Nation of Language, 'Dance Called Memory' Album Review

Ian Devaney’s Vulnerability Pays Off On Nation of Language’s Dance Called Memory

The title for Brooklyn-based synth pop trio’s Nation of Language‘s new album, Dance Called Memory, their first under Sub Pop, was taken from a verse in Anne Carson’s poetry book The Beauty of the Husband: “Do you see it as a room or a sponge or a careless sleeve wiping out half the blackboard by mistake or a burgundy mark stamped on the bottles of our minds what is the nature of the dance called memory.” Bandleader and multi-instrumentalist Ian Devaney wanted to explore what it meant to confront his uncomfortable, painful memories rooted in grief and transform them into something beautiful. The result is Nation of Language’s most vulnerable record yet, one that plays with the band’s signature synth-focused sound to capture Devaney’s complex emotions.

Dance Called Memory opens with “Can’t Face Another One,” featuring Aidan Noell’s soft, stirring synths accompanied by Devaney on harmonica, with the humble instrument treated to sound like a flute, creating a dreamy atmosphere that recalls Alice falling further and further down a rabbit hole. “The day’s begun / I can’t face another one / But on and on they come,” Devaney sings, as he lays bare his internal struggles with mental health, before blaming himself for past mistakes that replay in his mind: “If I’d been aware of what I’d done / Could I stop myself? / Can I stop my palms, upturned / From shaking in the dark? / The memories run / I can’t pause a single one / And they prey upon my heart.”

The track fades into “In Another Life” seamlessly, offering a tempo change with one of Dance Called Memory’s few true danceworthy moments, with Kraftwerk-inspired percussion created on a Moog synth DFAM. Breaking up the moments of bleakness with uptempo songs highlights the duality of the album’s sound and is a reminder that Nation of Language isn’t here to be stagnant or boring. Even when they return to moodier atmospherics on “Silhouette,” the track still has an inviting quality to it that doesn’t feel droll, as Devaney candidly gets into his struggles with depression as he strives to be his old self again while being worried that person is long gone: “Once again / Well I can try / To do impressions of myself / From before it went wrong / I can try and I’ll try and/ I’ll try and I’ll try and I’ll try.”

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“Silhouette” serves almost as an introduction to the following track, “Now That You’re Gone,” which gives hints as to what made Devaney feel so broken in the first place. The song was written after witnessing his grandfather’s health deteriorate from ALS, before his heartbreaking death from the neurodegenerative disorder finally came. “I’ll stumble on / But what is there for us? / Now that you’re gone / I’m so afraid,” Devaney admits in the chorus. It serves as a sort of sister song to “Can’t Face Another One,” which, if taken at face value, has Devaney declaring he’s had enough grief and cannot handle more pain. Although the track boasts some of Devaney’s best songwriting, it lacks the oomph sonically that makes many of the album’s standouts feel epic.

Meanwhile, in the shoegaze-inspired “I’m Not Ready for the Change” and “Can You Reach Me,” Devaney fears the future but knows stagnancy isn’t the answer. When he sings “I don’t want another punishment” in “Can You Reach Me,” you understand the gravity of the anxiety that comes with grief. Loss gets easier with time, but grief never goes away; it transforms. When you’re still recovering from the heaviness of that experience, while seeing the world descend into chaos and destruction, forcing you to anticipate more heartache, that’s the most debilitating feeling.

Devaney’s raw songwriting on Dance Called Memory displays a new side to himself as a writer, one who isn’t afraid to put it all out there and expose the unpleasant parts of being human, the ones that make us internally weak and afraid. It’s a gutsy move for a band that’s known for feel-good ’80s-inspired synth-pop, but one that pays off, giving well-trod aesthetics firmer ground to stand on. While the first half of the 10-track album shines with its naked lyricism, the second half stands out with three of the sonically strongest songs, which are all synth-pop perfection. The first, “Inept Apollo,” which was released as the lead single, finds Devaney getting self-deprecatingly candid about his own imposter syndrome. The irony of him creating one of his best songs while singing about not being competent enough to thrive with his main creative method of catharsis is not lost on me.

“Under the Water,” the second of the trio (all of which were previewed as singles), mimics the effect of being submerged in the ocean with Noell’s mesmerizing looped, echoing synths, as Devaney pleads for a way out of his depression before he sinks any further. On the flip side, “In Your Head” unfurls like a torrent of intrusive thoughts, with Devaney finding clarity as he fends off various anxieties, transforming his voice from nearly a whisper to an impassioned plea for a way out of despair: “The cut cord / The fixation and the shame / I got every little thing I wanted / And yet still I had to take.” Dance Called Memory is intimate and introspective where previous Nation of Language records felt more tied to human connection, with dance tracks fit for a fun night out with friends. While some of the band’s fans might be put off by the more dynamic approach, it also opens up their world, showing that they’re more than just an ‘80s-worship group. While their reference points are plain to see, Devaney stands out as a songwriter who isn’t afraid to dig deep into his psyche, revealing his true self in the process.

Tatiana Tenreyro is Paste‘s associate music editor, based in New York City. You can also find her writing at SPIN, NME, PAPER Magazine, The A.V. Club, and other outlets.

Ian Devaney’s Vulnerability Pays Off On Nation of Language’s Dance Called Memory

The Brooklyn synth-pop trio takes a new approach for their first album under Sub Pop, with its bandleader taking you into the dark depths of his psyche.