Last fall, my band was driving between cities, sharing music with eachother o the road. At one point our bassist pipes up, “have you guys ever heard Dawes?” He grabs the aux cable and plays a song.
My immediate thought was, “dang, this is pretty boring.”
And in between tracks of math rock, progressive metal, and post rock, a soft rock singer/songwriter wasn’t exactly the most exciting thing I had heard.
But last week as I flew to Florida, I made a playlist of stuff to check out during my flights. That tour wasn’t the last time he mentioned Dawes, and I’ve seen the name thrown around as an early contender for Album of the Year, so I added Passwords to the playlist.
In the soft glow of the window seat, I could listen to the album without distraction.
And it grabbed me.
I revisited the album several times through the trip. When I made my usual pilgrimage to Daddy Kool, my go-to record store in St. Pete, I couldn’t leave without it.
For all intents and purposes, this is a fairly straightforward soft rock record rich with introspective songwriting and Americana—hardly groundbreaking. It calls to mind artists like Lyle Lovett, Fleetwood Mac, and Sky Blue Sky-era Wilco. And for the most part, I’m mostly over that. I’ve moved on to heavier or more experimental music, right?
But beneath the delicate surface, there is a rare sophistication here. The production is brilliantly lush. The traditional guitars+piano/organ setup is augmented with glistening synths and the occasional orchestral flourish. The arrangements are constructed with a care that betrays an almost scholastic obsession with pop music. Every guitar lick, drum fill, and keyboard run are perfectly placed.
The instrumentation is brilliant, but the shining star here is bandleader Taylor Goldsmith’s introspective vocals. He touches on romantic failures, self-doubt, childhood trauma, and more, all with the perfect turn of a phrase.
On “My Greatest Invention,” he confesses, “it’s getting hard to keep in order my different versions of you. Which one’s just an answer to a question? Which one is actually true?” He struggles to reconcile the reality of his partner with the idea of them. “I’d complete the collection of my favorite reflections with an all-out rejection of our true imperfections.”
On the disco-tinged “Feed the Fire,” his self-loathing wrestles against his ambition: “trying to feed the fire without ever knowing why. Trying to feed the fire while hoping that it dies.”
The grooving “Telescope” chronicles the tragic tale of Ricky, a child abandoned by his wannabe-rock star father and ends up hooked on methadone in a trailer park. “The whole town speculates if the world got to him too early or if it got to him too late.”
“I Can’t Love” features a brilliant bait and switch. The song opens with the realization that he’s seeing his partner for who they really are. “I can’t love you anymore,” he repeats. Verse two expands on the revelation, returning to complete the chorus: “I can’t love you any more than I do right now.” It’s a tender examination of a relationship growing from a flirtatious crush into a deep partnership, and it’s masterfully crafted.
And to be honest, I could probably write a full analysis of every song on here. It’s so hard to choose highlights, because every song feels like the strongest track. Such is the consistency of Goldsmith’s writing, the band’s performances, and Jonathan Wilson’s production. Had I not been on an airplane with earbuds in, I likely would have completely ignored this record. The record rarely demands your attention, delicate and introspective as it is. But having racked up nearly a dozen listens in the last five days, I’m glad I slowed down enough to listen.