Jason Isbell’s Foxes in the Snow is an Album about Love, Loss and Carrying On

There is a specific kind of comfort in music made by folks who come from home. While it has its share of ugly qualities (like most places), Alabama’s way of life is precious. Even after seven years in a big city in a neighboring state, I regularly feel my roots tugging me back toward my beautiful, sometimes brutish, frequently misunderstood home state. And no one in modern music captures that pull as beautifully, and bittersweetly, as Jason Isbell, particularly on his exceptional new album, Foxes in the Snow.

It can only be compared to how New Jerseyians must feel while listening to Springsteen, or Michiganders enjoying some Seger. Foxes in the Snow sounds like holding back tears while heading east over the I-20 state line; the space between the trees in the Talladega Forest; taking in the quiet expanse of the Gulf from the shore; walking the length of Moundville on a Saturday morning, with nothing but your own demons to keep you company. It sounds like heartbreak in the holler. It tastes like boiled peanut brine. Isbell may now be a longtime Nashville resident, but it’s clearer than ever that he keeps his origins close to his heart. Bama’s in my bones, and it’s in his: “You could strip me of everything I own / Just leave me with the memories of my Alabama home,” he sings on “Crimson and Clay.”

Foxes in the Snow, Isbell’s first studio album in a decade recorded without the 400 Unit band at his side, is truly roots music at its purest: nothing but the sound of Isbell’s voice, memories, melodies and guitar, all captured over the course of a five-day wake at Electric Lady Studios in New York. And in channeling his genre’s humble folk beginnings, Isbell on Foxes produces some of his most direct, emotional and gut-wrenching songs in years, echoing the finest of his masterful solo catalogue (including his best, 2013’s Southeastern). While his work with the 400 Unit over the last few years has made for some rocking Americana arrangements, Foxes in the Snow stands out for just how uncomplicated it is. Like his forefathers Townes Van Zandt and John Prine, Isbell is often at his most powerful when it’s just his voice and the guitar. At its core, Foxes in the Snow is a folk album.

It will likely get extra attention for the simple fact that it’s Isbell’s first release since announcing his divorce last year. There’s no doubt that context adds extra weight to theses songs, especially those that are so openly about personal upheaval (“Good While It Lasted,” “Eileen” etc.), but the thesis of Foxes in the Snow really boils down to this: how to carry on when life doesn’t turn out how you thought, and how to refocus when the picture of home blurs.

Isbell wrote two of the best love songs of the last few decades in Southeastern’s “Cover Me Up” and The Nashville Sound’s “If We Were Vampires.” He acknowledges that those may be hard to hear in light of the brutal breakup songs that dot Foxes in the Snow: ”I’m sorry the love songs all mean different things today,” he sings on “Gravelweed.” But rarely does Foxes dip into bitter territory. In fact, while there are sober recollections of mistakes made and bridges burned, there are far more instances of gratitude than of anger: “I was a gravelweed and I need you to raise me / You couldn’t reach me once I felt like I was raised.” There’s also no shortage of tenderness. “Don’t Be Tough” sounds like a letter to his younger self, or perhaps his daughter: “Feel the pain and feel it pass / Don’t be tough until you have to / Let love knock you on your ass.” These life lessons leave room for the noblest things: mercy, growth and redemption.

Like the titular fox in the snow, these songs are stark and graceful. “Ride to Robert’s” is classic Jason Isbell, all mouthy wordplay and pristine guitar: “The deepest ditches line the righteous path,” he sings. “God said hold my beer / And he made a man so he could watch and laugh.” Like he has in the past, he also dives into the unexplainable intimacy of a fresh relationship, both on “Open and Close” and the saucy title track. On the raw “Eileen” and “True Believer,” Isbell speaks directly to his past, owning up to his torments and fumbles, but unafraid to show his hurt—something like Jay-Z on 4:44: “All your girlfriends say I broke your fucking heart / and I don’t like it,” he sings on “True Believer.” “I finally found a match and you kept daring me to strike it / Now I have to let it burn and let it be.” Even though he’s been scorched by the flames, Isbell seems to hold optimism that love is a renewable resource, and the feeling of home is never fully out of reach: “I’ll always be a true believer babe.”

That persistent pull toward home likely isn’t going to abate for me, and I suspect it’s the same for Isbell. Alabama’s blue skies loom over all of his music, from the soaring southern rock of the 400 Unit to the astute solo folk songs like those that populate Foxes. “I can’t seem to keep myself away,” he sings on “Crimson and Clay.” It’s been clear for a while now that Jason Isbell is one of our greatest living songwriters. He’s always been unafraid to speak ugly truths, but he also consistently seeks out the beauty that’s always waiting in the shadows. Foxes in the Snow is just further proof that Isbell is most suited to the task of telling it like it is, even if that means bearing his own ugly mistakes for everyone to hear.

Ellen Johnson is a former Paste music editor and forever pop culture enthusiast. Presently, she’s a full-time editor and part-time writer. You can find her in Atlanta, or rewatching Little Women on Letterboxd.