The Human Fear by Franz Ferdinand
Franz Ferdinand, once the darlings of mid-2000s dance-rock, return with The Human Fear, an album that clings desperately to their old sound while sinking into absurdity. Billed as an exploration of human anxieties, it feels more like an exercise in how much cringe one band can pack into a 35-minute runtime. At their prime, Franz Ferdinand made music that demanded to be danced to. Now, they’ve made an album that might be danced to—by clowns.
Musically, the album relies heavily on uninspired melodies and synthetic flourishes that sound less like innovation and more like a budget keyboard demo. The production is clean, sure, but so is a hospital waiting room, and neither offers much personality. Guitar riffs meander without purpose, beats plod along like a bad party trick, and the occasional quirky synth line feels like a desperate grasp at whimsy. Instead of capturing fear or depth, it’s like listening to a soundtrack for awkward slapstick comedy.
The lyrics are no saving grace. They alternate between nonsensical and painfully shallow, as if someone handed the band a list of “deep ideas” and told them to write vague one-liners about each. On “Audacious,” Kapranos chants about being bold, but it comes off less inspiring and more like a dad embarrassing his kids at karaoke night. And let’s not even start on “Hooked,” a track so cloying it could serve as an anthem for cringe-worthy social media posts about parenting.
If there’s a highlight here, it’s only in the morbid curiosity of hearing how far the band has strayed from their former glory. “Audacious” and “Living Fear” are memorable—but for all the wrong reasons. They stick in your head like gum on a shoe: unpleasant, unwanted, and hard to scrape off.
The album feels cobbled together without much thought for flow or cohesion. Each track seems to exist in its own little world, and none of those worlds are worth visiting. It’s hard to tell whether the band was aiming for an eclectic mix or just got lost along the way.
There was a time when Franz Ferdinand’s music felt cool, effortlessly stylish, and full of swagger. Listening to The Human Fear is like realizing that time has long passed. It’s as if the band has become the embarrassing uncle at the family barbecue, strumming a guitar and shouting “Look how cool I am!” while everyone averts their gaze.
This album might appeal to fans who refuse to let go of the past or those with a very niche taste for music that borders on comedic. Anyone else would be better off revisiting Franz Ferdinand or You Could Have It So Much Better and pretending The Human Fear doesn’t exist.
Franz Ferdinand promised to explore fear, but the only thing scary about The Human Fear is how far they’ve fallen. With clownish melodies, uninspired lyrics, and an air of midlife desperation, this album is a sad echo of a band that once defined an era. If this is what they’re serving, it’s time to close the circus.
