It’s interesting, right? How we’re all like half-empty teacups pretending to be oceans. FUTURE BABY knows this. “Never Alone” is not a song—it’s a mirror someone’s too afraid to look into.
The Brighton quartet—Ian on vocals and bass, Tom and Connor throwing guitars like they’re firecrackers, and Aaron turning drums into an act of betrayal—has managed to structure chaos. The first hit of sound is almost deceptive—danceable, sure, but like dancing in the rain when you know lightning’s coming. Ian’s voice teeters on the thin edge between resignation and rage, twisting around the themes of emotional torment and the tension of watching someone unravel and completely own it. “Never Alone,” they say, but it’s the kind of never alone where demons pull up chairs and start sipping your morning coffee.
But here’s the thing. Does the song actually want you to feel hopeful? Nah, it’s too real for that. It’s talking about fractured soul-space, the kind where you scream “I want to help you” but you’re met with silence because the person’s already buried too deep in their own fallout shelter.
And oh, that guitar. It’s not glitter; it scrapes. Tom and Connor sound like they wouldn’t flinch if the strings snapped mid-set—they’d keep going, even if the blood hit the floor. The riffs build walls, not bridges. But maybe that’s the point. By the time Aaron’s drums start punching up from the depths, the disarray feels surgical, as if each beat’s meant to cauterize a wound you didn’t know was there.
Strangely, it makes me think of the ruins of Pompeii—frozen in time while everything crumbled. Beautiful, but kind of terrifying. That’s the legacy “Never Alone” leaves behind.
Funny how sometimes, being “never alone” can feel like drowning.
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