This Irish Band Has Awakened My Inner ’90s Teenager

I haven’t felt this way since I discovered Blur in 1994.

Middle age is befuddling enough without suddenly finding oneself in the grips of an obsession of teenage proportions. Yet here I am—overheated, obsessed, squealing—thanks to five Irish dudes in their 20s. If I wasn’t in my IDGAF 40s, it might be embarrassing.

Fontaines D.C. are two guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and a wildly charismatic singer. I’ve had this outsized level of response to a band only one other time, 30 years ago with Britpop pioneers Blur. I thought that was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I’m delighted to have been wrong.

I only learned Fontaines D.C. existed in October, and since then I’ve become this fevered, evangelical, obsessive weirdo, all but shaking peoples’ shoulders and shouting in their faces that we’re in the presence of a genuine miracle. I feel certain that 30 years from now I’ll look back on this moment of discernment with pride, just like the pride I feel in my 15-year-old self’s evaluation of Blur.

Fontaines D.C. have released four albums since 2019, to exponentially increasing critical and popular acclaim. The first, Dogrel, is a brash, brainy canter through punk and its legacies. A Hero’s Death came out in 2020 and leans into a dreamier, moodier style. For my money, 2022’s Skinty Fia is where the band distinguishes themselves into something singular and sublime, with darker pop and trip-hop sensibilities infusing their alt-rock sound.

It was 2024’s Romance, though, that catapulted them into near-ubiquity. It notched them two Grammy nods, Best Rock Album and Best Alternative Music Performance for the first single, “Starburster,” an addictive confection of almost-rapped vocals, a seesawing mellotron, drums that start off sounding like a canned Casio beat and, confoundingly, deep gasps for air. It reads like clown-car chaos, but it works like magic on the track.

The James Ford-produced sonic wonderland of Romance is a departure from the stripped-down seriousness of the previous three albums, with slick production and a bit of studio sparkle, as well as a notable aesthetic change. The lads have traded in the early days’ track pants and vintage band T-shirts for unlaced boots, leather skirts, bug-eye sunglasses, and lots of neon.

Each day I ration out just one of the four albums to listen to, and each day I blow way past my self-imposed limit. Every song has worn irrevocable grooves through my gray matter, and I’d call Skinty Fia and Romance both start-to-finish masterpieces.

The last time this kind of obsession overtook my entire consciousness was in 1994, and that one has never let up. A cute boy invited me to a concert—some English band called Blur that I’d never heard of. I was just excited for a night out. I put on a humongous Grateful Dead T-shirt and threadbare cardigan, securing tiny locks of my elbow-length hair in lime green baby barrettes. I pocketed six pilfered Marlboro Lights, ready for action.

I was not ready.

Blur was touring in support of their third album, Parklife—the album that blessed the world with the snotty party anthem “Girls and Boys.” I stood just at the periphery of the mosh pit at the front of Philadelphia’s late great Trocadero, a human version of the as-yet-undreamed-of exploding head emoji. I forgot to smoke. I forgot to make out with the boy. 

I have never gotten over it. 

In an era that felt to me like you had to be either Team Grunge or Team Bubble Gum, Blur was something different. The music was catchy and bright, but you could tell that they listened to Nirvana, too. It was a glimpse into youth culture and class divides in post-Thatcher Britain. It was darker and less brainless than pop drivel, but it was also fun as hell. They’ve never stopped evolving, and my devotion to them has only grown.

Nearly every moment of my life, and certainly a hundred percent of my adulthood, maps on to Blur’s music. It’s pretty magical to be able to travel sonically through more than three decades of joy, heartache, and regular old Tuesdays; to listen to those four artists age and change perspective and grow as I (hopefully) do the same.

Two summers ago, almost three decades after that show in ‘94, I traveled to London for their massive Wembley Stadium reunion gig where I spent two hours in a sustained crygasm, incredibly grateful for middle-aged invisibility. The set was amazing, but the communion through time and the connection to my 15-year-old self was transcendent.

I have no cool origin story with Fontaines D.C. I read Olivia Ovenden’s profile in GQ, moseyed over to my local streaming service, and that was that. Since then, approximately 46 percent of all my cerebral function on any given day is devoted to thinking about Fontaines D.C. I’m stepping up my physical therapy practice specifically so that my sciatica and I can stand in the front row for the upcoming spring tour.

I will talk about them to anyone who will listen, and I’ll consume any content featuring them, from live sets to videos of them trying to paint their own album cover artwork. I’ve texted links to people who probably wish I’d leave them alone, and I slide the band into conversations like a lovesick teenager. 

Fontaines D.C.’s influences are wide-ranging, with some more obvious than others. The Strokes, Smashing Pumpkins, and Nirvana stand out right away. Keep listening for fingerprints from Lana del Rey, The Stone Roses, and The Beach Boys. I get whiffs of OutKast, Metallica, and Nine Inch Nails, but maybe that’s just me. They’ve claimed nu-metal creepsters Korn in interviews so I dutifully hopped over to YouTube but couldn’t manage more than like three videos (sorry), so I’ll have to take their word for it.

It never comes across as derivative. Instead, it’s proof that they’ve been serious students of music for their entire short lives. The genius is in the immaculate synthesis that is also completely original. It’s just another version of the literary references they can’t help themselves from making, one more thoughtfully executed nod to James Joyce or elegant, multilayered couplet.

Frontman Grian Chatten is a thrilling performer, but unlike with Blur’s hearthrobby Damon Albarn, it’s not immediately obvious from pictures. You have to watch him move. He moves big, and he moves weird—head shakes and eye rolls and unpredictable flails all over the stage. When he does stand still, he grips the mic stand one-handed with his left arm tucked primly behind his back. His physical resemblance to Joy Division’s Ian Curtis becomes even more remarkable when he dances. His unapologetically accented singing is deeply physical, with occasional gasps and hisses and phrases sung through clenched teeth.

The two bands don’t necessarily have a ton in common sonically, but they’re in the same cultural wheelhouse in many ways. The Romance-producing Ford also produced Blur’s ninth studio album, 2023’s achingly sad and tender The Ballad of Darren. Fontaines D.C. have said in interviews that Blur’s Wembley gig was an inspiration to them when writing Romance. And both bands figure prominently in Bird, Andrea Arnold’s atmospheric 2024 coming-of-age film.

But for me, the similarities aren’t about that. It’s about a very specific feeling, complete rapture and certainty, happening 30 years after what I thought was a singular experience. I know it’s preposterous to say that a band I’ve been listening to for a few months hits me the same way that my forever-favorite of three decades does, but I recognize what my gut is saying and I trust it. And who knows? They could break up next week, or release a string of stinkers, or turn out to be rotten in any number of ways. I hope not, but even if they do, their output thus far has earned a lifelong place in my heart.

So I’ll keep doing my stupid little strength and mobility exercises so I can manage to stand my 45-year-old self in the front row at what I suspect will be their final lap through tiny little clubs with general admission ticketing. After all, if history says anything, the next time this is likely to happen I’ll be 75, and I’ll have to stay out of that mosh pit no matter who it is. 

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