Sam Fender Album Review: ‘People Watching’
Thought provoking, personal and political. People Watching cements Sam Fender’s status as one of Britain’s most vital songwriters.
Sam Fender 2025. Photo Credit: Sarah Louise Bennett
The 30-year-old Geordie crafts a striking portrait of modern disillusionment, where poetic melancholy seeps into every track, engulfing you like the cold air of a North Shields winter. The record is wonderfully cohesive, flowing like a series of late-night conversations. Sometimes quiet and reflective, sometimes raw and full of frustration—but always brutally honest.
As the title suggests, Fender’s third studio album is a reflection on the lives unfolding around him. Struggles, regrets, fading dreams. It’s a soft-rock album of personal stories and silent observations, told through his unmistakable voice. At times, it cracks with emotion. At others, it roars with grit. The guitars are understated yet cinematic, reverberating like distant thunder whilst pianos and brass appear at just the right moments, adding an almost orchestral greatness to its most heartbreaking passages.
The album is packed with hard-hitting lyricism, but his storytelling extends beyond personal pain with sharp social commentary. TV Dinner skewers industry figures who fetishise working-class struggles whilst Chin Up paints a bleak picture of struggling new parents who "can’t heat the place for fucking love nor money." It’s raw, unfiltered, and highlights Fender’s inevitable growing detachment from his roots as his success grows.
People Watching Album Cover.
I’ve always believed that for an artist to be truly great, they must evolve and take risks—and Fender does exactly that. With a more retrospective approach, he leans into Springsteen-esque storytelling, stripping back the anthemic urgency that defined his earlier records. Crumbling Empire and Wild Long Lie stand out as some of his finest songwriting yet, pairing charming soundscapes with painful lyricism. These songs unfold like old family videos, where the warmth of nostalgia collides with the sting of time passing too fast.
Following the monumental success of Seventeen Going Under, the pressure was on. Yet Fender delivers without compromise. He resists radio-friendly pop hooks and stadium-sized riffs, instead crafting melodies that are subtle, haunting, and deeply affecting. There’s a deliberate restraint, as if he’s holding something back, letting the weight of his words do all the heavy lifting.
Yet, for all its beauty, I found myself craving more variety. The album leans heavily into introspection, missing the high-energy, crowd-pushing moments that made Pound-Shop Kardashian and Howden Aldi Death Queue so electric. It’s an album to sink into, rather than one that grabs you by the collar.
The journey ends with a heartbreaking tribute to his grandparents. Remember My Name lingers long after the final note fades. Written from his grandad’s point of view while caring for his wife with dementia, it’s a song that leaves you staring at the ceiling, where every lyric feels like a whisper from the past. A reminder to hold on to the people you love just a little longer.
With this record, Fender doesn’t just reflect on the world around him—he invites us into it. He makes us feel the weight of missed opportunities, the ache of nostalgia, and the quiet beauty of simply watching life unfold. And while it may lack some of the adrenaline-inducing energy of his past work, People Watching proves that Fender is still growing, still evolving. In doing so, he reminds us—much like Blur suggested all those years ago—that modern life is still a bit rubbish.
