Future Island were the zeitgeist in 2014. The band's performance on Letterman broke the Internet, and it is easily one of the best television performances, ever. It encapsulated everything great about the Baltimore band. The spacious, Nu Wave groove. The nocturnal bass lines and expressive synth cascades. The romantic, lyrical immediacy. But most of all, the emotional tour-de-force that is lead vocalist Samuel Herring, scouring the scene for meaningful connection, urging us to embrace each other with the healing powers of love and discovery. Bono recently called "Seasons (Waiting on You)" a miracle. Have you seen them? That song, Seasons? A miracle, that is.
Though the band is thankful for the meme-inducing popularity of their Letterman appearance, they also worried that it might be a one-trick pony, which was never their intention. Indeed, Herring was simply performing as he has always done, wringing out sweat, passion, and black-metal howls from the depths of his person. "For it to have garnered so much attention is amazing. We were expecting maybe 20,000 or 25,000 views. It wasn't just music fans but fans of late-night television. Creating that response, that reaction, there's something really good about that. It's really wild. It really did change our year."
Herring continued. "The fear is that it becomes the bane of our existence. You don't want to be the band who did that one thing on Letterman and then everyone forgot about you. You can be the great band, but even after something like that, you want people to come back."
No worries, there. People will come back. Pitchfork named "Seasons" the #1 Song of the Year, and Future Islands' potent live performances have triggered increasingly large audiences as they have toured worldwide. Forget Herring's seriously entertaining showmanship, his ability to hold your gaze for 120 minutes. The band's songs are communal elevators, they lift and send masses soaring, anthemic, cinematic, splendid.
The messages are intended to stir the soul to action or to appreciate the beauty of those around you. Be more than words. Be more than strength and kind. Be love and blind. To those who come for you. ("Spirit"). My sun every morning. She feeds me daily soul. She talks right to my soul. ("Sun in the Morning"). And I wanted you to know. I was thinking about you. And you look like a rose. Especially, when I'm a long way from home. ("Back in the Tall Grass"). I showed you the dark. And you said to me: You know what you know is better, is brighter. ("Lighthouse"). She looks like the moon. She says, it's your eyes. She sees everything. She knows me too well. ("Like the Moon"). I wrestled by the sea. A loneliness in me. I asked myself for peace. And found it at my feet. Staring at the sea. ("A Dream of You and Me").
You get the point. Herring even wrote a song for their grandfathers, called, yes, "A Song for Our Grandfathers." In lesser hands, such sentiments would sound tired or trite. Clichéd, even. But when Herring sends his gaze across the divide, he eyes his listeners with soul-splitting urgency. His sincere invitations are refreshingly bold in an era of overwhelming skepticism and irony. After watching and hearing him live this past summer, I left the show wanting to be better. How many pop shows can do that? What strange musical uplift!
Though the band is thankful for the meme-inducing popularity of their Letterman appearance, they also worried that it might be a one-trick pony, which was never their intention. Indeed, Herring was simply performing as he has always done, wringing out sweat, passion, and black-metal howls from the depths of his person. "For it to have garnered so much attention is amazing. We were expecting maybe 20,000 or 25,000 views. It wasn't just music fans but fans of late-night television. Creating that response, that reaction, there's something really good about that. It's really wild. It really did change our year."
Herring continued. "The fear is that it becomes the bane of our existence. You don't want to be the band who did that one thing on Letterman and then everyone forgot about you. You can be the great band, but even after something like that, you want people to come back."
No worries, there. People will come back. Pitchfork named "Seasons" the #1 Song of the Year, and Future Islands' potent live performances have triggered increasingly large audiences as they have toured worldwide. Forget Herring's seriously entertaining showmanship, his ability to hold your gaze for 120 minutes. The band's songs are communal elevators, they lift and send masses soaring, anthemic, cinematic, splendid.
The messages are intended to stir the soul to action or to appreciate the beauty of those around you. Be more than words. Be more than strength and kind. Be love and blind. To those who come for you. ("Spirit"). My sun every morning. She feeds me daily soul. She talks right to my soul. ("Sun in the Morning"). And I wanted you to know. I was thinking about you. And you look like a rose. Especially, when I'm a long way from home. ("Back in the Tall Grass"). I showed you the dark. And you said to me: You know what you know is better, is brighter. ("Lighthouse"). She looks like the moon. She says, it's your eyes. She sees everything. She knows me too well. ("Like the Moon"). I wrestled by the sea. A loneliness in me. I asked myself for peace. And found it at my feet. Staring at the sea. ("A Dream of You and Me").
You get the point. Herring even wrote a song for their grandfathers, called, yes, "A Song for Our Grandfathers." In lesser hands, such sentiments would sound tired or trite. Clichéd, even. But when Herring sends his gaze across the divide, he eyes his listeners with soul-splitting urgency. His sincere invitations are refreshingly bold in an era of overwhelming skepticism and irony. After watching and hearing him live this past summer, I left the show wanting to be better. How many pop shows can do that? What strange musical uplift!
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