Sam Fender has been proclaimed as the voice of a generation since he first broke through with debut single 'Play God' back in 2017. He has helped to kickstart a revival of guitar music in Britain, and the songs he has written have resonated with the working class; he is never one to shy away from subjects. Saying what needs to be said when it needs to be said.
With stadium shows, Top Ten singles and three Number One albums, Sam is already a superstar. The mad thing, though, is that he's just 'Getting Started '; there is so much more to come from Sam.
All that being said, here's my Top 10 Sam Fender songs.
A high point from Sam's third album, 'People Watching', this piano ballad powerfully critiques how the music industry uses and discards working-class artists. The song draws from Sam's struggle with fame, highlighting a cycle of exploitation. One of the most poignant lines addresses the media treatment of Amy Winehouse: "Like Winehouse, she was just a bairn/ They love her now but bled her then."
When discussing this lyric, Fender reflected on the broader pattern of British celebrity culture that elevates artists only to later criticise and discard them. He connected this pattern to the recent loss of singer Liam Payne, explaining: “It’s the British culture of building them up to knock ’em down… I wrote that, then Liam Payne died. You think of the amount of times he was getting dragged through the press and he didn’t help himself, did he? …But the reality was that he was just a young lad, famous far too young, who had addiction trouble — and everyone hit him with the pitchforks.”
This track powerfully critiques how the press and public treat working-class artists, like Amy Winehouse, building them up during moments of success but tearing them down when they struggle. After their deaths, perspectives shift, and their talents are celebrated, highlighting the hypocrisy of this cycle. This tendency is especially prevalent in Britain, where fame often leads to harsh scrutiny and eventual downfall.
He draws from his own experiences. Sam finds it hard to connect with others in his field, since working-class voices are being pushed out. It's becoming rare to meet someone like him in the industry.
Some dismiss Fender's ability as an artist; his shows are full of teenagers and those in their early twenties with football scarves, arms aloft, pints in hand. That's what makes him exceptional. Like Springsteen, Weller, Gallagher, and Turner, his songs have become anthems for a generation. Wrapped around these stadium-sized choruses are lyrics about fame, mental health, addiction, poverty, class, war, and so much more.
Never afraid of what the song may cause, whether that be backlash or confrontation.
'TV Dinner' is one of his most confrontational, a direct address to the powers at be, and a love letter to the working-class communities he grew up in.
Another from Sam's third album. 'Crumbling Empire' sees Sam comment on the working-class communities at home and overseas from someone who has managed to escape them. “I’m not preaching, I’m just talking / I don’t wear the shoes I used to walk in,” he admits. Sam knows that he's not the same boy from Shields anymore; he's writing these songs from a different place.
Despite the references to Shields, Sam was inspired to write this song by what he saw in the States. The poverty he saw on tour reminded him of the long-lasting effects of Thatcherism on his own community in North Shields.
From the beginning, he poetically navigates all the things those from worn-out towns likely don’t notice anymore, like tired old roads filled with potholes (“Road like the surface of the moon”), with comparisons to American cities and the sweep of oppression. It’s not long before he brings it home, singing about the “shiver” of the homeless under Newcastle’s Byker Bridge, honouring all those who have lived and died under the harsh hand of the government: “It’s one for me, and one for the dead, and one for my crumbling empire.”
These economic hardships become enhanced when he begins reflecting on his own family, and how his father “worked on the rail yard” before it “got privatised, the work degraded”. His mother experienced similar setbacks, delivering “most the kids in this town” while his step-dad drove “in a tank for the crown” before it “left them homeless, down and out”.
“Just another kid failed by these blokes”, Fender sings, addressing the vicious cycle of exploitation with no ending in sight. The crumbling empires are the hearts and souls of those left behind and those trapped in a system that offers little escape. One thing that Fender manages to address, not with a shout or a snarl, but more with a quiet reflective moment, is the lack of care for these communities and their people; these people have been failed by the very people who are supposed to help them.
This is the first song by Sam I ever heard. Released in 2018, just before the 'Dead Boys' EP. The song tackles celebrity culture in a poetic onslaught, wrapped up in jangly indie guitars.
Despite now being three albums in, and writing some absolute anthems, I still believe the lyrics on this song, particularly in the verses, are the finest Sam has ever written.
"I drink and watch the zoo in motion
Beautiful people devoid of emotion
Sterilised, pedicured, pedigrees and mankind
Thick as fuck and soulless
And no longer fear genocide
It’s gonna end, from what I reckon
As I puke my guts up all over the decking
Cos the square reeks of plastic action man
And Poundshop Kardashians"
Addressing his thoughts on modern society, where people have become so enamoured with fame and fakery. People now are famous for being famous. There's a consumerism to fame now, between the consumer and the influencer. The way we consume content has changed now.
Since the dawn of reality television and reality ‘stars,’ the world has become saturated by a new kind of content that, as Sam discusses, has produced a wildly complicated relationship between ‘celebrities’ and their observers. While it is true that audiences often laugh at acts of idiocy and sometimes hope for things to go wrong, they also buy into it, and a lot can be said regarding the potential future impact of decisions made today on future generations.
When discussing the song, Fender said, "It talks about our obsession with weightless pop culture and a generation of narcissists, like me, who follow it."
A brilliant song.
One of the most folk-inspired songs Sam has ever written, this track was released as the second single from his third album, ‘Wild Long Lie’. Here, Sam reflects on the pull of home, a feeling familiar to anyone who returns to the place they grew up, especially around Christmas.
But the song goes deeper than nostalgia. Sam confronts the subject of drugs in a raw, human way, not through the usual tales of rock star excess or celebrity rehab, but as an everyday reality. He describes how it permeates life in Shields, a sobering reminder that the towns and cities many of us come from are not immune; it’s everywhere.
At its core, the song captures the push and pull of belonging and escape. Through the repeated refrain “I think I need to leave this town / Before I go down”, Sam voices the tension between feeling tied to where you’re from and the desire to break free from it, and from the people who define it.
The metaphor he uses is the classic pub night out at home. Within that setting, he weaves in references to casual drug use, old friends, nostalgic conversations about the past, and uncertain talk about the future. It’s young people grappling with the next steps in life, set against the backdrop of a hometown that can both comfort and suffocate.
The result is one of Fender’s most evocative songs, deeply personal, yet instantly relatable.
The song that got us into this mess. The famous words uttered by Sam Fender just before he and his band launch into 'Hypersonic Missiles'. It's also the first song, on the first album I ever reviewed for Beyond the Grooves, so it's also the song that got me into this mess!
Released in 2019 as the lead single from his debut album, the song captures Fender's raw, authentic voice as he tackles issues that feel all too real in today’s world. As well as questioning his position in the world. The song was written amidst a backdrop of escalating global tensions, particularly around nuclear weapons and political uncertainty. The term “hypersonic missiles” refers to real-world weapons capable of travelling faster than the speed of sound and evading traditional defence systems.
In the song, however, this is used as a metaphor for a sense of fear and catastrophe. That is present all around us, which we are often in the dark about.
In an interview, Fender said the song is “an unorthodox love song,” using the image of hypersonic missiles to reflect the absurdity of modern life. While the world teeters on destruction, he chooses to focus on love and life’s fleeting beauty. A song full of observations and also contradictions, Fender touches on themes of media saturation, environmental destruction, political instability, and personal disillusionment.
All wrapped up in an arena-ready high-octane hit, which has brought Sam's shows to an end since its release. A song that has helped Sam close out the show in Academy venues, Arenas, Stadiums and the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury. Most artists dream of writing a song like this; Sam's got at least one on every album.
Sam's debut album is arguably his weakest out of the three; however, I think we all knew that he was something special when we heard 'The Borders' for the first time. One of his most emotive and personal songs.
Released as the last single from that album, it's safe to say he arguably left the best until last.
In a press release, the song was described as "Fender's personal favourite song from the new album Hypersonic Missiles. At once deeply personal, traumatic event, Sam tells a story of two boys growing up together and then going their separate ways, the release reads. Memories inferred but not directly addressed. It's a storming tune with a powerful story, as so many of Sam's songs are.”
Lyrically, this, alongside the title track and 'Dead Boys', stands above most of the other songs on 'Dead Boys'. This song showed the world just how good a songwriter he really is; the knack he has for storytelling is second to none. He makes the words sound like he's having a conversation with the other party. The song is cutting, delving into issues such as drugs, abuse and abandonment- while keeping the theme of friends and family central. Fender writes cleverly while keeping the memories ambiguous, but enough to gain a decent inkling of the events described. It’s no less powerful than the rest, carries as much weight as a ton of bricks, and is guaranteed to hit you where it hurts.
Without this song, I don't think Sam explores the style of songwriting we get on his second album; in simple terms, we don't get 'Seventeen Going Under'. On that note.
I proclaimed in another blog post that 'Seventeen Going Under' was the best song of the last ten years. I stand by that point. However, this list isn't about the best; it's about my favourites, and therefore it only makes number four.
Released as the lead single from Sam's second album of the same name, 'Seventeen Going Under' is more than an indie rock anthem. It’s something more urgent, more real. It’s a song that hits like a wave, personal yet universal, tender yet furious, poetic yet brutally honest. And it’s that rare balance that sets it apart.
Released during a time when the UK was emerging from a pandemic and grappling with a decade of political upheaval, ‘Seventeen Going Under’ struck a nerve with people. It didn’t just chart well. It reached the Top Ten in the Official UK Singles Chart and received massive airplay across mainstream radio stations, an impressive feat for a song rooted so deeply in regional identity and social commentary.
The song’s impact was amplified by social media, especially TikTok, where users embraced it not just for its sound but for its soul. Countless videos featured people sharing personal stories, using the song as a soundtrack to confessions, reflections, and moments of vulnerability. It became an anthem for the unheard, a rallying cry for those struggling.
At its core, ‘Seventeen Going Under’ is a coming-of-age story. But not the kind romanticised in films. This is the gritty, real version. Fender reflects on his youth in North Shields, a town steeped in working-class history, where industry has been replaced by uncertainty, and opportunity feels like a luxury.
The lyrics don’t flinch. They dive headfirst into the rawness of Fender’s teenage years: the helplessness of watching his mother’s health decline, the frustration of bureaucratic cruelty, the disillusionment with politics, the simmering anger that comes from being dismissed and misunderstood. Lines like “I was far too scared to hit him, but I would hit him in a heartbeat now” reveal a storm of suppressed rage at the system and himself.
Yet, there’s beauty here, too. Fender captures the emotional complexity of youth, the vulnerability, the loyalty to friends and family, the hunger to be seen and heard, and the slow erosion of innocence. The track is an elegy for that lost boy, but also a celebration of survival.
Critics have hailed the song as one of the defining tracks of the 2020s so far. It won NME’s Best Song in the World award, was shortlisted for Ivor Novello Awards for its songwriting, and earned a spot in countless year-end lists. But more importantly, it sparked conversations. About class. About masculinity. About mental health. About what it means to grow up in modern Britain.
In an era when working-class communities have been marginalised by both policy and media, Sam Fender’s success is more than a musical triumph; it’s a political and cultural one. He doesn’t just speak for himself. He speaks for the kids who are told to be quiet. For the families stretched to the brink. For the towns the government forgot.
Another single from 'Seventeen Going Under', it's a deeply personal song for Fender, but also for most of the young men within his audience. Sam's second album is shaped by the stories that shaped him. 'Spit of You' comments on his relationship with his dad. Ruminating on the passing of his grandmother and his father’s reaction to that seismic loss. He recognises both their flaws (“smashing cups off the floor / And kicking walls through / That’s me and you”) and compassion: “you kissed her forehead”, he remembers, knowing that “one day that’ll be your forehead I’m kissing / And I’ll still look exactly like you”. Finding common ground to communicate doesn’t come easy to sons with fraught relationships, though. “I can talk to anyone / I can’t talk to you”, Fender sighs in the chorus.
Despite these deeply personal lyrics, the chorus in particular is so relatable. I remember speaking to one of my female friends about how men communicate their feelings. She said that she found it easier to confide in her dad about things. I remember smirking or laughing, and she asked why I couldn't talk to mine. I knew she was a Sam Fender fan, and this song became my reference point.
Sam said of the song,"' Spit of You' is a song about boys and their dads. It’s based around my own relationship with my old man, and how we both struggle as blokes to communicate the way we feel to each other without it becoming a stand-off. It’s about how the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. As I get further into my twenties, I see so much of myself in him, especially when it comes to being stubborn. The second half of the song talks about seeing him with my grandma when she passed away, and how I saw him as a son, and how that moment reminded me to make the most of my time with him. If anything, it’s a declaration of love for him."
The relationships between fathers and sons can be complex ones, and Sam manages to sum this up within a brilliant song.
'Dead Boys' was one of Sam's very first singles, released in October 2018. It profoundly tackles male suicide. Written in response to losing a friend to suicide, Sam said of the song, "I wrote Dead Boys' purely as a reaction to losing a friend to suicide. It didn’t come immediately after, as it took a long time to process; if anything, it was a way for me to put it to bed. It’s a different kind of loss, so finding closure or understanding can be a lengthy and complicated phase. I spent a lot of time trying to understand how someone gets into that headspace. The reality is you can’t understand. Dead Boys is essentially about that feeling: the shock, the grief and the resolution."
"After releasing Dead Boys, I lost two people I knew personally to suicide. A multitude of further suicides had happened around the coast, even a case with two brothers, one took his life, and the other followed a week later. It’s contagious, almost, as if you’re more likely to do it if you’ve experienced it yourself. I know that since I have been exposed to it, I’ve become more sensitive and aware of it. I was astounded by the figures – in the UK, it’s the biggest killer of men under the age of 45, more than cancer or road accidents; apparently, it claims 84 men a week. I wouldn’t have known any of this if I hadn’t experienced it, which is worrying; it should be spoken about more."
The song tackles mental health, the high rate of male suicide, but also wider society. Sam called North Shields, where he's from, a "drinking town, with a fishing problem" he comments on how men in particular conceal emotions, or turn to substances to drown emotion entirely. It's one of the most profound songs within Sam's discography, and it hits home emotionally, in the same way that Stereophonic's 'Loca Boy in the Photograph' did back in 1997. The stories in the song are real, and you can tell Sam's delivery is desperate and heartfelt; he's trying to come to process with what has happened, but also what is happening across the UK.
It's an exceptional piece of music.
The song would have a huge effect on one man. In an interview on BBC Radio 5 Live, Sam was discussing 'Dead Boys' with the DJ Nihal Arthanayake. A man tuned in, who was going to attempt his own life, but he didn't and contacted Sam months later.
“There was a bloke who was going to kill himself, but he listened to Five Live and turned the car around. He was listening to the interview with me and Nihal, and he got in contact afterwards,” Fender told NME. “He’d heard me performing ‘Dead Boys’ and chatting about the song and mental health and not being able to open up about our feelings.”
After hearing the conversation, the man headed home and told his wife how he had contemplated taking his own life.“He turned the car around and sat on the side of the road for three hours crying,” Fender said. “He went home and told his wife what he was going to do and got help.”
Sam later met the fan and had a chat with him.
“I met him and we had a big chat together. I had no idea what I was going to say to him because I don’t have any answers or any resolution for him,” Fender added. “It felt very genuine, and I was fucking humbled. This is beyond anything I’d ever prepared for, but it’s wonderful. Music is a powerful thing that affects people’s lives, and I’m fucking humbled to be a part of it.”
I felt as if I had to include this song, despite not making the Top Ten 'People Watching' was a pivotal moment in Sam's career. The song to open his third era, and the title track from his third album. It set things off.
The song picked up where Sam had left off and showcased his strongest suit. His storytelling, the storytelling that can be heard from his early tracks like 2018’s ‘Poundshop Kardashians’ through the title track of his debut album ‘Hypersonic Missiles’ to the coming-of-age tales that brought 2021’s ‘Seventeen Going Under’ so vividly to life. Throughout that journey, he’s consistently possessed a sharp talent for immersing you in a scene, building worlds in your mind’s eye with his words alone.
Produced in LA with Adam Granduciel from The War on Drugs, the song is firmly set in North Shields. Capturing a journey that Sam used to take to and from a palliative care home where he would visit his late friend and mentor, Annie Orwin, whom he’s described as being like “a surrogate mother" to him, and the mix of sentiments and observations that made up those trips.
Revealing in an interview that the song is “somebody that was like a surrogate mother to me and passed away last November. I was by her side at the end and slept on a chair next to her. It’s about what was going through my head, to and from that place and home,”
“It’s kind of ironic because she was the one that gave me the confidence to go on stage, and always used to be like ‘why haven’t you mentioned my name in your acceptance speech’. But now an entire song (and album) connects to her. I hope that wherever she is now, she’s looking down, saying, ‘About time, kid. ’”
This is not the first time Sam has tackled grief in his songs; he has done this a few times. "Dead Boys", "Spit of You" and "The Dying Light", but this one is on a much more personal level. It's raw and powerful, and a real heartfelt tribute to Annie Orwin. He tackles the memories he has of the person he has lost, and how he now feels vulnerable due to the loss.
“Used to feel so invincible / I used to feel there was a world worth dreaming of."
In the song's second verse, he also depicts the care home the loved one was in. The one he strived to get her out of. “Understaffed and overruled by callous hands”.
It's a depiction of the grim nature of the care system in the UK, and talks about a reality faced by not just himself but millions of others.
The standout line of the song for me is this one. "Oh, I fear for this crippled island, and the turmoil of the times."
It's Sam at his most political and at his best. Weaved into a loving tribute to someone close to him. It's a juxtaposition that catches the listener off guard, but it's a poignant line that leaves more questions than answers.
Ending Sam's second album, 'The Dying Light', acts as the follow-up to 'Dead Boys' and sees Sam at his most defenceless. His guard has totally dropped. Starting as a piano ballad, the song grows into something that is a literal gut punch.
He heartbreakingly sings, “But I’m alone here, even though I’m physically not, And those dead boys are always there, There’s more every year."
There was no other song that could end this record; there’s a potent collision between the stirring air-punch-inducing quality of the music and the bleakness of what Fender has to say. An exceptional affair, that shows Sam has grown as a musician, a songwriter, but is now so much more understanding of the world in which he lives.
If ‘Hypersonic Missiles’ was the sound of a young boy kicking out at the world, ‘Seventeen Going Under’ sees Fender realise that it can kick back a lot harder, and he counts every blow and bruise. But he seems to have found that time passes and that most wounds – even the deepest – will eventually heal, if he can allow them to.
With a dedication to the people he loves. "For Mam and Dad and all my pals. For all the ones who didn't make the night." Sam gives these people the credit because this album allowed him to look inward, and he highlights how these people have made a change in his life. We’ve seen him at his lowest on this record, and seen how relationships with people were difficult. This track is Sam saying thank you.
A truly exceptional piece of music, and my favourite Sam Fender song.
Thank you ever so much for reading
Jack