With “Electric Friends,” New York electro-art provocateurs Energy Whores deliver a chilling parable of digital intimacy gone hollow. It’s a track that pulses with synthetic warmth while exposing the emotional coldness beneath modern connection—an uneasy contradiction that defines the band’s most compelling work.
Built on sleek electronic textures and a driving, almost hypnotic rhythm, “Electric Friends” initially invites movement. But the deeper the song sinks in, the more unsettling it becomes. The production feels deliberately cinematic, creating a sense of artificial closeness that mirrors the theme of simulated relationships. It’s danceable, yes—but with an edge sharp enough to cut through the comfort of the beat. Carrie Schoenfeld’s presence looms large. As both narrator and agitator, she delivers lyrics that confront isolation, performative connection, and the emotional commodification of human bonds. There’s a theatrical precision in her delivery—part protest, part confessional—that aligns “Electric Friends” with Energy Whores’ tradition of socially charged storytelling. This is not music designed to soothe; it’s designed to provoke awareness.
What sets the track apart is its balance between accessibility and confrontation. The hooks are immediate, the rhythms infectious, but the message refuses to fade into the background. Much like their earlier work, “Electric Friends” weaponizes melody, turning pleasure into a Trojan horse for critique. It’s avant-electronic music that understands the power of seduction before revelation. As a preview of the forthcoming album Arsenal of Democracy, “Electric Friends” signals a project unafraid of discomfort. Energy Whores continue to carve out a space where EDM, electro-pop, experimental art rock, and folk-rooted lyricism collide—holding up a cracked mirror to modern life and daring listeners to look closely. In an era of algorithmic connection and curated selves, “Electric Friends” asks the unsettling question: how close are we really?
English