The Best Folk Albums to Help You Wallow in Sadness
Sometimes you just gotta spend the day deep in your feelings
The cycle of bad news remains endless, and the world feels relentlessly in free fall.
Dread and anxiety remain our closest acquaintances, and I can't remember the last time I drank for any reason other than "It's Tuesday." Lethargic, isolated, and unable to turn on our AC units without a minor surge of panic, it remains impossible not to wallow in what has become our fraught existence.
"I thought about my life and all its empty meaning," Nadia Reid softly sings over the strum of an electric guitar as her band swells up behind her. "There ain't nothing I can change about me now," Leif Vollebekk morbidly croons on "Apalachee Plain." "No, there ain't nothing I can change about me now."
Ahhhh, that sweet splash of melodramatic prose, that gentle strum of a banjo or acoustic guitar: It all culminates in a warm fog that gently soaks us in its bitter sadness. Folk music has a divisive power. It can force us to reminisce about the times when things weren't so unbelievably sh*tty or amplify our collective despair. For those who wish to wallow the day away, here are a few folk albums guaranteed to confine you to your feelings and never let go.
Not Even Happiness by Julie Byrne
New York contemporary folk crooner Julie Byrne mollifies mundane everyday living into something profound. A walk by the ocean or sitting in a garden is transporting when seen through Byrne's eyes. With her disarming blend of folk and new age, Not Even Happiness thrives in its synchronicity. A flute flutters in for a few moments, light horns sit candidly in the background, and the album beckons you in with Byrne's mystical voice, vivid lyricism, and bright guitar work.
You can feel the chicory's bristle sting your toes on "Natural Blue" and smell the crispy ocean air on "Sea as It Glides." Byrne makes nomadic isolation sound profound and, right now, painfully appealing. Not Even Happiness is blissful enlightenment that cradles you to sleep as you lie in the shade on a muggy afternoon.
New Ways by Leif Vollebekk
New Ways finds Canadian singer-songwriter Leif Vollebekk striving for a life of sustenance. He regularly fights to understand the mechanics of how to lead a happy life and regularly battles the defeatist version of himself that finds it all too exhausting.
He breathes in gasoline even though he knows he shouldn't ("I'm Not Your Lover") and can't discern whether little happenings are all coincidences or prolific signs from above ("Blood Brother.) Either way, he shrugs it off, "sometimes, you got no choice in the matter."
While 2017's Twin Solitude's found Vollebekk deep in mourning, New Ways finds him confused about where to go next. He's still despondent but knows there is probably more he could do about it. "Do you know what I'm thinking? Can you tell me who I am? Do you think I am doomed?" he asks anyone who cares to listen. Draped over an infusion of contemporary folk and 60s jazz, Vollebekk never seems to find his answers. Still, New Ways reflects on that awkward in-between, that pre-epiphany moment that makes for a perfect listen to soothe our unanimous incertitude.
Out of My Province by Nadia Reid
An indie New-Zealand treasure, Nadia Reid's honeyed voice, and compelling mixture of folk and southern soul transform Out of My Province into a magnetic roller coaster of emotions. The ebb and flow of human existence is put on vulnerable display. "Oh, there is nothing like the blues," she says on "Who Is Protecting Me," after trying to connect with her distant family. The constant berating of stress never overwhelms Reid but over time just makes it feel like "the paint is peeling from my heart."
Her band, comprised of silky electric guitars and soulful horns, gently elevates her, but Reid's raw prowess is so captivating that she rarely needs the cushioning. It's not all doom and gloom though, and Reid's biggest strength is subtly reminding us there is a light at the end of this long tunnel. "Life has given me just what I needed," she says frankly on "Otherside of the Wheel." "Time is cruel, but time is a healer."
En Garde by Ethan Gruska
Ethan Gruska's amorphous folk music defies genres, space, and time. "Maybe I'll Go Nowhere's" soft kick drum and textured lo-fi fog elevate Gruska's gentle coos into the stratosphere. "On the Outside" teeters the line between indie rock and contemporary folk, and "Haiku4u" fully dabbles in deep electronica and Hip-Hop.
En Garde is an intimate odyssey that seeps into your blood with its slow-burning experimentation. Like Bon Iver, Gruska believes production can serve as a sole instrument and amalgamate into something all its own rather than solely elevate the instruments at its disposal. En Garde is, at times, unexplainable in its ingenuity and serves as a perfect soundtrack for those who wish to get wholly lost.
Ma by Devendra Banhart
Abstruse folk singer Devendra Banhart tapped into a niche cackle of listeners who felt drawn to the Venezuelan artist's soft prophetic whispers and glittery guitar plucks. His earlier work served as obscure How-To guides for easy-living, but on Ma, the crooner's tenth studio album, it's all about survival. "All the death in my house makes it easy to shop online," he says on the playfully apocalyptic "Kantori Ongaku."
At almost 40-years-old, Banhart has begun to deal with loss, whether it be of family or opportunity. He's getting old and doesn't know if he'll be able to pass on his sage wisdom to any children of his own ("Is This Nice?"). He desperately wants to fall in love and dance but is slightly timorous about confessing his love to the person who needs to hear it.
Like most Banhart records, Ma thrives the further it roams. He sings in four languages and wanders freely through them with fleeting grumbles. It doesn't matter to Banhart if you keep up or not; just know that whatever you feel or take away from it is justified. It's impossible to live in this world without confusion, and Banhart doesn't necessarily know the answers anymore. "The older I get, the less I fear anyone I see, and yet all the more, I fear humanity," he sings.
What's New, Tomboy? by Damien Jurado
Channeling the end-of-days poetry of Bob Dylan, Damien Jurado's hushed pop arrangements on What's New, Tomboy? tackles life's tragedies with arresting sophistication. "This wasn't part of the plan," he calls out on "Birds Trickled into The Trees," "a major flaw in the design."
Jurado's lyrics aren't grounded in the least. They often fluctuate between deep meditations on death ("Maria") and casual quips on what he sees when he disassociates ("Alice Hyatt.") It's all presented as digestible, stripped-back pop music and sonically adds to Jurado's narrative that this sh*t is meaningless. "If I said that I had chose this, I then would be a liar," he sings on "Fool Maria." "I am only living sentences that were long before I got here."
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