They still work hard, but they're learning to take it easy, too.
These days, Herring worries about losing his voice. maybe more.
The whole band feels it. Their ages range between 39 and 48 years. It takes longer to recover after a round these days. “There's an emotional toll, too, having to hit the pause button on your life at home,” Cashion says.
In other words, they are getting older.
This may not be an issue for some teams. But Future Islands is not like that Some gangs. Formed in 2006, in the loose tradition of guitarless rock bands like Ben Folds Five and Morphine, the three-piece (now four) quickly gained a reputation for a relentless schedule full of raucous live shows. Injuries were not uncommon.
Their songs – driven by catchy synths and melodic bass – hit the heartstrings. Emotions and, increasingly, voices are enormous.
On stage, Herring roams the stage like a lion, often while his bandmates barely move. He crouches, thrashes in the air and beats his chest. Sometimes his voice sounds like butter. Sometimes a guttural howl, Wolverine shreds his vocal cords. He will stand up straight with Arm raised like a Shakespearean actor – but instead “Alas, poor Yorick!” He shouts: “When it blows, summer will wake / But winter will wash away what's left of the taste.”
Herring “can oscillate between vulnerability and sympathy for the dark and this unpredictable swagger,” says Jonathan Van Tulleken, who directed the music video for the band's latest single “The Tower.”
On January 26, Future Island released their seventh studio album, People Who Aren't There Anymore. But their goal is still here, as long as possible. Maybe seven more.
“It's willpower,” Herring says. “It's your joy. It's your art. It's your work. But it also takes a lot of strength, to keep yourself and your mind and body together.
HHow many Future Islanders does it take to run a coffee machine?” someone asks.
It's a frigid Friday in mid-January, a week before the album's release, and Herring and Cachion are messing around with music. The set at Wright Way Studios in Baltimore as snow piles up outside. Do they press the button at the top? I am waiting, this? Herring finally got it.
they The cheerful mood is an improvement from before week. The guys are spread across three coasts — Herring in New Orleans, Cashion in Los Angeles, and Welmers and Lowry still in Baltimore — and they have other projects, like Herring's latest acting role (and Cashion's appearance) in The Changeling on Apple TV Plus. “There they met Van Tulleken, who directed four episodes.
Before this week, the band had never performed some of these songs together. They'll have “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert” in a few days, as well as a series of live shows after that. They needed to prepare.
“This is the first record that we didn't play live before it came out,” Cashion says. “Some of these songs were written together but separately, and they weren't all in a room together.”
“I was so angry last week,” Herring says. “Likes, It's disgusting. I don't know what to do. And after yesterday, I was like, well, we're still musicians. We know how to play our songs.”
The wrinkles have been ironed out Songs written over a period of three years. They wrote about half the album during lockdown, and the other half while touring. “This is the longest pregnancy record we've ever done,” Cashion says.
The album's opening song, “King of Sweden”, was written while Hering was actually in charge in Sweden. The guys were busy in a Baltimore studio, while he was singing through an app called Audiomovers. “I like to tell people that this is our first song across the Atlantic,” Cashion says.
“The Ones Who Ain't There Anymore” feels like the culmination of a career spent double, triple, quadruple, and quintuple on an esoteric, singular sound: synth-driven pop songs designed for the afterglow.
“This is the best album they've ever made,” says producer Chris Cody, who co-mixed and produced their groundbreaking 2014 album “Singles.” “It's a mixture of the drama and action of previous albums, but there's also this emotional availability.”
At the heart of every song is a poetic openness that Hering is proud of. In “The Tower” he sings:
When the boy who — Played with razor blades
I met a girl — Open cages
All the birds flew across the cemetery
Their laughter was contagious
Herring writes from a very emotional place, often about broken or broken relationships, hoping that fans can “apply that to their own lives, and have something to hold onto in those relationships.” [difficult] moments.” No sarcasm here. No winking. No joking. This is music therapy. The Tower continues:
I, I, watch on the other side, sighing
I looked at everything, nothing and nothing
I lie, I tell myself it's darkest when it's perfectly bright
Everything becomes stronger in the light
“It was hard to sing the songs at first, but it also feels good,” Herring says. “It's the freedom to share something that's hard to say.” His philosophy: If you don't want to say something, you better say it.
TThe afternoon is starting to wind down, but the band seems tight. Imprisoned. Haunting. Grooving. Beautiful. Herring is a miniature version of his stage persona, with his head thrown back, his other voice sliding out. But his vocals are cooked for today.
They started discussing the name of the next round. “Round people?” No, it looks like a mobile church. Maybe a “Farewell Tour.” they laugh. Remember how upset everyone was when James Murphy did that and came back?
“Yes, only Elton John is allowed to do that,” Herring says.
In some ways, they are the amazing islands of the future Didn't do that Played a farewell tour. While many of their peers are celebrating the 20th anniversary of their reunion, the band cannot reunite because they never broke up. They're not the work of nostalgia. They are still islands of the future. Although the accumulation of nearly 20 years of physical and emotional bruises from years of endless touring has taken its toll. All these DIY places probably didn't help.
This is the first record that we didn't play live before it came out. Some of these songs were written together but separately, and they weren't all in a room together.
-William Cashion, guitarist
“Some of them turned out to be good,” Cashion says. “Some turned out bad.”
There was the house show in Plattsburgh, New York, when Cashon, Herring and Wilmers were still in their first band, Art Lord & the Self-Portraits. It was at A The house is called Death Garage, but the guy who booked it forgot to tell us that anyone. “So no one knew about the show anywhere, not even the housemates. But we ended up hanging out with these guys, and drank a lot of beers all night long. “At the end they say: 'Are you guys going to play now?'
So they played for four people.
On the same tour, there was a show at the Siberia Club in New York City where the final act was. The place was packed, but when the band finished, everyone went upstairs.
They played for the sound guy.
The only upside was that Jimmy Fallon was upstairs. Bought a CD and a round of footage.
Then, like in Future Islands, there was a stand-alone garage (“sort of”) in Nashville, which the owner opened up and told them to park everything when they were done — and simply left. Only three or four people showed up, and they were probably in the opening band. To end most sets in those days, the band would throw balloons to bounce over the audience. This time the balloons landed awkwardly on the ground, surrounding the small crowd.
“Sadness balloons,” Cashion says.
Herring may not miss those shows, but looking back, “It reminds you of the joy of what you're doing. When the going gets tough, you can remember that we used to do it for free. Sometimes the band misses playing in smaller venues. And eventually, “We want people to be able to see us when we come to town,” says Cashion. “We try to make every show count and not leave anyone out.”
One thing's for sure, Herring says: “I really don't want to go back to playing for anyone.”
TThe band wasn't playing for anyone when they performed their single “Seasons (Waiting on You)” on “The Late Show With David Letterman” in 2014. It was a typical Future Islands performance. The herring alternates between a tone, a growl, and a scream. Squats, shakes and punches. The band is tight, catchy and bombastic. They played and left, happy but nothing more. Elsewhere in the books. “By the time ‘Worldwide Pants’ comes up, the lights have gone out and gone,” says Lowry.
But most people who watch them are seeing them for the first time. The clip garnered millions of views, and sparked debate: Was this an enthusiastic performance or a low-key one?
Laurie thought, “It's wild that people think this is so wild. This is about 40 percent toxic.”
“I think that's the thing where we tried to act like it wasn't pivotal, but it was,” Herring says. “The polar opposite views are what made it spread so quickly, without us even raising our hands. We did our thing and went on our merry way. And people are fighting online about whether this is art or the biggest joke ever.
Suddenly invitations poured in from festivals that had previously rejected the band. The stages they played grew exponentially.
Cashion describes it as “a huge magic wand moment for this band.” Letterman completely changed everything and catapulted us into the stratosphere.“
That's not to say the reaction wasn't painful, especially for Herring, whose heart rests firmly on his sleeve. But now, 10 years later, “I've come full circle and it doesn't hurt anymore.”
TContinue the upward trajectory. No more small empty rooms. No more wondering if the owner of the place will sacrifice them in blood. No more sleeping on a beer-stained rug while cuddling up with your blankets for warmth.
But the gigs may still be strange. Once, in 2016, they ended up on the French show “Vivement Dimanche,” where they sat in a green room with a small TV, watching the show even though none of them spoke French. For four and a half hours. “Nobody would feed us,” Herring recalls.
“We ask, 'Can we go to the cafeteria and get some food?' And they say, 'No!' Well, can you get us some food? 'No!' “Okay, can we leave and get something? 'No, it's a quiet studio.'”
Finally, they were allowed out of the room to play. It was an older crowd. “The grandmothers were generous,” he says. “Clap on one and three.”
“They hate the French“I joke, typing out a pantomime.
“We love the French!” They all scream again.
“We love the BBC too. We love England,” adds Cashion.
“Pimps,” Herring says.
Then there was a show on German TV. “There were seals!” Laurie says. Herring chimes in: “It was like a 300-pound woman dressed in a Viking lyric opera costume in front of a huge elephant seal. And then they finally married them.” Lowry claims the seal kissed him. “I think that was the most ridiculous,” Herring says.
“I love Germans!” He adds.
The band laughs All those crazy shows, those weird TV shows, almost two decades they spent together.
It is clear that they want to continue the journey.
“I don't know if people realize how grateful we are that we're still able to do this,” Laurie says.
So they will take a nap. And eat healthy. And cool it to drink.
Wilmers, who remains mostly silent, offers the simplest and most honest answer.
