With the release of their fourth album, Dance Called Memory, Nation of Language have cemented their reputation as synth pop’s most introspective voyagers—never content to stand still, always eager to push their sound and themes into new, emotionally resonant territory. Released on Friday, September 19, 2025, the album finds the Brooklyn-based trio—comprised of Ian Devaney, Aidan Noell, and Alex MacKay—reflecting on memory, loss, and connection in an era increasingly shaped by artificial intelligence. As Studio One at NPR pointed out, the band’s “much-improved layering of synthesizers creates a rich sonic texture that, accompanied by Devaney’s soft lead vocals and Noell’s dreamy background vocals, leaves you with a feeling that you’re floating through space.”
But how did Nation of Language, now a staple of the modern synth scene, arrive at this cosmic yet deeply human sound? The journey, as recounted by NPR, began in a moment of nostalgia. After Devaney’s previous band, the Static Jacks, dissolved, he found himself in his father’s car, listening to Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark’s “Electricity”—a song he hadn’t heard since childhood. The experience inspired him to experiment with his keyboard, eventually leading to the formation of Nation of Language. That spark of inspiration, born from the past and looking toward the future, still animates the band’s music today.
Since their debut in 2020, Nation of Language have released three albums, each one building on the last in both ambition and artistry. With Dance Called Memory, the band continues to evolve. The album opens with “Can’t Face Another One,” a melodic and appealing track that immediately draws listeners in. It’s followed by “In Another Life” and “Silhouette,” songs that harken back to the sound of their earlier records while hinting at the band’s ongoing reinvention. According to Miles Milton-Jefferies of Nation of Language’s own review, “the band have never been one to define themselves by formula and Dance Called Memory feels like it pushes the boat out even further, reinventing themselves from the early escape of the tracks of old.”
One of the album’s emotional centerpieces, “Now That You’re Gone,” stands out for its raw vulnerability. The song was inspired by the death of Devaney’s godfather from ALS and his parents’ experience as caretakers. The lyrics, as Milton-Jefferies notes, are “devastating and heartbreaking,” capturing the pain and love involved in transforming a loved one’s room into a hospital wing. Yet, as the review emphasizes, this is also “the ultimate display of love, friendship and affection.” It’s a moment that grounds the album’s more ethereal sounds in the tangible realities of human connection and loss.
The band’s influences are worn proudly on their sleeves. There are echoes of My Bloody Valentine and Kraftwerk in the swirling synths and propulsive rhythms, while the sonic foundation of Brian Eno’s work lends the album a sense of humanity and grounding. Milton-Jefferies observes, “the humanity of Eno’s work grounding it and keeping it a touch different; and grounded from Kraftwerk’s out-of-body experience.” This delicate balance between the mechanical and the emotional is at the heart of Dance Called Memory, especially as the album grapples with what it means to be human in an age where “AI supplementing human creators” is increasingly the norm.
“I’m Not Ready for the Change,” another highlight, explores the bittersweet reality of old friends drifting apart. As the review puts it, “it’s sometimes an unavoidable fact of life—you cannot have a falling out and still separate from each other—and the fact that you aren’t always ready for it feels like some adapting still has to be done.” The song’s lush, My Bloody Valentine-esque textures underscore its themes of longing and adaptation, making it one of the album’s most resonant tracks.
Midway through the album, listeners encounter “Inept Apollo,” a lead single and, according to NPR, “one of our summer favorites here at Studio One.” Its lush synths and pristine production are described as “transportive to a different time,” making it a perfect entry point for new listeners. Milton-Jefferies agrees, noting that the track “shows Nation of Language’s versatility between a stadium ready band and artists capable of transforming their own arenas into something more unique and detailed.”
The band’s live performances have become an essential part of their identity. This year, they toured North America with Death Cab for Cutie—a pairing that might seem odd on paper but, as Milton-Jefferies writes, “it works.” The group is also set to embark on a European run, including a highly anticipated date at London’s iconic Roundhouse. These tours, alongside previous support slots with acts like IDLES in Australia, have helped Nation of Language hone their craft and reach new audiences.
Other standout tracks include “Under the Water,” a post-punk overload that “feels like a cold shower; maximising the synth for an instant appeal,” and “Can You Reach Me?,” which uses call and response to emphasize the album’s central theme of connection. “I’m Your Head” is described as “just as anthemic and appropriately mental—a song that once more reaches up and grapples with the human experience.” And when the final track, “Nights of Weight,” arrives, listeners are “lowered down to reality with a gentle guitar strum,” as NPR so poetically puts it.
What makes Dance Called Memory stand out in a crowded field of synth pop releases is its unwavering commitment to exploring the complexities of memory and emotion in the digital age. Rather than succumbing to hopelessness, Devaney and company craft “a dance of shared connection, of memory—rich and contextual,” according to Milton-Jefferies. The result is an album that feels both timeless and urgently of the moment, inviting listeners to embrace their collective togetherness even as the world grows more fragmented.
As the album flows expertly from beginning to end, it’s clear that Nation of Language have achieved something special. Dance Called Memory is, in the words of Milton-Jefferies, “a resounding triumph that flows expertly from beginning to end; pushing Nation of Language in ways both new and familiar.” For fans old and new, it’s an invitation to step onto the dance floor of memory—and maybe, just maybe, find a bit of solace in the music.
