In my inexpert opinion, music is the closest thing to time travel we have.

I was reminded of that when my wife and I took an overnight trip to Portland last Friday to catch the first of a two-show stint by Archers of Loaf.

I’ve been so into their music for 30 years now (is that possible?) I feel like they should need no introduction. They were college kids who began playing together in the ’90s indie-rock scene of Chapel Hill, North Carolina, which also gave the world Superchunk and Polvo. There was even a bit of a label gold rush to find and sign the next big thing, post-Seattle.

Archers was by far my favorite band of the era, and I only saw them live once during their first run, in Tampa in 1996. As Rolling Stone once put it, “When the Archers settle into full-out rocking, they do so with satisfying savagery.” That quote floated to the surface at one point during Friday evening’s show, points of which just had to close my eyes for a few seconds soak in the music of my youth. It could have been 1996 all over again.

Ben Bridwell, leader of Band of Horses, has referred to Archers as the South’s “Pavement, its Dinosaur Jr.” I get that comparison. Something about Archers’ rich, off-kilter guitar sound just spoke to my brain. Give the instrumental “Smoking Pot in the Hot City” a listen and you’ll hear what I mean. And Archers of Loaf seemed like four regular dudes who happened to make fantastic music and didn’t care a lick about image.

Archers’ first run was brief, lasting only until 1998, and they never had a breakthrough a la Pavement’s “Cut Your Hair,” though ”Web in Front” came close. Citing exhaustion, growing musical differences and the adorbs fact they wanted to remain friends, they called it a day. Although they convened to tour a bit last decade, it was the COVID-19 pandemic that led to the band’s proper reunion. In interviews, frontman Eric Bachmann has talked about the suicidal ideation that set in with prolonged isolation. Anger and indignation led him to write a flurry of songs, and he knew only three other guys he wanted to play them with. The result was “Reason in Decline,” Archers of Loaf’s first studio album in 24 years, and the reason we were hearing them live, again, for the first time in nearly 27 years. (Give ”Misinformation Age” a whirl if you’re curious about his stance on current events.)

We arrived early enough at Mississippi Studios to catch opener Ducks Ltd., a very worthwhile Canadian jangle-pop band whose melodies were friendlier than, yet compatible with, Archers’ more biting sensibilities.

Eventually, I could see Archers — messy-haired guitarist Eric Johnson, longhaired bassist Gentling, drummer Mark Price in overalls and the towering figure of Bachmann — emerging from an upstairs backstage area and walking toward the stairs to the stage. It was on. They went from what sounded like tuning up, heads down, and then the epic “Audiowhore” emerged from the squawking and squealing. The thought that earplugs might have been a good idea occurred to me.

Gen-Xers proliferated in the audience, with a few puffy-jacketed Millennials mixed in. I glanced back at the people sitting in the balcony area upstairs. So weird. Downstairs, a few songs compelled the crowd to get a little rowdier. Certainly ”Wrong” accomplished that. From its start, a few punks pushed forward and began pogoing and slamming. This was happening directly next to my wife and I, but at least they weren’t meatheads bent on carnage, which some bands attract like flies. At first annoyed by the space invasion, I just got into the spirit of it and pogoed, too, because I liked the song too much to miss the moment being fussy.

Archers are too versatile, too lushly guitar-oriented, too dynamic, too indie-rock to sustain a mosh pit, even if a Venn diagram of their attitude and sonics bridge worlds. Some songs I’d’ve been stoked to hear were absent. In fact, a guy I chatted with in the crowd between bands had told me he was going to call out for one of them: “Vocal Shrapnel.” He must have, because right as they were about to play the last song of the night, Bachmann spoke more than he had all evening, telling someone near the stage, “Close your eyes and imagine you’re listening to ‘Vocal Shrapnel’ as we play this next song,” or something close to that.

I kept mine open, I think.