Did you know that Sam Fender is working class? That he’s a 24 carat Geordie Lad, the Real Deal, and that he grew up on a council estate in the grim north-east of England? That his mother was an NHS nurse, and that his father worked for the electric board, or something similarly banally blue collar? That he had a somewhat tumultuous and deprived upbringing, and that he was raised predominantly by his loving but common-as-muck grandparents? Well, if you didn’t, then you soon will if you listen to People Watching, Sam’s recently released third album, because he will remind you of these facts approximately 30 times within the opening three songs, if you make it that far into the record.
Of course, anyone who listened to Sam’s second album, 2021’s Seventeen Going Under, will already be fully conversant with the ins and outs of his social origins – and with everything else about People Watching, as it happens. Time was when an artist’s discography reflected some kind of evolutionary trajectory, and releasing the same record twice would have been mercilessly derided by a press and public eager for something new, innovative, risky. Bowie made the transition from otherworldly glam to downbeat synthy ambience in the space of a decade; U2 couldn’t release the messianic Joshua Tree twice, so they chopped it down and birthed the dark, Dionysian Achtung Baby in its place; Blur blossomed from risible court jesters of Britpop to drug-addled mopes of alternative rock; while Oasis were rightly impugned as tiresome one trick ponies.
That time is long gone. These days, artistic innovation and evolution are not only unnecessary, they’re actively detrimental to the stultifying goal of giving the dribbling public what it expects; a predictable, easily identifiable musical and lyrical brand, a succession of dopamine hits identical to those delivered on previous albums. Adele, Taylor Swift, the Weeknd – these acts merely release the same album every two or three years, and People Watching, sadly, is little different. This is side two of Seventeen Going Under, which in practice means eleven more slices of agreeable, piano-laden rock, sometimes jangly, often racy, but never abrasive, with a throbbing new wave bass, and the occasional intrusion of a Britpop string section.
The lyrical themes would also be familiar to anyone who listened to Seventeen Going Under and lived to tell the tale. Basically, Bruce Springsteen’s working-class-hero heartland rock-schtick transported from the decaying Rustbelt of the 70s to the equally impecunious post-industrial purgatory of contemporary Newcastle. The streets are always desolate, there are billboards and gas works everywhere, everyone’s drunk or on drugs, people with names like Jackie struggle to make ends meet, but amidst all the misery, fuckups and injustice, everyone’s got a heart of gold, and the unquenchable flame of romance always seems to blossom amidst the abandoned oil drums. Basically 8 Mile, but with the tiresome rapping and sampling replaced by Peter Buck’s guitar, Clarence Clemon’s saxophone, and Adam Granduciel telling everyone in the (Los Angeles) recording studio that it’s time for a Chai Latte.
The result? Expertly constructed, enjoyable pop-rock fluff masquerading as something “challenging”. I like it, just as I liked Seventeen Going Under, because I’m a sucker for accessible melodies and half-way coherent lyrics. But it’s impossible to escape the abiding and uncomfortable impression that the entire thing is meticulously and insidiously stage managed – the unusually good-looking musical savant from humble beginnings, with an uncommon gift for observing the abandoned, betrayed, post-industrial world around him with sympathy and righteous indignation, and for translating his resulting insights into rousing urban hymns for the man in the street. All neatly presented in Bruce Springsteen’s cover art with the words changed.
No dice, pet. There’s an entire team working on this guy’s music, one put together in some eye-wateringly plush glass-panelled record company headquarters in North London, handed a strict brief to generate an endless succession of catchy, risk-free soft-rock anthems with folksy, “socially critical” lyrics. Maybe that’s the best we can hope for in 2025, with rock on its deathbed, but if so, then I for one would advise turning off the life support machine, and make sure there’s room in the coffin for that fucking saxophone while you’re at it.
Overall rating: * * *
Standout track: “Wild Long Lie”