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All photos taken by Swathi Srinivasan
In the wake of recent announcements of a landmark stadium performance at Newcastle United St. James’ Park, Swathi Srinivasan reflects on two Sam Fender performances and the visceral subject matter that draws fans from across the world to the Geordie from North Shields.
Two days before my 23rd birthday, I found myself sprinting to catch the 52-minute train ride from Oxford to Paddington. I had timed it perfectly—I’d arrive in London, take the Tube to Finsbury Park, take a Zoom interview at a local cafe, then sprint back to the park in time for Declan McKenna (who I had come to see) and Fontaines D.C. (who I had seen and enjoyed a few weeks prior). Perhaps, time-permitting, I’d even stick around for a song or two by the last artist before my 23:18 train back to Oxford. After all, he was the headliner, and according to my Spotify likes from 2020, I supposedly knew some of his songs.
It was a good plan…in theory. Instead, I barely made the Paddington train, the WiFi at the cafe struggled for dear life, and I twisted my ankle on the fast-walk to Finsbury Park. I also ended up missing the return train. That last part was on me. I had gotten caught up watching the headlining artist—a singer-songwriter with a thick Geordie accent and unassuming green polo shirt—who I had almost written off in a haphazard attempt to salvage my schedule. Grinning from ear-to-ear, I found myself in a crowd of 45,000 people, hopelessly rooting for Sam Fender.
Whether you’re a Newcastle native or perhaps, like me, stumbled across Hypersonic Missiles over the course of the pandemic, the name “Sam Fender” may ring a few bells. Fender and his band have spent the last few years establishing a firm place in the British rock scene, making their way across the UK and Europe for sold-out shows and renowned festivals such as Glastonbury, Sziget, Mad Cool and several others. This year alone, the 28-year-old added two NME Awards, a Brit Award (his second), and a Mercury Prize nomination to his belt and also headlined his largest show to date at Finsbury Park. Not to mention that Fender was recently hailed by Sir Elton John as “the best rock-and-roll artist there is”.
Just a few weeks after witnessing his acclaimed Finsbury Park debut, I find myself across the pond, in line for Fender’s LA concert. The atmosphere is different. The queue is composed of fans scrolling through TikTok, filling the air with soundbites of Seventeen Going Under—the song that broke Fender into the American arena. Passer-byes waiting for the crosswalk sign inquire about who’s playing tonight at the Fonda, a modest venue with a capacity of 1200 people; their faces grow puzzled as they hear the name “Sam Fender”. Others remark at the uncanny but purely coincidental resemblance of his name to the famous musical instrument brand behind “Fender Strat”.
The LA crowd is young, made obvious by the small but mighty few with bright green 21+ wristbands (yes, the legal drinking age is older than the age to bear arms in the States…we’re a mess). There is also a smattering of English expats donning the occasional black-and-white-striped Alan Shearer jersey, an homage to Fender’s hometown and football team, Newcastle United (Fender has recently announced a massive gig at home stadium, St. James’ Park). Pints in hand, two fans are enveloped in a flag filled with lyrics from Fender’s song Saturday, befriending like-minded lads beside them. A crew from Whitley Bay stands further back, holding a hand-written sign with the hopes of getting Fender’s attention (they were successful).
At Finsbury Park, an outdoor venue with forty times the capacity of the Fonda, Geordie accents and black-and-white checkered flags had filled the air. The crowd was leading its own chorus—Don’t Look Back in Anger, Bohemian Rhapsody, you get the gist—as they filled the time between Fontaines D.C. and Fender. Spanning ages and accents, a testament to Fender’s widespread reach across the UK, the crowd was excited. I could barely retain the 0.25m2 I had carved out for myself beside some friends. To be fair, the same can be said for the LA concert, except somehow I find myself more afraid of the teen girls at the Fonda than I am of the tall men and their Carlsbergs standing behind me at Finsbury Park. Weeks and oceans apart, the two crowds anxiously await the man of the hour. For a moment, their energies are matched.
The crowds erupt as Fender, Drew Michael (drums), Dean Thompson (guitar), Tom Ungerer (bass), Joe Atkinson (keys), and Johnny ‘Blue Hat’ Davis (sax) take the stage. Inflatable black-and-white beach balls bounced across Finsbury Park, whilst at the Fonda, I became collateral damage to a not-so-empty bottle of water ecstatically thrown towards the stage. As he begins, opening both sets with Will We Talk?, a song well-known and well-received by each cheering audience, I recall Fender taking a moment to grasp the vastness of the Finsbury Park crowd. He laughed with incredulity to members of the band, beaming with gratitude towards his massive fanbase. He has the same awe-inspired look and wide grin in LA, halfway across the world, even though the venue was perhaps more reminiscent of his early days than his recent performances across Europe.
Still, it must have all seemed surreal to Fender who was once a bartender debuting his songs in North Shields’ Low Lights Tavern. It was there that he was first noticed by current manager and local Owain Davies. Within a few years, Fender and his band had gone from playing in school music rooms or in separate bands to selling out shows and touring with the likes of the Killers. Though his fans, according to Spotify, are largely based in the British Isles, Fender has just finished a round of performances in both the UK and North American festival circuit (Glastonbury, Truck, Tramlines, Osheaga, Lollapalooza, etc.), and in just a month he will join Florence + the Machine on their US tour, playing legendary venues such as Madison Square Garden and TD Garden.
If his reception in LA is any indication, Fender’s chances of breaking into the US mainstream are looking quite decent. Something about his performance is simultaneously timeless and global, with a combination of sensitivity, versatility, and edge that is rare in today’s rock scene. His Springsteen-esque heartland rock vibe meets catchy indie hooks in Seventeen Going Under and Alright, as well as inspired jazz interludes and outros led by Atkinson, Davis, and Ungerer in Mantra and Get You Down. Influenced by legendary bands such as Nirvana and Oasis, Fender’s punk predisposition appears alongside Thompson’s energy and Michael’s drum prowess in Howdon Aldi Death Queue—which, as Fender quipped in his LA concert, is the stupidest song he’s ever written.
Fender also intersperses a handful of soulful ballads-turned-rock anthems throughout the London and LA sets. Dead Boys and The Borders remind concert-goers of his origins and lived reality, placing a spotlight on the problems that have long plagued his hometown and far too many others. From all-too-common crises of drug use and mental health to issues of toxic masculinity, childhood trauma, and insecurity, Fender examines his own personal relationships and the world around him through song.
Coming from a town in Ohio, one familiar to youth suicide and drug use, it is of no surprise that I found myself drawn to Fender and his lyrics. Tears welled as he honored the ‘dead boys’ in his life, reminding me of those lost, but never forgotten, in mine. Brought to a solemn time and place in my life, I felt a tension I imagine Fender himself has encountered, particularly in possessing and maintaining a sense of belonging as he journeys away from home in pursuit of a career and its successes. That said, it is his humility that stands apart. In his LA set, he dedicated Spit of You to his father, Alan Fender, and A Dying Light to a friend of the band who had passed. The latter song honors “all the ones who didn’t make the night,” an inspiration for the song’s triumphant climax and Fender’s titular declaration “I must repel the dying light”.
In a unique way, Fender has come to exemplify an untraditional bravery—one that does not necessarily solve the world’s ills but rather calls attention to them with masterful candor and poetic urgency (“it’s time to put the world to rights”, he sings in Alright). Through the honesty by which he sings his story and that of his town, his family, and many others, he shines light on often neglected realities and forces us to confront a world that is simply not alright. It is remembering the forgotten that makes Fender’s music resonate.
Yet, hidden behind lyrics that give insight to what he and his town have endured, there is still some prevailing sense of hope with which Fender leaves the audience. It may not be in the lyrics themselves, or perhaps even in how he sings them. Heck, it may not even be intentional. But there is some indescribable sentiment that hangs on his every last word that makes one believe that the world, though not quite at its best now, perhaps one day will truly be “alright”. It is that feeling that managed to intimately grip audiences as far-away as the Fonda and as vast as Finsbury Park. It is that feeling that will resonate across the United States, drawing large swaths to Fender. It is that feeling—of being seen and heard by an artist singing songs he wrote as a young bartender in North Shields—that will make a girl miss her train and think nothing of it.