Off the Record Reviews: Future Islands, In Evening Air
When Future Islands dropped In Evening Air in 2010, it felt like a secret whispered from the edges of Baltimore’s art scene—a raw, unpolished gem born from the trio’s earlier incarnation, Art Lord & the Self-Portraits, a 2006 art school experiment. Sam Herring, Gerrit Welmers, and William Cashion had already begun shedding that avant-garde skin. Now, with seven full-length albums under their belt, In Evening Air stands as a formative cry—a testament to their ability to weave personal turmoil into a sonic tapestry that lingers long after the needle lifts.
From the outset, Herring’s voice demands attention. It’s a gravelly, almost spectral force—raw and unrefined, cutting through the synth-drenched layers Welmers and Cashion craft with surgical precision. The album’s nine tracks unfold like a late-night confession, each lyric a shard of lived experience. Take the opener, “Walking Through That Door,” where an infectious, driving beat anchors lines like “I want to be the one, to help you find those years, that you’ve been talking about, dreaming of the south, and all those lost goodbyes, and all those lonely tears, you never got to cry.” It’s a hook that burrows deep, transcending mere ear candy to reveal a bruised emotional core.
This intensity carries through. “Tin Man” pulses with stirring, defiant energy—steel drums clashing over a relentless bassline, Herring’s howl piercing the fray with “you couldn’t possibly know how much you meant to me.” It’s a track that lingers, its intensity a mirror to the album’s restless spirit. Contrast that with “Long Flight,” a slower unraveling of melancholy, where wistful keys and a heavy bassline evoke the weight of unspoken grief. Across In Evening Air, this tension between frantic energy and quiet devastation defines its post-punk soul—a genre nod to the likes of Joy Division, yet distinctly their own.
The production, while rudimentary compared to their later polish, amplifies this rawness. The synths simmer with a dusk-like glow, unpretentious but sharp, lifting the album beyond its lo-fi roots. It’s a sound that doesn’t just play—it excavates, unearthing buried fragments of personal struggle with every listen. For those unfamiliar, Future Islands’ journey from art project to indie darlings offers context: In Evening Air was their second LP, a bridge between experimental noise and the accessible anthems of Singles (2014). Its imperfections—jagged transitions, unpolished edges—are its strength, a gritty grace that feels both universal and singular.
To quantify its impact, consider our Radar Review framework—a metric beyond traditional star ratings. On a scale of 1 to 10, In Evening Air scores a 10 for soulful resonance, driven by Herring’s delivery and the lyrical depth. Beat and rhythm land at 8, propelled by those pulsing synths. Flow dips to 4, reflecting its rough-hewn structure, while replay value sits at 2—its mood-specific pull demands the right headspace. Artistry, at 5, nods to its raw, unrefined craft, a deliberate choice over commercial sheen. This jagged chart mirrors the album’s emotional landscape: uneven, real, and unforgettable.
In Evening Air isn’t flawless, but its imperfections carve a space in the listener’s psyche. It’s a record that tears into you, fueled by Herring’s visceral performance and a melodic pulse that simmers in the gut. For those who’ve slept on Future Islands, it’s time to wake up—seven albums await, each a chapter in their evolving saga.
