It might seem easy—lazy, even—to call Foxes in the Snow Jason Isbell’s “breakup album,” but his divorce from Amanda Shires undeniably informs much of the record’s lyrics. The songs are direct and, in true Isbell fashion, concrete. There are no clever metaphors or hidden meanings—just an honest account of events and emotions, an introspective look at what went wrong and why. There’s no finger-pointing, but Isbell does take accountability. As a result, it’s a stark album, with austere production that leaves no room for escape. The listener isn’t cushioned by a drum groove or a searing guitar solo—this is Jason Isbell, solo and acoustic, presenting his songs unadorned. His albums with the 400 Unit always offer moments of rock and roll catharsis, but that element is completely absent here. That’s not to say the album is devoid of beauty—its sparseness can be mesmerizing—but there’s none of the hard-edged energy that punctuated his previous work.
The most striking aspect of the album is how Isbell’s raw honesty shatters his long-standing “good guy” persona—an image that was always, to some extent, an audience construct. Our perception of him has been colored by admiration for his music and the redemptive arc he’s embodied since Southeastern. But here, his brutal self-awareness makes it clear: Isbell, like anyone, is capable of being an asshole. Sometimes, that honesty can be uncomfortable—like watching 007 slap a woman to get information, a reminder that heroes aren’t supposed to act this way. But Isbell isn’t a hero. He’s a songwriter, and his best work comes not just from a place of truth, but from exposing his flaws as well.
The album does drag at times, with the songs blurring together. A few surprises in instrumentation—a cello here, a piano there—could have added texture without undermining its immediacy. It’s a minor complaint, but one worth making. While the songs are good, there is such a thing as too simple. This approach likely works well in a live setting, in a small club or theater, where intimacy enhances the experience. But on record, it feels like Isbell is deliberately restricting his range, and that’s a shame. As strong (and occasionally excellent) as the album is, it doesn’t compel an immediate second listen. Maybe it’s a slow-burning record, one that settles in over time, its depth revealing itself after some distance.
In that sense, much like in relationships, it proves something: Isbell is not infallible. Our heroes are not our friends. An artist is not a messiah. Jason Isbell owes us nothing, nor is he an empty vessel for us to project onto. He is flawed and human, and Foxes in the Snow is a flawed and human album.
