Future Islands
In Evening Air

You don't survive the 80s, Afterhours were right.

Ideologically speaking, Future Islands are born and die there, in the decade of everything and nothing, a suspended decade in which you can notice the beauties grown beyond the trash over time, years that mark us, and some say "unfortunately," others, a few including myself, say "fortunately." Who are, this group of jerks? Samuel T. Herring with the voice and the mind, then William Cashion with the bass who does so much, and J. Gerrit Welmers with everything else (synthesizers, consoles, etc.). It's not surprising to think that Herring was once a sculpture student at some American college, it's not surprising because sculpture tries to reproduce every human emotion through facial expressions, limb contortions, muscle tensions, body poses, and the music of this "In Evening Air" from 2010 contorts as much as it can, making emotions tend toward infinity, you imagine Herring's strained face as he sings in the delirium of synthesizers surrounding him. It's a theatrical, sentimental song, mostly heart-wrenching, with a strong, very strong impact.

The 80s were masters of well-masked plasticized well-being to disguise a darkness in the background, it was the period when one was undecided whether to continue with the cold punk-stamped New Wave of the late-70s or to propose a new, sugary, glossy synth-pop that would slide sorrows behind pastel colors. Some people combined the two things, people like O.M.D. who reappear as life masters in this second work by Future Islands, listening to the initial one-two of "Walking Through That Door" and "Long Flight" you taste the time that was and those who, like me, were born too late live in the desire to have wanted to breathe its positivity, to have wanted to live the last romantic decade. I was a child in the 80s, I witnessed the Crystal Ball advertisements, but I don't remember hearing Gazebo's "I Like Chopin," a manifesto in its own way. But it's not all here, if the beginning can be relegated to a nostalgic memory of the artists who made the decade of illusion great, then it is good to push further to understand that Herring does not intend to stop at the first names that come to mind and wants to delve deep not only into his musical inspirations but also the vocal models he has in mind: the voice indeed glides and lands from a celestial pop to a cavernous and alcoholic timbre full of nicotine tar already in "Tin Man" and even more in "An Apology," which seems sung by a drunken ogre. Practically, like Tom Waits. And it is at this point that you remember the greatness that a bass can give to a song, what are the pieces made great by a guitar, average listener? Ok, yes, come on, that's enough. And those made great by the bass? Um, uh, yuk, oh. Well, listen to "An Apology" by Future Islands, then maybe you can tell me a name. Without Cashion, the song would never have been the same, just like the driving "Swept Inside," where Herring dances on the rhythmic carpet created for him with an embarrassed manner, wanting to be noticed, but this time the protagonist is not him. After this pleasant and rough interlude crowned by the swift title track, we return a bit to the 80s roses with "Inch Of Dust," soft but dense with phlegm, and especially with "Vireo's Eye," where the specter of a statuesque David Bowie stands above these poor American nothings, observing them with a pleased, icy glance and crossed arms.

In my opinion, a devilish smile escapes him, to Bowie's specter, also on the closing "As I Fall," chosen as a single to testify that common people are captured by the easier and sometimes less beautiful things, as long as they're pleasant. An interesting group, they call themselves Post-Wave and indeed it makes sense; perhaps a bit too nostalgic but full of good ideas, like many things inspired by the 80s.