The biggest revelation for me this year took place on a Saturday night at Glastonbury. I found myself at the Left Field, a vibrant 1,500-capacity tent known for panel discussions on politics during the day and musical performances in the evening. The standout act was a group from Leeds, known as English Teacher, who amazed the crowd. Their music, rich in ideas and creativity, seemed to capture the essence of the country’s current state. As their set progressed, the audience grew more and more captivated. By the end of it, there was an overwhelming sense that we had witnessed something truly exceptional.
Their debut album, This Could Be Texas, hit the shelves in April. Unlike others, their songs avoid blatant rhetoric or political chanting. Instead, they offer a kaleidoscopic view of life, using poetic, impressionistic—and often delightfully quirky—language. Lily Fontaine, the band’s singer and lyricist, crafts lyrics that feel like snippets of conversations overheard in everyday places like bus stops or cafes. They reflect the sense of upheaval many feel, yet also remind us of the resilience and kindness that help people press on: “Shoes were bought, broken in / One new pair breaks the bank … Can a river stop its banks from bursting? Blame the council, not the rain / No preparation for the breakdown … That country is in a bad state / There’s a familiar atmosphere about the place.”
Blending music and lyrics, English Teacher evokes feelings of exhaustion and confusion interspersed with flashes of anger—a portrayal of lives that hold together, thanks to the kindness of others. One interesting layer is added by Fontaine’s presence as a Black woman in a predominantly white, male musical space. Her songs often exude a poignant sadness, particularly in tracks like “Albert Road,” which paints a picture of a neglected, malignant place: “Don’t take our prejudice to heart / We hate everyone … That’s why we are how we are / And that’s why we don’t get very far.”
In the weeks preceding Glastonbury, I was traveling around the UK, mostly England, trying to grasp the public mood before the general election. Many media outlets focused on opinion polls predicting a Labour landslide. However, my conversations suggested a disconnect between these predictions and how people truly felt. The general sentiment was one of bitter disillusionment, later reflected in Keir Starmer’s significant parliamentary victory with backing from a mere fifth of the electorate. Deep-seated issues persisted, with doubts about any potential resolution, leading me to question whether many would even bother voting.
Looking back, much of what I heard mirrored Fontaine’s lyrics. In Birmingham, the city council faced bankruptcy, and people in line for food parcels at the city’s central mosque expressed their frustrations: “Look at the state of the roads. They’re shutting libraries. Privatising all the swimming pools. There’s nothing left.” Meanwhile, in the seemingly prosperous town of Woking, Surrey, an elderly man at a community meal described his daily struggles: “You have to sell things. Put them in the pawnbrokers. Make some money.” Later, I encountered a women’s football team, one of whose players responded to my queries with an air of desperation: “There needs to be a vision. We’ve gone through austerity and Brexit, but it’s like, what’s the actual future? … What’s the UK going to stand for?”
Amidst the melancholy, English Teacher excels at illustrating how modern Britain imbues reality with a surreal flair. As I listened to their music on my travels, this sense reached a peak of absurdity two days before Glastonbury when I landed in Boston, Lincolnshire. A staggering 75% of its voters had supported Brexit, and Richard Tice from Reform UK was optimistic about unseating the current Tory MP. The atmosphere felt familiar yet unsettling, with a desolate town center and palpable anger articulated through phrases commonly found on GB News and in the Daily Mail: “We’re not allowed to be British anymore. We’re not allowed to fly the flag.”
Arriving at nearby Swineshead, I attended a public meeting hosted by Tice and former Tory MP Ann Widdecombe, who arrived looking like a ghost out of Dickens. The audience numbered no more than 25, all ears for talk of “common sense” and how their hosts proposed to resolve seemingly unsolvable issues quickly if they gained power. Outside, when I pressed Tice about Brexit’s effects on local farmers, he brushed my interruption aside with near-ridiculous claims, declaring the interview would be “terminata” if I continued. Ten days later, Tice secured his parliamentary seat with a slim majority. Voter turnout was 53%.
As summer waned, the riots following tragic events in Southport erased any political optimism from the election and spotlighted the influence of the modern far-right. Tice, along with Nigel Farage and their allies, courted a US billionaire aiming to invest riches into places like the south Wales valleys and South Yorkshire. It feels like we’re stuck in a perennial replay of 2016, with a restless, cynical public and mainstream politicians failing to connect. Meanwhile, the reality many face echoes what This Could Be Texas captures so vividly.
Come September, the album earned the prestigious Mercury Prize. The judges praised its “originality and character” and “a winning lyrical mix of surrealism and social observation.” I keep coming back to it, day after day. The album captures, almost perfectly, the feeling of living in an ever-changing world, always seeking answers that seem elusive. It’s a testament to the band’s extraordinary talent and Britain’s perplexing state that their music resonates as strongly as any podcast, documentary, or article. If you want a glimpse into what the future might hold, this album is an excellent place to begin.
