stages.

Affordable enough to fly with.

Professional enough to perform anywhere.

After years of hauling expensive instruments through airports and wondering whether they’d survive baggage claim, Les decided to create something practical without sacrificing performance.

That’s experience talking.

Not marketing.

NAMM Isn’t Just a Trade Show

Most music fans know NAMM by reputation.

Few realize what actually happens there.

For Les, it’s far more than a convention.

It’s part reunion.

Part networking event.

Part performance.

Part classroom.

One moment he’s demonstrating instruments.

The next he’s sharing stories with fellow musicians.

Later that evening he’s onstage jamming alongside internationally recognized players.

The relationships formed there often become tomorrow’s touring opportunities.

That’s one of the music industry’s least understood realities.

Careers rarely advance because someone handed you a business card.

They grow because people remember enjoying working with you.

Journey Never Really Ends

Les has become closely associated with Journey’s music through both Voyage and former Journey vocalist Steve Augeri.

Ironically, it all traces back to another tribute band.

Evolution.

That group gradually grew from local performances into massive events, including a memorable show where thousands of fans briefly believed Journey itself had reunited.

It’s the kind of story that could only happen in rock and roll.

Today, performing alongside Steve Augeri gives Les the opportunity to revisit not only Journey’s biggest hits but also deeper cuts from albums that many casual listeners overlook.

For someone who genuinely appreciates every era of the band’s history, that’s a rare privilege.

Every Singer Changes the Band

One question I was particularly interested in asking involved performing with different vocalists.

Les’s answer was refreshingly honest.

None are better.

They’re simply different.

Each singer brings a unique personality to familiar songs.

That perspective says a lot about his professionalism.

Rather than comparing performers, he adapts to them.

That’s exactly what elite sidemen do.

Their job isn’t to recreate themselves every night.

It’s to help every artist sound like the best version of themselves.

Studios Still Feel Like Home

Although Les spends much of his year touring, recording remains one of his favorite creative outlets.

Listening to him describe learning under engineer Brian McGee brought back memories of an era when recording required genuine craftsmanship.

Before automation.

Before instant recalls.

Before digital editing.

Every console setting had to be documented by hand.

Tape literally had to be cut apart and reassembled.

Making mistakes wasn’t convenient.

It was expensive.

Those early experiences gave Les an appreciation for engineering that still influences the studio he built in his own home today.

Technology may have changed dramatically.

The attention to detail hasn’t.

Every Flight Has a Story

Touring sounds glamorous until you hear the logistics.

Commercial flights.

Overweight gear.

Airport sprints.

Private jets packed so tightly that the bathroom becomes storage.

Les laughed while telling the story, but anyone who’s toured professionally knows exactly how quickly travel can become the most difficult part of the job.

Yet he still lights up talking about international performances.

Canada.

The Dominican Republic.

Upcoming dates in Chile.

Europe still waiting.

For musicians, every destination represents another audience.

Another experience.

Another chance to play.

That’s usually enough.

The Unsung Hero

Near the end of our conversation, I asked Les to recognize someone who had influenced his career.

For someone who’s worked alongside countless talented musicians, he admitted choosing just one was nearly impossible.

Then he quietly landed on the answer.

His father.

It felt appropriate.

Without those rehearsals in the living room…

Without that old Höfner bass…

Without those early lessons about musicianship…

None of the tours, endorsements, or international performances likely happen.

Every career starts somewhere.

His started at home.

Four Strings. Endless Possibilities.

After spending time with Les Jansson, I found myself thinking less about endorsements or famous stages and more about longevity.

That’s the thread connecting everything he’s accomplished.

He’s never stopped learning.

Never stopped adapting.

Never stopped saying yes to opportunities that stretched his abilities.

Whether he’s designing instruments, mentoring young bass players, performing Journey classics, recording original music, or flying across the world for another show, his approach remains remarkably consistent.

Stay curious.

Stay prepared.

Stay open.

It’s easy to look at a résumé like Les Jansson’s and assume it was built through extraordinary opportunities.

The truth seems much simpler.

It was built through ordinary opportunities approached with extraordinary consistency.

One rehearsal.

One lesson.

One relationship.

One gig.

One song.

At a time.

And somewhere along the way, those four strings became the soundtrack to a career that’s still finding new places to go.