Dance Called Memory is something of a pivotal album in its own modest way. It’s Nation of Language’s most introspective and darkest record.
Nation of Language don’t just take their musical cues from the post-punk era of the late 1970s and early 1980s; they have also been operating on a timetable that seems inspired by it. Since their debut, Introduction, Presence, in 2020, the Brooklyn-based synthpop group have been on a steady cycle, with a new album appearing every year or two, followed by a tour. It is a throwback work ethic that keeps them in the public eye. The real wisdom in such a professional approach, though, is that it lowers the stakes a bit for each new album.
When an indie band release new music only once every handful of years, they must hope their audience are still paying attention, and they also invite scrutiny from that same audience. If, as Morrissey famously said, six months is a long time, four years is an eternity that leaves little room for incremental development. Consciously or not, Nation of Language make a case for growth and change within the broader context of consistency.
In that sense, on the surface, the group’s fourth album, Dance Called Memory, isn’t all that different from the three that preceded it. It is, once again, full of squiggly, pulsating vintage synthesizer sounds and steady electronic beats. Ian Richard Devaney’s songs continue to find a pleasing balance between moody and catchy. His emotive croon is still soaked in reverb, and he still sounds a lot like Andy McCluskey from OMD.
You get the sense that if Devaney were blessed with two hearts, he would go ahead and put one on each sleeve, such is his earnest demeanor. All these elements will be quite familiar to the Nation of Language’s growing fan base. In fact, the record label might be the most jarring change of all; Dance Called Memory is the Nation of Language’s first for Sub Pop. So, is there danger of contempt on the horizon?
In a word, no. That’s because a closer listen reveals Dance Called Memory to be something of a pivotal album in its own modest way. It is Nation of Language’s most introspective and darkest record to date, and Devaney’s lyrics are at times almost unbearably bleak. He sets the mood on the opening track “Can’t Face Another One”: “The day’s begun / I can’t face another one / But on and on they come.”
Lest the darkness become oppressive, though, Dance Called Memory is also the band’s warmest-sounding album to date. That isn’t so much a result of the more extensive use of guitar as it is of the newfound tautness and conciseness in the music. Synth flourishes and electronic effects that once came across as superfluous garnishments are now more woven into the arrangements. Where there are seams, like the bleeping breakdowns on “Inept Apollo”, they sound more deliberate and measured.
For the first time, the group have carried a lineup from record to record, with bassist Alex MacKay settled in alongside Devaney and synth player Aidan Noell. Dance Called Memory is the album where Nation of Language stop sounding like an amalgam of their influences, however winning that might be, and start sounding like themselves.
If this newfound confidence and comfort result in fewer bangers and more navel-gazing, less Erasure and more Joy Division, so be it. Slower, more pensive songs like “Can’t Face Another One” and “Under the Water” find their energy in beauty and gently pulsating rhythms. The careening, Kraftwerk-like percussion on “In Another Life” and MacKay’s wonderfully buoyant bassline on “Inept Apollo”—possibly the most complete and indelible Nation of Language track—provide plenty of danceable vibes.
With Devaney writing on guitar, it’s perhaps not entirely surprising that “I’m Not Ready for the Change” takes on a woozy, shoegaze-inspired feel, or that the strummy, off-balance “Can You Reach Me?” comes across like a Lindsey Buckingham track from Tusk. Still, these, along with the stark acoustic-led closer “Nights of Weight”, are welcome wrinkles that raise the possibility of future exploration. In contrast, the dour “Now That You’re Gone” sounds like goth-by-numbers.
Maybe it is ironic that a band so steeped in what was once called “futurism” is forging ahead by doing it “the old-fashioned way”—working hard, staying true, and making good music. In any case, Nation of Language’s steady progress shouldn’t be taken for granted.