Phoenix
– Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
Phoenix had already spent years as the slick French underdogs of indie pop—always the bridesmaids in a genre full of cooler kids and louder bands. But Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix flipped that script with a sound so clean, so self-assured, it practically grinned at you through the speakers. It wasn’t a departure—it was a glow-up. And somehow, these Parisians pulled off the impossible: they made pristine pop rock feel personal without ever sounding precious.
Best of…
The band doesn’t yell to be heard. They don’t need to. Every synth line, every clipped guitar riff, every handclap feels like it’s been placed with a kind of sly confidence that only comes from a band quietly flexing in their own studio bubble. Thomas Mars doesn’t belt; he glides, crooning hooks that somehow manage to sound both weightless and heavy with meaning. You could dance to this record. You could cry to it too. If you’re feeling particularly dramatic, you could do both at once.
The album doesn’t try to blow your mind with production tricks or flashy solos. Instead, it just gets everything right. Not perfect—because perfect is boring—but right in that way that makes you want to hit repeat the second it ends. Phoenix didn’t reinvent themselves here. They just sharpened their edges and stepped into the spotlight with a smirk and a fistful of hits.
Choice Tracks
Lisztomania
A synth-pop rallying cry disguised as a song about romantic disillusionment and the cult of personality. It’s impossible to hear that bouncing rhythm and not want to move. And that chorus? Pure gold. Earnest and ironic in equal measure.
1901
The song that blew their doors wide open. It’s punchy, tight, and infectious without trying too hard. The way it kicks into gear feels effortless—but that’s the trick. It’s precision-built for blasting out of car windows in July.
Fences
The comedown track, all slink and sway. It pulls back the tempo and lets the shadows creep in, with Mars sounding like he’s singing from behind a velvet curtain. Understated, underrated, and absolutely necessary to give the album depth.
Lasso
This one rips. It’s the closest Phoenix gets to actual rock ‘n’ roll here, with jagged guitars slicing through the polish. It’s tight and tense, with a sense of urgency that shakes the record out of its glossy dream state.
Love Like a Sunset (Parts I & II)
The album’s mini-epic. Part I floats through a cinematic instrumental haze—half Krautrock, half lullaby—before Part II drops in with a heartbeat and some existential whispering. A risky move on an otherwise immediate album, but a gutsy one that works.
Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix doesn’t overstay its welcome. It’s sharp, lean, and irresistibly cool, like a band that finally realized they had nothing left to prove and decided to have fun instead. The result? One of the most quietly influential pop albums of its time—and still a high point in Phoenix’s discography.