“Somethin' filled up. My heart with nothin'. Someone told me not to cry. Now that I'm older. My heart's colder. And I can see that it's a lie. Children, wake up. Hold your mistake up. Before they turn the summer into dust.”
In 2004, indie music was starting to blow up, and along with the music, so did one of the biggest supporters of indie music: the music site Pitchfork. OGs will remember that you had to go to pitchforkmedia.com and not just pitchfork.com (the latter was a website that had to do with farming equipment until Pitchfork bought the domain sometime around 2008). And this created sort of a spiraling effect of Pitchfork's influence growing over time. In 2004, it was just starting to have that influence, and when you think about bands that Pitchfork essentially built, Arcade Fire is probably the first band to come to mind.
Pitchfork broke Arcade Fire, who ended up becoming one of the biggest millennial indie acts in the U.S. and winning a Grammy. Their review of Funeral—a 9.7—arguably made the band. You can certainly argue that in a world where Pitchfork doesn't exist, Arcade Fire still blows up, but you can't argue with the influence that Pitchfork had on the band's critical and commercial success. And to be clear, as the Pitchfork review says, "Their search for salvation in the midst of real chaos is ours; their eventual catharsis is part of our continual enlightenment." That sort of vibe is going to grab me (and many others) viscerally, immediately, and forever.
To say Arcade Fire is a band is a bit of an understatement. Wikipedia lists 14 current and previous members, and I am pretty sure that at some point, all 14 members played in the band in live shows together. At one time, they had a violinist (Sarah Neufeld) as a full-time member of the band. And she stood at the front of the stage and shouted along to the songs with the crowd and no mic when she wasn't playing. This made the band sound super full; it felt like a rock orchestra because it was a rock orchestra. The sheer size and intensity of their live setup created an overwhelming, immersive experience that few bands could replicate. Seeing so many musicians on stage, all locked into the same energy, made their performances feel larger than life.
This album is awesomely anthemic and audacious. It’s expansive and bold. It deals with big, bold concepts. And it for sure deals in life’s details. It's filled with the sort of loss and contemplation of death you start dealing with in your late 20s and early 30s (and really never goes away and only worsens after that). And this doesn't even capture the live experience. Seeing them live is almost a religious experience.
I saw Arcade Fire for the first time in 2005 at The Riv in Chicago, and it was unreal. They opened with "Wake Up," and the crowd just erupted with that massive, wordless chorus. There’s something about a couple thousand people singing “oh oh oh oh oh oh oh” together that instantly makes you feel like part of something bigger. It wasn’t just a song; it was a moment. That’s what Arcade Fire does better than almost anyone—they take big emotions, big themes, and make them feel even bigger when performed live. And then, as we were leaving, they played an acoustic set in the lobby. Who does that? It was one of the coolest live music experiences I’ve ever had.
And that was just the beginning. I’ve seen them live six times now, and every single time, songs like "Wake Up" and "Rebellion (Lies)" hit just as hard as they did that first night. "Rebellion" especially—it’s the kind of song built to be shouted in a crowd. That relentless bassline, the driving rhythm, and then that chorus—"Lies! Lies!"—it’s impossible not to scream it out. Every time I’ve seen them play it, it’s a pure cathartic release.
When I first got into Funeral, I wasn’t really analyzing it. I just dove in and loved it. I didn’t necessarily know what "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)" was about, but I knew it felt massive, and that was enough. The whole album is like that—soaring, anthemic, urgent. And the way it weaves through different emotions and textures—something like "Haiti" brings a totally different feel but still fits perfectly within the world of Funeral.
But Wake Up—that’s the song that defines the album for me.
“Something filled up my heart with nothing. Someone told me not to cry.”
That’s how it begins. A massive guitar hook, those rallying “Ohhhhhhhs!” from the crowd, and then those opening lines—angry, disappointed, but not consumed by that anger. Instead of lashing out, the band channels that frustration into something bigger: a communal, anthemic release. Make no mistake—this song is ultra earnest. This song believes in rock and roll in a way that few other songs do (think Baba O’Riley levels of belief). It believes that music can save people. And if you’ve ever heard it live, you know why Arcade Fire and thousands of fans screaming along believe it too.
Wake Up connects. It connects in a real and visceral way. It’s a defiant response to disappointment, a rejection of empty authority, a truth bomb wrapped in an anthem. “Now that I’m older; my heart’s colder; and I can see that it’s a lie.” Win Butler is still angry, but he’s not stewing in it—he’s turning it into something massive, something triumphant. And for anyone who has ever stood in a crowd and shouted along, that connection is undeniable.
I’ve had the extreme pleasure of seeing Arcade Fire live many times, and Wake Up never fails to be a moment of pure magic. It’s impossible not to be caught up in it. I even have an Arcade Fire poster from 2008 hanging in my house—a little reminder of how much this band and this song have meant to me over the years. And every time I hear it, I’m right back there, singing along with thousands of other people, caught up in something bigger than myself.And it’s that world of Funeral that has stuck with me for two decades. It wasn’t just a moment in time for me; it’s an album that has grown with me. It’s one of those rare albums that you don’t outgrow because its themes—loss, nostalgia, resilience—only feel more relevant the older you get. And the live experience has only reinforced that. Some bands sound great on record but don’t bring the same energy live. Arcade Fire is the opposite—they enhance the experience, making the songs feel even bigger than they already are.
Even though I likely first heard Funeral in the student lounge (or loud study room as we sometimes called it) — probably because my friend Matt shared it with me—it has lived far beyond that moment. It became part of my soundtrack, but more importantly, it became part of my experience. Seeing them live, singing along with (now) thousands of people, feeling that communal energy—that’s what made Funeral something that has stuck with me all these years. And that’s why it’s on my 50 Albums list. It’s not just a record; it’s something I’ve lived through, again and again.
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