Pixlehale

Tag: Music Journalism

  • Friendship – Caveman Wakes Up (Album Review)

    A modern-day caveman in a world he barely recognizes — the artwork for Friendship’s latest album captures the ache and absurdity of waking up to reality.

    Prefer to listen instead?

    Hear the full review of Caveman Wakes Up by Friendship—brought to you by Pixlehale. Honest critique, rich storytelling, and grounded cultural insight, now in audio form.

    Waking to a World of Everyday Struggles

    Philadelphia indie outfit Friendship returns with their fifth album, Caveman Wakes Up, a record that peels back the curtains on everyday life’s quiet dramas. Frontman Dan Wriggins sings in an unvarnished baritone that lends gravity to tales of work, faith, and loneliness. The album’s overarching concept evokes a modern caveman awakening to the strange realities of contemporary society – essentially an artful meditation on depression wrapped in wry storytelling and keen social observation. This latest release, their second on Merge Records, finds the band honing their blend of folk-rock intimacy and indie-rock experimentation.

    Social Themes and Storytelling

    The band Friendship, photographed ahead of their 2025 release Caveman Wakes Up. Known for their understated style and lyrical depth, the Philadelphia group continues to blur the line between folk intimacy and indie experimentation.

    Lyrically, Caveman Wakes Up shines a light on the mundane struggles of ordinary people, elevating them into poetic vignettes. Wriggins often chronicles “the common man wrestling with the crush of the mundane” – from dead-end jobs to distant dreams – with a mix of blunt honesty and subtle humor. On “Free Association,” he portrays post-breakup malaise through a mundane routine – even the act of complaining about work – to show how loneliness magnifies the ordinary. “Tree of Heaven” brilliantly encapsulates the isolation of being on life’s margins, describing a scene of standing outside a church listening to the choir’s voices bleed through the walls. It’s a vivid snapshot of feeling spiritually adrift in a community – a theme that resonates across the record’s social commentary. Elsewhere, “Resident Evil” couches an existential dread in domestic absurdity, culminating in the darkly comic question: “who’s that shithead in my living room, playing Resident Evil?” Throughout the album, despair and dry wit sit side by side, blurring “bleak humor with flashes of transcendence, where the sacred and profane blur.” In this way, Friendship confronts social alienation and mental health head-on, suggesting that waking up to reality is equal parts devastating and oddly funny.

    Production and Sonic Landscape

    Musically, Caveman Wakes Up expands Friendship’s alt-country roots into richer, more experimental territory. The production balances grit and grace: the band delivers a murky, poetic expansion of country-rock, rich with texture and experimentation. Indeed, the arrangements are full of character. “Resident Evil,” a standout track, rides on guitars that poke and prod à la Neil Young’s Crazy Horse, periodically erupting into feedback to mirror the song’s anxious mood. In “Tree of Heaven,” a martial drum stomp and an atonal violin line heighten the sense of outsider angst, making the listener feel that Sunday morning coldness of standing alone outside the sanctuary. By contrast, “Love Vape” offers a bass-heavy, mid-tempo bounce, painting the neon-lit tableau of a Philly smoke shop (complete with vivid details from a real smoke shop) over a surprisingly bright melody. These shifts in sound – from shambling guitars and occasional Mellotron swells to moments of almost Motown-like groove – serve the album’s themes by alternating between somber reflection and subtle relief. Wriggins’ voice, rough-hewn yet resonant, sits front and center in the mix, ensuring every line is delivered with an earnest weight that matches the subject matter.

    Highlights and Impressions

    Rather than a collection of singles, Caveman Wakes Up plays like a cohesive journal of working-class angst and hope. Late in the album, “All Over the World” repeats a phone-call refrain (“Hey buddy, where are you at? … I’m all over the world”) with mounting intensity, turning a simple greeting into an existential question, before the closing “Fantasia” ends on a quietly matter-of-fact note – a lover stepping out for another beer amid delicate strings. These final moments reinforce how Caveman Wakes Up finds profound meaning in humble, everyday scenes.

    Verdict

    On Caveman Wakes Up, Friendship stay true to their name – offering a candid, empathetic companion through life’s unglamorous moments. The album is at once grounded and artful, full of small indignities rendered with plaintive grace. Its social themes of alienation, faith, and labor feel timely and relatable, tackled with a clear-eyed poetry that never slips into melodrama. The production underscores these themes, from the emotional weight and casual surrealism in Wriggins’ lyrics to the careful interplay of instruments that add color to even the grayest narratives. If there’s a flaw, it’s that the tone can occasionally meander; some moments can be a rough place to hang out on repeat listens. But even this unevenness contributes to the sense of a genuine lived experience. Ultimately, Caveman Wakes Up stands as a compelling reflection on waking up each day to face a world that can be both black coffee bitter and quietly beautiful. In delivering hard truths with melodic finesse, Friendship have crafted a thoughtful album that invites us to share in the burden and the beauty of simply carrying on.

    Sources: Key data and statements in this article are drawn from Stereogum, Pitchfork, Paste Magazine, BrooklynVegan, and Merge Records. Additional insights were sourced from official press releases, band interviews, and verified album reviews. All assertions are supported by these reliable sources, ensuring a fact-based, well-rounded perspective throughout the article.

  • Future Islands – People Who Aren’t There Anymore

    Future Islands have always worn their hearts on their sleeves, and their seventh album People Who Aren’t There Anymore is no exception. This 2024 release finds the Baltimore synthpop outfit diving headfirst into heartache and longing, delivering an emotional gut-punch that few bands do as consistently. At its core, the album is about a breakup. It was written during a time when frontman Samuel T. Herring’s long-distance relationship was falling apart amid pandemic lockdowns. Yet, it somehow manages to feel strangely uplifting at times. The record centers on themes of absence and memory. Rather than sinking into despair, Future Islands transforms that pain into soaring melodies and cathartic, synth-driven anthems. True to form, the music feels just as earnest and passionate as the subject matter.

    A Quietly Powerful and Underrated Legacy

    To fully appreciate People Who Aren’t There Anymore, it helps to understand Future Islands’ journey. This is a band that spent years as a cult favorite before breaking into wider consciousness with one unforgettable television performance. Their 2014 song “Seasons (Waiting on You)” — and the now-iconic chest-pounding, hip-thrusting dance by Herring on David Letterman’s stage — launched them into a new level of recognition. They went from indie circuit staples to a band capable of selling out multiple nights at major venues.

    Despite that viral breakthrough and the acclaim of albums like Singles and The Far Field, Future Islands never fully crossed over into the mainstream spotlight. They remain one of music’s most underappreciated treasures. Their following is loyal and passionate, but their name still doesn’t appear as often as it should in pop culture conversations. That might actually work in their favor. While trends come and go, Future Islands have remained grounded, continuing to create music with soul and sincerity.

    Samuel T. Herring’s live performances have always been part of the band’s magic. He pours his entire body and soul into every note, and that intensity translates powerfully in the studio too. On this album, his vocals still carry the same urgency, vulnerability, and theatrical weight. Every lyric is lived-in. Every note feels earned.

    Heartache and Hope in Equal Measure

    This album chronicles the unraveling of a relationship stretched across distance and time. Herring was separated from his partner by an ocean. Love survived through video calls and hopeful plans until it didn’t. That emotional weight is embedded in nearly every track, creating an atmosphere that is both aching and strangely comforting.

    The opener, “King of Sweden,” captures the restlessness and longing that define much of the record. “Give Me the Ghost Back” is a standout, transforming the pain of lingering memory into a driving synth groove. “Peach” follows a similar thread, its lush sonic textures masking the desperation beneath its surface. The song evokes the bittersweet feeling of trying to rekindle something you know is slipping away.

    By the time we reach the closer, “The Garden Wheel,” the record has taken us through denial, reflection, and finally resignation. The metaphor of working the earth so much it turns to dust is both beautiful and haunting. It captures the emotional exhaustion of trying too hard for too long. Despite this, the album never feels hopeless. Future Islands weave just enough light into the fabric of these songs to remind us that healing is possible.

    One of the strengths of this record is that it doesn’t follow a neat emotional arc. The listener is tossed between sorrow and strength, between yearning and clarity. It feels real. This is the kind of heartbreak that comes in waves, and Future Islands captures that emotional rhythm with honesty and grace.

    Signature Sound with Renewed Intensity

    Musically, the band leans into their strengths without sounding repetitive. The driving basslines, shimmering synth layers, steady percussion, and Herring’s commanding vocals all return with a renewed energy. Their sound is instantly recognizable, yet refined in subtle ways.

    “Say Goodbye” pairs a lively rhythm with lyrics about the disconnect caused by time-zone separation. “Iris” adds a refreshing shuffle to their usual pacing, showing a playful edge. “The Thief” strips things down, allowing a gentler, more contemplative vocal from Herring. It’s a reminder that the band doesn’t always need intensity to be effective.

    Throughout the record, the contrast between upbeat arrangements and vulnerable lyrics creates that familiar Future Islands dynamic. Songs like “Corner of My Eye” and “The Fight” are perfect examples. They’re emotional yet energizing. You could cry to them or dance alone in your kitchen, depending on the day.

    Still Underrated After All These Years

    People Who Aren’t There Anymore doesn’t aim to reinvent Future Islands. Instead, it reaffirms everything that makes them special. They are masters of emotional expression in music. Their consistency, sincerity, and refusal to chase trends have earned them one of the most quietly powerful catalogs in modern music.

    In a better world, an album this emotionally resonant would top year-end lists and rocket the band into festival headliner slots. But Future Islands seem content continuing to do what they do best. They create music that matters deeply to those who truly listen. Their art doesn’t scream for attention. It moves slowly and surely, settling into the hearts of its listeners.

    For those who are paying attention, this album is another triumph. For those still sleeping on Future Islands, it’s time to wake up.