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Jan 10, 2025 By Austin Saalman

By the time Vampire Weekend graced the cover of Under the Radar’s Winter 2010 issue, the quirkily hip, Ivy League-educated musical foursome had since risen to prominence as leading harbingers of experimental-yet-accessible, intellectual-yet-relatable millennial indie pop. A mere two years prior, the group had emerged with its critically acclaimed eponymous debut, expanding its fanbase far beyond its native New York with such scene-defining cuts as “A-Punk” and “Oxford Comma.” In those early years, Vampire Weekend’s unique synthesis of college indie and worldbeat sounds, coupled with its manically literate lyricism and winkingly ironic urban thrift store aesthetic, had distinguished it from its contemporaries, so many of whom had fallen time and time again into the artistic snare of doomed self-seriousness. Accordingly—and despite their undeniably privileged backgrounds—the guys from Vampire Weekend have managed to maintain an air of unanticipated humility, and perhaps more importantly, a consistent sense of humor, in the face of their tremendous success, encouraging a great deal of sympathy for the band’s creative cause. This is glaringly apparent on the group’s controversial, chart-topping sophomore release Contra.

Contra not only maintains but amplifies the charm of 2008’s Vampire Weekend, painting a vivid, if fragmented portrait of millennial youth abuzz in that surreal transitional period between the socioeconomic apocalypse of the Great Recession and the nascent psychosocial dystopia of the impending Trump era. A sense of awe persists at the core of the album’s mania, each bizarre proclamation laced with a sense of greater longing for order and, ultimately, reprieve. “In December, drinking horchata” sings frontman Ezra Koening on the opening “Horchata,” “I’d look psychotic in a balaclava,” introducing the track’s captivating pastiche of late-2000s hipster culture, with fan speculation as to its meaning ranging from perceived references to Kanye West to a relationship’s demise. Meanwhile, there emerges a sense of resurrection in Koening’s proclamation: “Here comes a feeling you thought you’d forgotten,” a vision of the band’s mythical Manhattan—tragically affected but stunning in its bustling confusion—coming to life, unfolding before the listener. “White Sky,” Contra’s great underrated gem, continues this theme as Koening delivers a hyperreal panorama of his city’s sights and sounds, while never quite shedding a certain Orwellian undertone, intrinsic to his seemingly sinister depictions of “a thousand little Julias” and the “whole immortal corporation.” The anticipation, desire, dreams, and lust of the track’s aroused and disoriented protagonists, wandering the streets of Midtown, convey a sense of wonder felt by those alive and present in that era and locale, when “it all [came] at once.”

Ska-inflected Kubrickian romp “Holiday,” deceptive in its upbeat tempo and rambunctious delivery, upon closer examination, appears to offer concise commentary on a number of the era’s major travesties, including the U.S.’s invasion of Iraq and widespread environmental destruction due to man-made industrial substances. Likewise, the neurotic “California English” lampoons bourgeois pretension, providing, perhaps, a timely commentary on the widening socioeconomic chasm between educated coastal Americans and their alienated heartland cousins. “Run” and “Giving Up the Gun” continue the band’s sociopolitical concerns, both sharing fantasies of individual escape and/or naturalistic return in an era of rapid yet essentially meaningless technological advancement and hyper-commodification. “Run” remains an especially remarkable effort as Koening expresses the collective frustration of his generation, plagued by debt and subjugation by an increasingly exploitative wage system. “Every dollar counts and every morning hurts,” sings Koening, “We mostly work to live until we live to work,” before imploring his lover to flee with him in search of a fresh existence elsewhere, beyond the oppressive confines of modern finance capitalism. “But with her fund,” Koening facetiously supposes, “It struck me that the two of us could run.” This track, perhaps above all others, reflects the aching sentiments of Koening’s generation of fellow millennials, who would spend the subsequent decades attempting to escape in some way or another. Fifteen years on, “Run” remains achingly relevant to the group’s now-aging cohort, as well as upcoming generations who are soon to come of age amid a maddening state of socioeconomic and cultural impossibility, unknown even by we millennials in our own time.

Elsewhere, melancholic ode to sourly nostalgic romance “Taxi Cab” and intoxicating literary daydream “Diplomat’s Son”—both notable collaborations between Koening and bandmate/producer Rostam—find the group exploring more intimate territory, with the former continuing Koening’s poignant reflections on heartbreak and codependency, and the latter, whose basis was a short story written by Koening while a student at Columbia, weaves a beguiling fantasy of homoerotic intrigue and youthful pining. Both tracks, among Vampire Weekend’s finest ballads, remain testaments to both the band’s versatility in general and Rostam’s skill as a premier indie pop producer in particular. Koening’s smooth delivery of such lines as “It’s not right, but it’s now or never / And if I wait, could I ever forgive myself? / On a night when the moon glows yellow in the riptide / With the light from the T.V.’s buzzing in the house” conveys the penetrating warmth of reckless adolescent abandon, accounting for some of Contra’s most sublime details. Vampire Weekend’s ability to balance introspective poeticism and, at times, outright bizarre satire is most pronounced here, reminding the listener of the album and band’s undeniable presence within its respective genre.

Last week my partner Nora—a massive Vampire Weekend fan—sent me “Run,” accompanied by a text reading, “Run with me.” No longer ourselves such reckless youths, our recent conversations have turned largely toward the same sentiments of financial and social apprehension experienced by the track’s protagonists. Upon receiving her message, I’d seconded her plans, responding, “Of course I will.” I meant it, still mean it. To quote Ezra Koening: “‘Cause, honey, with you is the only honest way to go.” If our generation had anything to say, it must be something similar—even now, as we age, we are planning our escape. Some aesthetic opposition to the dulling forces of ultra-modernity. Upon reflection, Contra still cuts deep, its sound seeming to prophesy the dramatic decentralization of the indie scene throughout the 2010s, promising a myriad of pleasures even for youthful listeners. One day may we run at last.

www.vampireweekend.com

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