Future Islands show up the competition at Latitude 2014

Samuel T. Herring warms up in soundcheck with a song by The Cure. Everything’s relatively peaceful, considering the maddening hype that’s met Future Islands’ every move. Three months ago queues were bustling around showcase fests that barring a two hour queue, it was nigh on impossible to see them live, post-the Letterman performance that cemented them as one of the most exciting bands on the planet, several albums into their stride.

While Herring paces away and gets his vocal cords in gear, there’s a ruckus side of stage. Dingus Khan (a permanent fixture of the weekend in his blue velvet robe plus nappy attire) is being dragged away by three bouncers. Members of the last band on the iArena, Fat White Family, climb fences, curse at anyone getting within a metre’s radius. “Didn’t you see me just now? I was in the fucking band! Did you not fucking watch the stage?” one of them shouts. During their set, the near-nude Fat Whites bring every inch of energy and sweat-doused showmanship. But it’s contrived. It’s balls-out, all-everything gusto that’ll be repeated to the death. Hopelessly. There’s such a difference between their definition of showmanship and that of Samuel T. Herring’s. Dickhead offstage antics from the former don’t help their cause, but they look almost meaningless given what follows.

The Baltimore trio - backed by a live drummer that’s been a crucial ingredient in their sudden, meteoric rise - pour everything into their set. Herring regales the meanings of songs, like he probably does at every single show, before launching head-first into growled ecstasy. He’s been doing this for years. It might only be clicking now, but even from day one Future Islands have been a band relying on their instincts. Herring doesn’t bark and thrust because it’s pure entertainment - he does it because he’s good at it. It’s part of his being.

‘A Song For Our Grandfathers’ is the resonant high-point. It slows down a frenetic pace, but it’s the only chance anybody in the crowd has to actually keep an eye on the frontman. Otherwise he’s darting sidewards, always out of reach. Here, hands pointed to the sky, eyeballs rolling into the back of his head, he looks every bit the showman he’s always been destined to become. That’s how to do it.

Photo: Phil Smithies.