Review Summary: Feel the universe hum.
Dustin Kensrue’s diverse solo catalogue is bound by two commonalities: none of his side records sound anything akin to the post-(post-)hardcore of his mainstay act, Thrice, and all of them are, in a manner of speaking, worship music. Sometimes that distinction is indisputable, literal in every sense of the word—
The Water and the Blood attests the gospel in a form suited for religious services, and
This Good Night Is Still Everywhere is a collection of Christmas music—but the vocalist/guitarist’s standalone repertoire isn’t exclusively an outlet for his most candid affirmations of religious faith.
Please Come Home, his solo debut, served as tribute for the reverence he felt for folk inspirations like Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen.
Carry The Fire’s familiar, comfy brand of soft rock professes intimate love, most of its songs directly addressed to Kensrue’s wife. There’s some bite—
some—to all these releases, but they musically frame themselves as That Which Thrice Cannot or Rather
Should Not Do; instead of dragging the band in and forcing them to tickle his fancies, these outings have granted Kensrue the opportunity to indulge in pointedly individualized sentiments with sounds alien to his bandmates’ noisier, punk roots.
Desert Dreaming is another such “worship” record unfit for Thrice’s touch, a ten-track collection of old school country tunes set in the arid Southwest and boy, do I mean
old school. Kensrue’s playlist of inspirations runs the gamut of the genre’s earliest pioneers and most iconic names to those still carrying the torch of the Bakersfield sound to this day. Pedal steel pops in on every track here and there isn’t a stadium-rousing refrain in sight. These are acoustic odes meant for dingy, dusty dive bars whose patrons silently shed a tear or two between thoughts about lost lovers, younger years, or the drink they just downed. Kensrue doesn’t have to strain for his husky, resonant voice to infiltrate such a scene; if authenticity and a clear reverence for the greats is what you prize in your Americana,
Desert Dreaming’s vision is uniform, dedicated, and exemplifies Kensrue’s clear, longstanding appreciation for the latest form he’s toyed with on his own time.
The catch: as good as the songs are—and they’re all at the very least tuneful—the ground trod here often lacks the emotional suspense inherent to uncharted territory. Kensrue generally follows labeled maps to obvious conclusions, presupposing the formula itself as its own reward to mixed results; “Death Valley Honeymoon” kicks everything off in stunning fashion, biographically recounting his grandparents’ getaway, which, through countless turns of events, instilled within him his own romanticized fondness for Southern California’s scenery. “Western Skies” and “The Heart of Sedona” soar with fantastic vocal performances, and the especially spacious, harmonica-frilled title track brings the project to a close with as much finesse as it began. In between, pockets of monotony wear the experiment thin: “High Scalers” generously bumbles along with hokey twang, “Treasure in the West” gets too verbose for its own good (how many gems and minerals can Dustin fit into one song? Prepare your shots), and “The Light of the Moon” outstays its welcome among more melodic late-record slow burners. The longer you tunnel in, the fewer surprises await you.
But that in turn assumes
Desert Dreaming needs gut punches or twisted knives to justify its worth. Fact of the matter is this record, like every other one solely to Kensrue’s name, isn’t principally concerned with the dichotomy of darkness and light or intent on usurping the artists who so evidently reared its character; it’s here to uplift using frameworks underutilized by this specific songwriter. The dreams outlined here aren’t nightmares of outlaws or bloodshed: they recall a happier, simpler time and place descended from the same geography, representing the generations of peace that followed those who settled down after the gunsmoke ceased to blow.
Desert Dreaming has its highlights and its lesser moments, but it unquestionably plants you in the sandy landscape and lets you soak it in for an abundantly breezy 37 minutes. As Kensrue admits, the daydream ain’t heaven per se—but it’ll do till it comes.
