Most politically active students like myself spent election night reminiscing on the simpler, more hopeful times of the early 2000s—I spent my night reliving them.
In the gilded glamour of the Metropolitan Opera House in downtown Philly, I find myself a part of a crowd in which I am, unmistakably, the youngest person. In a room full of numerous flower crowns and flannels, a handful of unironic cowboy hats, and several outfits copy–and–pasted from a Coachella 2016 YouTube vlog (think peak Vanessa Hudgens), I can’t help but think I’ve stumbled into a Tumblr shrine. Accompanying the hordes of early–onset midlife–crisis 35–year–olds is a significant crowd of people who could be my parents—you know, the age group that pulls out their iPhone flashlight to look at menus inside dimly lit restaurants. An immediate concern arises: just like its audience, is Of Monsters and Men stuck in the past?
A band best known for its debut single “Little Talks,” Of Monsters and Men hasn’t been able to shake the anchor of its massive success. Naturally, after announcing to pretty much anyone blessed with my unsolicited updates that I was spending my lovely Tuesday night seeing Of Monsters and Men (and skipping several mandatory club meetings), I received polite, slightly–confused nods of feigned understanding. Then I conjured a ten–second clip of the song that took 2011 by storm, whereupon the looks morphed into ones of vague recollection.
The band, formed through Músíktilraunir (essentially the Icelandic The X Factor), is known for its unique fusion of indie rock and folk, dynamic vocals, and lyrics that touch on mythological imagery. Ever since it reached the Billboard Hot 100 and produced a seven–time multi–platinum song, the band has released four studio albums and two EPs—its latest record, All is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade, was released on Oct. 17th. The album, like much of the group’s recent work, was met with substantial praise from the few indie journals that covered it. It was received by most, however, with resounding silence—a silence that's surrounded much of the band's recent work.
As I take my seat next to a woman reading from her Kindle, her glasses perched upon the edge of her nose, I’m worried that the concert might be the same story—a room full of people squinting into the past, grasping onto the nostalgia of their vanished youth. After 45 minutes sitting in the third row of the theater, observing the crowd slowly filter in, I’m convinced that Of Monsters and Men spent the last 15 years trying to replicate the electric, intangible whirlwind that was “Little Talks,” trapped in the sinkhole of its greatest successes. Thankfully, I’m about to be proven wrong.
At nine o’clock on the dot, an eerie, magically–creepy sound that is half–pan flute, half–synthetic garage band descends from above as the band members walk out to position themselves in the cerulean blue backlighting. After this come the flashing lights and low, angry guitar strums that build into a crescendo of the chorus of “Television Love,” the first track of the band’s new album. Compared to the band's folksy debut album My Head is an Animal, All is Love and Pain in the Mouse Parade is a more mature record, accompanied by heavier drums and a more inward–looking, contemplative story. Rather than evoking the freedom of children running wild through open fields, this liberation feels more like sitting around a dinner table until the early hours of the morning, getting wine–drunk with your closest friends in your new apartment on a Wednesday, and laughing about the same jokes you made when you were a kid.
While the mystical themes and fantastical wonders that characterize its earlier work remain apparent throughout the album, Of Monsters and Men has undergone a metamorphosis, now opting to center their lyrics on the mundane. “Television Love” forgoes any attempt at a coherent story, instead capturing fragments of a distanced relationship through its lyrics: yearning for a meeting at the “corner shop” while “standing in the parking lot,” glimpses at “traffic stops,” and the all–too–common “conversation drought.” The song lacks the bold plot points of My Head is an Animal but resonates with a larger audience.
“Ordinary Creature” opens with the lyrics, “I was on a train, heading through the veins of your heart,” metaphorizing a deepening emotional connection. Despite this intimacy, distance creeps in—the other person “looks in,” finding the “passenger window was dark,” unable to see the narrator. “Ordinary Creature” captures the commonplace inability to devote oneself to another, juxtaposed with the concurrent feeling of unrestrained longing for connection. It expresses a primal, vulnerable craving to “run to your house when it gets dark out.” Coupled with dark red lighting, the guttural, echoing sound evokes an earthy, full–bodied transcendence.
The album's final track—aptly named “The End”—contemplates a hypothetical yet concerningly accurate depiction of an apocalyptic Earth, where the “morning news” dramatizes a laundry list of earth–ending events. Still, the narrator anchors the song in the everyday image of a mother making coffee, asking her child, "Come on, darlin’, Why’s your mind so far from me now?” A reminder of the importance of the present moment, “The End” concludes a beautiful, triumphantly tragic, and terrene album.
While Of Monsters and Men’s new music is surprisingly outstanding, the lighting is what really makes the show. During “The Actor,” a song about playing a part to become someone’s ideal partner, the spiraling lights evoke the image of a jellyfish—iridescent blues, greens, and purples straight out of The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister—and no, I’m not tripping.
Of course, as all bands are obligated to, Of Monsters and Men plays its radio hits—but it isn’t 2011, and its performance doesn’t try to forcibly translate the past into the present. “Dirty Paws” and “King and Lionheart,” both relatively successful songs off the debut album, drop an octave from their original versions and become melancholy, powerful ballads. Of Monsters and Men has managed to grow up, even as its members retain the youthfulness and lively energy authentic to its early songs. The songs were your parents dancing around the kitchen after you went to bed—even though their sciatica would flare up, and they’d dance to tunes that stopped playing on the radio years ago. They were your grandma giggling naughtily while she told stories of her escapades 50 years ago as if she were reliving them now. Finally, they were you, laughing with that one person from years ago about a story you don’t even remember the origin of.
But as the lights brighten and “Little Talks” finally plays, gone are the muted tones, melancholy strums, and curated facades of adulthood. Strobe lights shine every neon color, the crowd claps slightly off beat—and I love every minute of it.
