Synthpop, minimal wave, post-punk, goth, new romantic — fans and critics alike have dug deeply into their vintage thesauruses to describe the beguiling work of Nation of Language. And if you can’t precisely define the band, that’s the point. Frontman Ian Richard Devaney has become prodigious in expanding what synthesizer-driven music can evoke, such that his output is as much an extrasensory journey as it is an all-too-human destination. With that experience in mind, he wrote the band’s fourth album — the spectral, spacious Dance Called Memory — in the most humble of ways: chipping away at melancholia by sitting around and strumming his guitar. “It’s a great way to distract yourself,” he says, “when you are depressed.”

Nation of Language’s first two albums, Introduction, Presence (2020), and A Way Forward (2021), came as pandemic godsends: gorgeous, relatable soundtracks to our collective doldrums. But it was their last LP, Strange Disciple (2023), that catapulted the group from cultural standouts to critical darlings, with the album being named Rough Trade’s Album of the Year. With that release, Pitchfork wrote that the band “are learning what it means to get bigger and better.” 

This is Devaney’s calling: soulfully translating individual despair into a comforting, collective mourning. This uncannily pervades the album. The single “Now That You’re Gone,” which radiates and reverberates with a devastating wistfulness, was inspired by witnessing his godfather’s tragic death from ALS, and his parents’ role as caretakers for this ailing friend. “To be a caretaker — transforming your home into a kind of hospital wing and structuring your life around the dire needs of another — is such a difficult, powerful act of love and friendship,” Devaney says. “It’s made more difficult by our economic system that doesn’t seem to value this in any way commensurate with how hard it is.” At its heart, the song is a reflection of how friends can be there for each other, and also highlights a theme throughout the record: the pain and lost promise of friendships that fall apart. 

This concept is echoed in the track “I’m Not Ready for the Change,” referencing the psychic dyspepsia that repeatedly reincarnates throughout our lives. Says Devaney: “I came across a photo from a party — it was filled with couples that were no longer together, friends who had gone their separate ways. It wasn’t from very long ago, but the sheer impossibility of such a gathering struck me in the heaviest way. Sometimes it feels like the pages of life’s book are turning faster than you can comprehend them.”

In approaching the recording of Dance Called Memory, the band once again collaborated with friend and Strange Disciple producer Nick Millhiser (LCD Soundsystem, Holy Ghost!). “What’s so great about working with Nick is his ability to make us feel like we don’t need to do what might be expected of us, or to chase any particular sound,” says synth player Aidan Noell, who, along with bass player Alex MacKay, rounds out the Nation of Language lineup. As a result, they imbued Dance Called Memory with a shifted palette — sampling chopped-up drum breaks on “I’m Not Ready for the Change” for a touch of Loveless-era My Bloody Valentine, or smashing all of the percussion of “In Another Life” through a synthesizer to cast a shade of early-2000s electronic music.   

Ultimately, the hope was to weave raw vulnerability and humanity into a synth-heavy album. “There is a dichotomy between the Kraftwerk school of thought and the Brian Eno school of thought, each of which I’ve been drawn to at different points. I’ve read about how Kraftwerk wanted to remove all of the humanity from their music, but Eno often spoke about wanting to make synthesized music that felt distinctly human,” Devaney says. “As much as Kraftwerk is a sonically foundational influence, with this record I leaned much more towards the Eno school of thought. That this thing should be as unvarnished and warm as possible. In this era quickly being defined by the rise of AI supplanting human creators I’m focusing more on the human condition, and I need the underlying music to support that.” 

Despite the heavy themes at its core, Devaney insists, “Instead of hopelessness, I want to leave the listener with a feeling of us really seeing one another, that our individual struggles can actually unite us in empathy.”