Future Islands

Future Islands singer Samuel T.

Herring resembles the banking crisis at its harrowing peak, and
tonight it just so happens that he’s doing so in London’s city mile – meltdown HQ – in the basement hovel of C.A.M.P. A thirty

something reseeding from life’s relentless strain, his white collar is unbuttoned, as if that of a struck off accountant who’s had it with
niceties.

But his attire merely accentuates Herring’s desperation as he wails to his band’s swirling,

euphoric synths and post punk-iest of bass lines.

It’s the singer’s fearless, dramatic honesty that really makes this a performance for the recession, and after an opening,

new, nameless plodder, he beats his chest and croaks the kind of
gravely, gruff croak that would come from a grizzly bear schooled
at the Joe Cocker Singing Academy.

It’s a horse delivery alright, but also one of crude, considered emotion and control,

which is what makes the whole thing so compelling.

It’s five songs in, around the arrival of ‘Tin Man’, that Future Islands start to sound their best, their shredded vocals dialled down to the better side of

‘hammy’ (we were veering into Future Islands Idol for a second there) and the remainder of the set largely coming for the bitter sweet

‘In Evening Air’ EP, plus old, dance jam ‘Pinocchio’. And while

Herring clutches the air and moves for the lot of us, the lasting
impression is you’ll never see a

band put it all out there quite like this one.

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