Luke Combs’ discography is a game of margins. Almost ten years ago, he burst through with a bellowing voice and sturdy guitar licks that recalled the hits of 1990s country. After the bro-country boom, where lame hip-hop production and processed guitars reigned supreme, Combs’ approach felt like a palette cleanser. Since then, he’s reliably put out pleasant albums, chock full of radio hits, where he details old breakups, adventures in drinking, and what it means to be a parent. Combs also knew the right songwriters to pull from, especially with his 2023 cover of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” which completed his ascent to household name. Across this last decade, there have been small but noticeable additions to his sonic palette, primarily more mandolins and fiddles. Plus, his regular producers Chip Matthews and Jonathan Singleton figured out how to make those snare drums truly thump. Consistency is the name of the game; there are almost no terrible songs by Combs but only a few life-changing ones.
One exception to Combs’ what-you-see-is-what-you-get sound was 2024’s muted Fathers & Sons, where he shifted toward tender, neo-traditional balladry to make a time capsule intended for his children. With little promotion, it was his worst-selling album yet and a surprising artistic choice by Combs, who’s seen as the people’s champion, perfectly comfortable performing to tens of thousands of fans while eagerly noting how he’s also a blue-collar guy. Last summer, he teased his unwieldy new album, The Way I Am, by telling People that he’d return to what his fans craved. “It’s not going to be nothing weird,” he said. “We’re not doing no jazz album.” He was going back to booming, anthemic country.
The result is an overlong supply of sturdy country that occasionally shows a stickier side to Combs’ songcraft. It’s best to treat The Way I Am as a sampler with 22 chapters, an album that washes over you while you pick up on the stand out moments. For the most part, Combs is the same guy he’s always been, a notion he’s desperate to emphasize with early lines about “waiting on a drummer to kick off a comeback song.” But some of Combs’ old tricks feel stale here: Jerry Roe’s drums tend to drop out after the bridges or guitar solos to give last choruses an extra umph, while “Tell ‘Em About Tonight” is a classic fan-dedication. It’s where he proposes that this concert (yes, this one!) is a night that Combs will always remember.
Despite Combs’ gruff, soaring pipes, his songs rarely deliver clever melodies. Instead, they rely upon a blandly rocking atmosphere that grows tired by the 73-minute album’s completion. As is to be expected, The Way I Am needs Combs’ voice to remain above water. Plenty of competently constructed, drab ballads, such as “I Ain’t a Cowboy,” would entirely curdle if someone else sang them. His conversational confidence carries “15 Minutes,” where Combs sings from the perspective of someone serving a life sentence in prison. It’s the gravity in his voice that makes the song worthy of note because that’s where his vulnerability is best showcased. The title track is similarly powerful. Combs has expressed discomfort with his falsetto in interviews before, but on “The Way I Am,” he charmingly scrapes his way toward a compelling high note.
Much of Combs’ music comes from the Eric Church school of country rock, so The Way I Am’s biggest thrills are when he finds a different direction for his talents. On “Soon As I Get Home,” Combs locates some of Chris Stapleton’s bluesy swagger (even if the catchy chorus is a bit too broad) with a touch of organ and alternating guitar leads. That tension carries over on the aching “Sleepless in a Hotel Room” which has an irresistible anvil of a chorus. “The morning light can’t come too soon / Lying here not next to you,” he belts, like adjusting to his touring lifestyle isn’t possible. “Rethink Some Things,” with wah-wah guitars and a lax, funky groove, finds Combs indulging in the temptation to cheat. It’s the most clandestine moment on the album, a new source of intrigue.
Combs could stand to pivot from his well-deployed clichés. For him to strike gold, he’d have to get down in the weeds and write about something truly unpleasant or embarrassing in these songs. Morgan Wallen gives us cynically unflattering self-portraits. Zach Bryan is chasing his Bruce Springsteen dreams through Tunnel of Love-like ugly lyrical admissions. Both Wallen and Bryan share big piles of songs, many unremarkable, but at least they tap into something tantalizingly unsavory. Of these three, Combs lacks an edge on these consistent but overloaded albums. As those three duke it out to be the “country data dump” king, The Way I Am is a reminder of how helpful an editor can be. It is simply too much Luke Combs to know what to do with. [Seven Ridges/Sony]
Ethan Beck is a Pittsburgh-born, Brooklyn-based journalist and critic who has written for The Washington Post, Public Source, Los Angeles Times, and other publications.
