Howlin Rain, Iska Dhaaf

Redemption comes in a multitude of forms. For Ethan Miller, it has arrived amid catharsis and transformation. The Howlin Rain we thought we knew has evolved, on Miller’s newest, Mansion Songs, into something strange and true and beautiful, a sound made of cigarette ash and swollen moons, salt air and the eggshell light that comes just before the dawn.

The result is an album that pines and yearns, lusts and wails. “Meet Me in the Wheat,” “Big Red Moon” and “Wild Bush” push the album into high gear, up-tempo jammers that form the yang to the mellow yin of the album’s deep feel ballads. Tracks like “Restless” and “Lucy Fairchild” ache like raw wounds or sway like lost, half-sunken ships. “New Age” is bright and clear-eyed and full of wary joy. “Coliseum” prowls, red-veined and hungry - claws out and teeth sharp.

Miller is one of those triple threat talents, an endlessly charismatic front man, prolific songwriter and powerhouse lead guitarist. His vocals, writing, and playing are executed with an impassioned fury which verges on religious ecstasy. His music has left a trail of fans in his wake - among them looming names like The Black Crowes, Queens of the Stone Age and iconic music producer Rick Rubin.

Mansion Songs is a living, breathing, and thrillingly imperfect thing. It sweats, it bleeds, its skin is rough and calloused. Bringing in a revolving cast of collaborators, musicians he had known and worked with, as well some he had never met, Miller and producer Eric Bauer left it loose and raw, keeping many of the shambling, ragged-at-the-edges, first or second takes.

Mansion Songs is Miller and Howlin Rain pushing away the stone and stepping out into the sunlight. It marks next chapters and fresh starts and new roads. In the end Mansion Songs is one of those rare albums made by running with eyes closed and smile wild – straight into uncharted territory.
Nathan Quiroga and Benjamin Verdoes spent nearly every day of the past three years writing their first album. Songwriters, poets, and multi-instrumentalists, they pushed one another to unlearn roles and approached the process of composition from a place of intuition and selflessness. By all accounts Even the Sun Will Burn is the product of this intense collaboration and exploration. No two songs were written using the same formula: lyrically, melodically, and texturally, each is unwavering, fulfilling, and complete.

Much like the album's title, many of its themes at first glance may appear self-evident, seemingly obvious even. But with closer attention the songs rapidly reveal layers of meaning and sophistication. They spiral and cycle through many different types of reflection on the concept of self, often addressing the detachment and callousness pervasive in an age of constant connection. Several songs ask how it is possible to be present and content in a fragmented world of distractions. The motif of disconnection is imagined even at a global and political level where drones and devices have replaced authentic contact and conflict. Everybody Knows and General Malaise give an apocalyptic vision of soldiers estranged from combat, and a riveting allegory for the end of the world. The record also touches on the tension between intimacy and autonomy. When the self is viewed in the context of close relationships, there is a yearning both to fuse with and to escape from another. "They say nobody wants you, when you need them," Quiroga sings in Dependency, and in Two Ones, writes, "My whole life there's been a hole I can't fill with another soul." In the same way there is a sentiment of longing for something unknown and profound. Same Indifference, Happiness, All the Kids, and Rumi are almost acts of spiritual purging and confession. They seek release from fetters of regret, guilt, and self-doubt. In this "letting go" appears a sense of joy and ecstasy.

Similar to its structural and lyrical composition, the process of capturing the spirit of songs was done without pretention or grandeur. With the help of Ephriam Nagler (The Velvet Teen, Lake, You Are Plural) at Dub Narcotic in Olympia, the band experimented until they found what each composition needed. The sounds are aggressive, bold, and fully exposed, at times a single voice and guitar, others a layered wall of harmonies. Melodies are instantly apparent and memorable. Without being nostalgic, the songs nod to psychedelia and punk in subtle and inventive ways. Abounding in youth and energy, the arrangements and instrumentation serve as appropriate counterpoint to the weight of the lyrics and themes.

Even the Sun Will Burn draws listeners in with its vulnerability, and then holds them close. It does not prescribe simple answers or dabble in pedantry. Rather, it is a series of reflections that are brutally honest and uncompromising. Its sweetness comes from a desire to connect in a way that is fully human before an inevitable end.