A man and his guitar. It’s music at its most elemental, and on Foxes In The Snow, Jason Isbell embraces that simplicity with remarkable effect. Armed with nothing but his 1940 Martin 0-17 acoustic and that increasingly rich voice of his, Isbell has crafted his most vulnerable collection of songs since 2013’s career-defining Southeastern.
I’ve been a fan of Jason for many years. Sadly, I’ve yet to catch him live, though. His Montreal show last September was cancelled due to illness mere hours before showtime. I’ll wait patiently for him to return, but for now, we have a record unlike anything we’ve heard from him before.
Recorded over five days at New York’s Electric Lady Studios last October, this marks Isbell’s first entirely solo acoustic album. The timing feels significant. A year after his much-publicized split from longtime partner and collaborator Amanda Shires, Isbell returns to the solitary billing that launched his most pivotal creative period a decade ago.
The album opens with “Bury Me,” Isbell’s voice alone for the first verse, singing “Bury me right where I fall / Tokyo to Tennessee / I loved them all.” When his warm, mahogany-toned guitar finally enters, it feels like someone opening a door, inviting us to a conversation we might not be entirely prepared for.
That conversational quality permeates Foxes In The Snow. There’s an intimacy here that makes it feel as though Isbell is performing these songs just across the room. Without the 400 Unit’s muscular backdrop, his songwriting stands magnificently naked. The absence of production flourishes focuses attention squarely on the stories and the storyteller.
Producer Gena Johnson, who worked with Isbell on his previous efforts Weathervanes and Reunions, demonstrates remarkable restraint. The guitar sounds warm and present, every finger squeak and string buzz preserved. Isbell’s voice, which has noticeably improved over the years (he mentions taking vocal lessons), is captured with startling clarity.
The bluegrass-tinged “Ride to Robert’s” recalls simpler times, chronicling a night at Nashville’s famous honky-tonk amid “bachelorettes that don’t know where they are.” It’s the kind of vivid scene-setting Isbell excels at, placing listeners directly beside him at the upstairs bar, watching the tourists below.
Foxes In The Snow isn’t the bitter breakup album some might have expected. Instead, it’s something more complex and adult – a record that acknowledges the messy reality of love’s aftermath with unusual candour. On “Gravelweed,” perhaps the album’s most revealing track, Isbell confronts how his past love songs now carry different meanings: “And now that I’ve lived to see my melodies betray me / I’m sorry the love songs all mean different things today.” Anyone who’s ever revisited once-meaningful music after a relationship ended will recognize the feeling.
“True Believer” offers the album’s most raw moment, with Isbell momentarily dropping his measured stance: “All your girlfriends say I broke your fucking heart / And I don’t like it.” The anger feels earned, not performed, and it’s balanced by the song’s surprisingly gentle melody.
Isbell hasn’t abandoned his gift for the universally relatable. “Don’t Be Tough” delivers life advice that ranges from the mundane (“Don’t be shitty to the waiter / He’s had a harder day than you”) to the profound (“Don’t be tough until you have to / Let love knock you on your ass”). In less capable hands, these sentiments might sound trite, but Isbell’s delivery makes them feel like hard-won wisdom.
The delicate fingerpicking on “Crimson and Clay” supports a meditation on returning to Alabama roots: “I can’t seem to keep myself away / So I head back to the crimson and the clay.” Isbell’s connection to place remains a through-line in his work, grounding even his most personal explorations.
For an album created in the shadow of a high-profile separation, Foxes In The Snow emerges surprisingly hopeful. “Good While It Lasted” acknowledges the beauty in what’s been lost (“All that I needed was all that I had”), while “Open and Close” hints at new beginnings with its New York apartment setting and mysterious woman from Calgary.
The album closes with “Wind Behind the Rain,” a quietly devastating look backward at a relationship’s optimistic beginning: “I want to see you smiling when you’re 90 / I’ll always see you like you are right now.” Knowing how things ended lends these lines a particular poignancy.
Where Southeastern documented Isbell’s journey to sobriety with Shires’ support, Foxes In The Snow explores what happens when that support system changes. References to alcohol appear throughout – “Good While It Lasted” notes, “Last time I tried this sober, I was 17,” while “Crimson and Clay” acknowledges, “Thing that nearly took me out / Was loneliness and alcohol.”
What makes Foxes In The Snow remarkable isn’t just its stripped-down approach, but how Isbell uses that musical sparseness to mirror emotional vulnerability. There’s nowhere to hide when it’s just voice and guitar – no thundering drums or guitar solos to mask uncertainties. Isbell embraces that exposure, turning potential weaknesses into strengths.
Isbell’s retreat to the essentials feels both refreshing and purposeful. These songs don’t need anything more than what they have. The album serves as a reminder of Isbell’s status as one of America’s most gifted songwriters, capable of crafting lines that cut to the heart of human experience with remarkable precision.
Foxes In The Snow stands as a worthy addition to Isbell’s impressive catalogue – not a dramatic reinvention but a thoughtful recalibration. It’s a record that shows an artist comfortable enough with his talents to let the songs speak largely for themselves, trusting in the power of well-chosen words and simple melodies. In doing so, Isbell has created something that feels timeless in its approach yet thoroughly modern in its emotional landscape.
Foxes In The Snow is out March 7 via Southeastern/Thirty Tigers.
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