Saying Goodbye to Younger Us with Japandroids 'Fate and Alcohol'
How do you make peace with something you thought was over? Do you throw yourself back into it full force, or do you acknowledge the passing of time and approach it with the tentativeness of someone who has to keep two small children safe on a daily basis?
I’m not sure how to write this review. I’ve spent the better part of the last two months listening to a record by a band that defined my twenties and carried me into my thirties. Japandroids threw everything they had into every song, every note. All you could do was marvel at the fact that the firework even lit in the first place.
When the band announced Fate and Alcohol, their fourth—and final—album, it was a massive surprise. The fact that it was their last? Not so much. Every Japandroids album cycle always felt like it could be the end. Each release took longer, followed by an intense tour, and then radio silence. Their music was so labored, intense, and physical that it never seemed sustainable. Towards the end of the Near to the Wild Heart of Life run, I saw them as a surprise opener for a show in Asbury Park, NJ. After the headliner started, I stepped outside the hot venue and saw singer/guitarist Brian King pacing in the parking lot. I asked if he was okay. He said, “Yeah, I just can’t handle the noise. My ears are cooked.” That summed it all up. Months later, they played what ended up being their last show in Toronto.
Years went by, and it felt like they quietly called it a career. By this year, they hadn’t released a record in seven and a half years or toured in six. They even canceled a 10th-anniversary celebration of Celebration Rock at Shaky Knees Festival in 2022. In the end: three albums, a singles compilation, a few other assorted tracks, and some ripshit, sweaty-as-hell live shows. We were lucky to get that much.
While nothing happened with Japandroids, everything happened with me. I got married. I had two kids. My brain is scattered across several places at once. Is this why I’m bottlenecked writing about this album? Is it because I can’t access how music used to make me feel? Am I sad or angry that the band is effectively over, or am I grateful for what’s in front of me? I don’t know if I have an answer, but I can tell you what it feels like to rediscover a familiar thrill when you least expect it.
“Chicago” hit my earbuds at 3:45 a.m. one night in late July. A friend on the West Coast found it after midnight on a streaming service. Brian King’s echoed vocal before the opening guitar riff sounded like a satellite transmission from the void. But then there it was. Those jangly, messy guitar chords, the splashy drums, and that verse: “GOD DAMN MA’AM I’M SWEATING THROUGH MY SHIRT/ANYMORE, MY BODY’S GOING TO BURN/RIGHT IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.” Then came the chorus, something that hits my bones as a Chicago native: “I’m sorry baby/we call it like we see it in Chicago.” I never fell back asleep. I listened to it 25 more times on my drive to work. Just like that, I felt like I was 15 years younger.
I found Japandroids the way many in their early twenties did in the late 2000s—through music blogs. Their raw 2009 debut, Post-Nothing, was buzzing everywhere. At first, I dismissed them as a No Age ripoff, but then I realized that their murky gang vocals, serrated guitars, and crashing drums stirred something in me.
And I could pinpoint that feeling to a place. In early 2010, I found myself in their hometown, Vancouver, taking the SeaBus across the harbor with Post-Nothing on my iPod. I experienced Darkness on the Edge of Gastown. I was a rocker in East Vancouver. (Not really, but they have song titles that let you make cool hyperlocal references.)
By 2012, I was living in Chicago after moving out of NYC. I was in a gray period, unsure of my direction. That summer, Celebration Rock arrived—a youthquake of a record that quickly became one of my all-time favorites. It’s a testament to being young, wild, lost, and romantic, all while going full throttle. It remains one of the few bright spots from an otherwise tough time.
Then came 2017’s Near to the Wild Heart of Life, their jump into more polished, textured songs with synths and layered guitars. It showed maturity from a band that had exclusively written about high-stakes love and thrills with the pedal to the floor. As I entered my thirties, it felt perfect. The record didn’t launch Japandroids into the next stratosphere, but it’s criminally underrated. I hope time is kind to it.
Fate and Alcohol doesn’t feel like a final goodbye. It wastes no time, starting with the no-holds-barred ripper “Eye Contact High.” King narrates falling in love at first sight while walking the streets of Toronto. It’s classic Japandroids: rumbling riffs, thunderous drums, and Prowse’s backing vocals—“On an eye contact high/right there, in the street/on an eye contact high/I can barely breathe.” Just like that, you’re back in their world. From there, the album rolls into “D&T” and then “Alice,” continuing to build on that frenetic energy.
The band returns to their guitar-and-drum ruckus from the first two records but pulls back slightly from the sonic ambition of Near to the Wild Heart of Life. The songwriting remains strong—“Upon Sober Reflection” has an all-time Japandroids chorus: “How can someone so careful with their touch?/At the same time be so careless with their love,” while “Fugitive Summer” sounds like a Celebration Rock-era track with a bit more grit. “A Gaslight Anthem” even features a rare lead vocal from Prowse over soaring guitars.
Then there’s “Positively 34th Street,” easily one of the ten best songs they’ve ever written. It’s an epic in miniature, a capstone song about regret, lost love, and second chances, culminating in the choice whether or not to hit send on a text message that could change everything. It’s life-affirming in a way that words can’t fully capture—just listen to it.
“All Bets Are Off” comes towards the end. It’s another screeching rocker, but King sounds exhausted. He’s boarding a plane, ready to go home: “I wanna cry, my way, back to America/and I don’t give a damn, ain’t even/trying to hide, gimme two bottles/of anything, leaving, one I love.” A verse later: “This thing, baby, I’m all in/lost and lovesick/until I see you again.” In a recent interview, King revealed he’s now living in Ann Arbor, Michigan, with a baby on the way. It’s all over, because it has to be.
Maybe that’s what makes this album satisfying—it’s not about a grand goodbye. These songs aren’t made to be overanalyzed; they’re meant to be blasted through speakers or listened to too loudly in your headphones. It’s one last gift from a band that made fucking up and getting fucked up sound romantic. It’s a last chance to go full throttle, to throw everything you’ve got at the wall. It gave me a little closure and a lot of joy. Like the band, the album is imperfect, but it leaves nothing on the table. The fireworks have exploded, the stars are fading, but the smoke still hangs in the night sky. The thrill was always in the fact that it burned so brightly to begin with.