For an artist who has never seemed particularly interested in discussing the facts of his life or the meaning of his songs, Cass McCombs has been unmistakably straightforward about both when it comes to his latest record, Heartmind. “I made this album as a way to handle the loss of some close friends,” the 44-year-old songwriter said in a press release. “Strange to realize, it wasn’t them who were lost, it was me.” More than anything in his catalog, Heartmind could be called a concept album, and unlike anything since 2011’s moody high-water mark WIT’S END, it feels purposely unified and cohesive, sharing themes and textures and musical threads across eight songs in just over 40 minutes.
In the liner notes, alongside two quotes about Sufism, McCombs dedicates the record to the memory of three late musicians with whom he shared crucial history. The guitarist Neal Casal, who died by suicide in 2019, was his bandmate in his utopian folk side project the Skiffle Players; Chet “JR” White, the Girls instrumentalist who died in 2020, worked on McCombs’ 2013 double album Big Wheel and Others; and Sam Jayne, the songwriter from Lync and Love as Laughter who also died in 2020, played some pivotal early shows with him in the mid-2000s.
Created in the wake of their deaths, Heartmind constantly returns to imagery of music and performance and the casualties of a life devoted to making and sharing art. In the lighthearted “Karaoke,” McCombs questions whether he’s experiencing a real connection with someone or if they’re both going through the motions, reciting old lines in an attempt to convince the room they really feel it. In the gorgeously arranged “A Blue, Blue Band,” a down-on-their-luck touring act from Virginia City, Nevada, has a superpower of making every audience member feel, by the end of the set, precisely how they do—which is to say, blue.
Even the songs that don’t explicitly refer to these subjects eventually reveal their common ground. On one level, “Unproud Warrior” is among McCombs’ most traditional folk songs—a nearly spoken-word narrative about a veteran returning home from war, reconciling with his past and trying to ground himself in the unfamiliar present. And yet, for a subject so commonly associated with protest music, McCombs’ take feels almost apolitical—the point has less to do with the stakes of war than those of aging, making sense of the distinct choices that led to the path you’re on. To conclude his point, the final verse lists a series of masterpieces written by young prodigies—people who, presumably, didn’t feel haunted by decisions they made when they were younger, whose sense of agency carried through life.
As a writer, McCombs has never sounded so confident or intentional. For a long time, his most frequent comparison was Elliott Smith due to his hushed vocals, nonlinear lyrics, and stately, winding melodies. (“Karaoke” and “Belong to Heaven” from this record are particularly strong examples of that last gift.) On Heartmind, McCombs sometimes reminds me of Bob Dylan during the 1980s, the era when he shifted his attention to subjects like Lenny Bruce and the rejuvenating power of Jesus Christ and sleeping in a field with a small dog licking your face, all approached with the same fervent intensity, humor, and absurdity. “Empty ketchup packets may inherit the city,” McCombs sings near the end of the title track, one of the more stirring prophecies you’ll hear in 2022.
What comes next also helps: a slow, spiritual jazz coda that closes the record, breezing and rippling like little else in his songbook. The band assembled for this record—including, among many others, multi-instrumentalist and producer Shahzad Ismaily, drummers Kassa Overall and Joe Russo, keyboardist Frank LoCrasto, saxophonist Charlotte Greve, producers Ariel Rechtshaid and Buddy Ross, and guest vocalists Danielle Haim, Wynonna Judd, the Chapin Sisters, and Charlie Burnham—feels hand-selected to create this dusky, live-sounding atmosphere. Even moments of respite like “New Earth,” with its passing mentions of muted tweets and “Mr. Musk,” seem to rustle and shift as you listen, packing in as much texture as possible to keep things building until the fadeout.
This flow between music and message animates the record and complicates its plainspoken lyrics. In “Music Is Blue”—a song about obsession with a knotty arrangement that does, indeed, sound like it would take quite a bit of dedication to master, or even just sing along to—McCombs presents what reads like a bleak itinerary of touring life: living off beer, running out of money, losing touch with reality. “I stole to feed her/That’s the lie told by a cheater,” McCombs sings, and it’s around this point that “Music Is Blue” starts to feel like a love song to the person who brought some light into the dark inevitability of his lifestyle. Whether or not the song is autobiographical, you can hear its message resonate through Heartmind, shining on its hard truths and casting a strange, beautiful glow that, for the span of the record, seems like the only thing worth risking it all to share.
