Iron and Wine - Songs of love and faith

Introduction: “Beef, Iron & Wine”

Behind that guitar, the thick beard and the stage name Iron & Wine – lifted from the dietary supplement “Beef, Iron & Wine” – is Samuel Ervin Beam, born in South Carolina in July 1974. Then came the tour of America: college in Virginia, Florida (where he graduated and taught Film), until he settled in Durham, North Carolina. Sam is a quiet guy, married to Kim for a lifetime and father to five daughters. He's got the face of a preacher, one of those wise, world-weary American pastors who dispense advice and sermons from an isolated pulpit in the woods (something he more or less does in the video for “Thomas County Law“). Beam, however, has strayed from the straight and narrow: born a Christian in one of the most devout corners of America, he now professes to be an atheist, even though his music and lyrics are steeped in biblical imagery and references. If you go to the official website, under the About section you'll find a line impossible to argue with: “Iron & Wine has captured the emotion and imagination of listeners with distinctly cinematic songs”. The early work was homemade and lo-fi, built first from the interwoven melodies of a spare guitar, with words added afterward. After years of this routine, the purchase of a four-track recorder proved decisive, allowing him to commit his first demos to tape, which, with the help of Michael Bridwell – brother of the singer of Band Of Horses – began to circulate, eventually catching the attention of Sub Pop. The story of Iron & Wine begins here.

Part one: “Little things you’re familiar with”

The masterpieces of The Creek Drank The Cradle are “Upward Over The Mountain”, from which the album's title is drawn (“Mother, forget me now that the creek drank the cradle you sang to”), and “Muddy Hymnal”. The former is an intense coming-of-age dialogue-narrative between the protagonist and his mother (given the Iron & Wine universe, it could even be the Madonna), while the latter offers glimpses into the life of a young widower in the aftermath of loss.

Nick Drake, Simon & Garfunkel, Smog, Donovan: lofty comparisons and glowing reviews abound after a debut of this caliber, followed shortly after by two EPs: Iron & Wine Tour Ep and The Sea And The Rhythm. It would become a habit for the singer-songwriter to regularly release not just LPs but also numerous live albums, EPs and Archive Series. The twenty minutes of The Sea And The Rhythm continue the journey through the limpid landscapes painted by the debut. In the title track – underpinned by the usual crisp chords – the first explicit sexual undertones of Beam's man-woman universe appear, embellished by a gorgeous banjo solo: “Tonight we’re the sea and the salty breeze/ The milk from your breast is on my lips/ And lovelier words from your mouth to me/ When salty my sweat and fingertips.” The song “The Sea And The Rhythm” would go on to feature in the season one finale of “The O.C.”, inaugurating a relationship between Iron & Wine and the world of TV and film (often with a pronounced teen slant) that would bring him a level of visibility and viewership nothing short of staggering given his musical coordinates. Worth noting too are “Jesus The Mexican Boy” and the closing “Someday The Waves”, which paves the way for an imminent, major second chapter.

With Our Endless Numbered Days, Iron & Wine shows a desire to focus not only on guitar microcosms but also on broader languages, on long-form structures. It opens with a kind of blues built on mercurial, nocturnal plucking and a mournful guitar, only fleetingly lifted toward more expansive territory (“On Your Wings”), before moving into a track with loose, dreamy atmospheres, bathed in the clearest and most benevolent sunlight, where a single guitar arpeggio is left to carry the whole piece. The singer-songwriter's poetic souls alternate, echoing an inner and artistic conflict that once belonged to late-period Nick Drake (though here it's less complex and anguished) and that takes on the shape of a more carefree Syd Barrett (though here there's less inventiveness). What's worth noting is the trajectory of this latter dimension, the songs stretched out in major key. At times they seem like continuations of one another (only interrupted by pensive asides), at times they seem to want to push beyond the poetic-musical discourse set up by the previous track, whether through the subtle breeze of cheerful amusement that partly runs through them (“Love And Some Verses”), or through increasingly fragile atmospheres (“Fever Dream”), or through a guitar catharsis as irresistible as a Muse's song (“Each Coming Night”) and as claustrophobic as a passing trance (“Sunset Soon Forget”). “Sodom, South Georgia” is a measured country-pop number with a marching gait and echoes of Palace Brothers (though with strong melodic effectiveness), but it's above all the track that confirms the prevalence of serene, if fragile, moods across the whole record. The album's binary structure finally seems to give way to a kind of resolution of the small conflict that had been in progress. The cornerstone of the collection and the absolute peak of Iron & Wine's discography is “Naked As We Came”, sung as a duet with his sister Sarah, who would go on to appear on other tracks and many tours. The scene: autumn, a couple (with children, as we later discover) lying peacefully in the grass. Rather than exchanging the usual stock romantic lines, he opts for a different kind of declaration:

One of us will die inside these arms,

eyes wide open, naked as we came;

one of us will spread our ashes around the yard.

'Honey,' she says to me, 'if I should go before you do,

don't let me lie wasted in the ground'.

I lie smiling, like our children when they sleep.

Closing out Our Endless Numbered Days is “Passing Afternoon”, a gentle nursery rhyme that offers quiet reassurance (though at times fevered and passionate too) to the fragile hearts listening.

Parte Seconda: Songs of the Shepherd’s Dog

In Iron & Wine's career, the EP Woman King holds particular importance: it's the record where we first glimpse electric sounds. Never before had the American artist sounded so rhythmic and driven by so many layers of sound, but if you think this is a ploy to mask thin content and dubious quality, fortunately that's not the case. This "small" release — produced and played with the help of Brian Deck — has plenty of substance. The songwriter not only changes his sonic wardrobe, but invests even more in texts rich with significant reinterpretations. Who the Woman King hinted at in the bustling opening track actually is gets revealed in the second composition: it's "Jezebel," the biblical Phoenician princess of Sidon, future wife of King Ahab of Israel. A figure with an unhappy reputation, remembered through the centuries as a corruptor of souls and nations on par with the most infamous of prostitutes, only recently reassessed as a strong woman able to hold her own in a totally male and male-dominated world and mindset. A tragic, intense character, perfect for joining the gallery of stories and people ennobled by Beam's art, still focused on the biblical cosmos and on the narration of tragic, poetic events. The lyrics hint at the most brutal aspects of her end ("Her blouse on the ground/ Where the dogs were hungry, roaming"), weaving them together with a banjo, the whispers of her sister Sarah and the hope of love, composing a work of precious humanity and charm. Keeping company with the unfortunate fate of the "Woman King" are other female figures tied to the Old and New Testaments: Mary in the engaging "Freedom Hangs Like Heaven" and the stunning finale of "Evening On The Ground (Lilith's Song)," where strings and guitar strikes close out this small but great release in the best possible way.

In 2006 came out In The Reins, the fruit of a collaboration with some old friends and colleagues: none other than Calexico. The record starts off on a high note: "He Lays In The Reins" opens the proceedings, ruled by Calexico's desert-swept brushwork of lap-steel, piano and tex-mex percussion; a track with a highly evocative melody, reminiscent of the sung pieces on "The Black Light," entrusted to Beam and to Salvador Duran, a tenor from the Tucson flamenco scene (where the album was recorded). Roles are reversed for "Prison On Route 41": whereas before Beam acted as vocalist for Calexico, now it's the Arizona band backing up Iron & Wine's exploits. The pleasant track is an exemplary product of the bearded troubadour's tender pen, awash in slide guitar brushstrokes and harmonica and banjo incursions in the middle section. The real cooperation begins with the third track, as the two distinct personalities start to merge and explore territory that's partly shared, partly alien to their music. "History Of Lovers" rests on a backdrop of rhythmic guitars and an ever-present contrapuntal slide, before bursting into a flurry of horns; "Red Dust" is an acidic blues-rock jam for guitar, harmonica and accordion; "16, Maybe Less" is instead the classic slow-burning atmospheric number, as classy as it is prone to dragging. Unfortunately these are blatantly formulaic tracks, unable to deliver any real emotion or spark. Offering partial redemption are the closing numbers, where once more the two paths tend to diverge. The smoky noir woven by "Burn That Broken Bed" bears Calexico's stamp, ready to plunge into a murky blues from which emerges a precious trumpet solo that carries the track to its fade-out. Even better, and on par with the EP's successful opening track, is the choral, heartfelt, purely Iron & Wine acoustic finale of "Dead Man's Will." All that's left is to sum up this In The Reins, which, while not lacking the occasional tasty moment, disappoints precisely where a leap in quality was expected.

The Shepherd's Dog, released the following year, confirms Iron & Wine as one of the greatest songwriters around. While Our Endless Numbered Days had already marked steps of growth and a turning point, trying to give a more colorful sound to the austere delicacy of the debut, here that promise is fully realized: attention shifts to the music itself, to the layered, intricate arrangements, to the countless varieties of drums, skins, glasses, sticks and assorted gadgets employed. The tracks flow taut, built around repeated melodic lines and prominent instrumentation. Such is the case with the feverish "White Tooth Man," hard and sharp, with hints of Eastern flavor; with "House By The Sea," a watery landscape opened by horns and harmonica; with "Wolves (Song Of The Shepherd's Dog)," with its funky little guitar line and closing jam. Despite all the effort poured into these aspects, Beam doesn't forget his emotional strengths. The introverted "Carousel" and the antique country flavor of "Resurrection Fern" warm the heart. Having gone from being a melodist to being a musician (the two souls become complementary on the excellent "Boy With A Coin" and "Lovesong Of The Buzzard"), Beam stitches together a cohesive, mature album with no dead spots, met with the usual critical acclaim. As has happened before, one track from the batch would end up in a hugely successful film, bringing him staggering numbers: it's "Flightless Bird, American Mouth," the album's closing track, included in the soundtrack of the famous "Twilight" film saga. A pairing that will have more than one die-hard Iron & Wine fan turning up their nose, but one that takes nothing away from the crystalline beauty of the song — still one of his untouchable hits — and that might just lead some particularly sensitive young listener toward more mature listening.

After the creative efforts of its estimable predecessors, Iron & Wine takes it easy with Around The Well, a classic collection of rarities, unreleased tracks, leftovers, covers and the like. The compilation is effectively a sui generis retrospective of the songwriter's evolution, starting out from the murky bedroom lo-fi (where the Neil Young-esque ballads "Hickory" and "Peng!" stand out), devoted to acoustic blues, country, and the Nick Drake-like phrasing of his melodious baritone, before arriving at a first attempt to arrange his songs with arcane yet essential touches ("Sinning Hands," "No Moon"). The third and final stage of his still-brief career is tied to the more layered arrangements of The Shepherd's Dog, where a few experiments break through (the airy blues of "Carried Home," the raga of "Serpent Charmer") along with various liberties (the electronics of "Kingdom Of The Animals" and "Arms Of A Thief"). There are tasty covers — "Peng!" (Stereolab), "Waitin' For A Superman" (Flaming Lips) and "Love Vigilantes" (New Order) — and above all "Such Great Heights" by label-mates The Postal Service. There's also some film music composed for Paul Weitz's "In Good Company," including one song we simply can't skip over, if only out of fairness to the many fans who adore it like few others: "The Trapeze Swinger." Nearly ten minutes in which Beam unleashes his full talent, composing a mini-poem centered on love, God and death, yet tinged with ambiguity and mystery. The fate of this trapeze artist is never made entirely clear; each verse opens with a heartfelt "Please, remember me" and goes on to summon up figures both affectionate (the girlfriend, the mother) and more enigmatic and otherworldly (the monkey, God, Lucifer, the Angel kissing the Sinner): all we know is that the track is one of the most magical and "extreme" results ever composed, its mysterious charm still bewitching listeners to this day.

Part Three: Kiss & Ghosts

Having reached his fourth outing with Kiss Each Other Clean (2011), the American songwriter now finds himself saddled with great responsibility, having to measure up against a past body of work of considerable weight and against undeniably sky-high expectations. But Sam Beam is a man of solid principle, who goes straight down his own path, living music the way he "feels" it, giving free rein to his artistic creativity without letting himself be swayed by the reverberations of success, not even when that success takes the shape of a "cumbersome" ghost like The Shepherd's Dog. And so, with Kiss Each Other Clean, the songwriter answers expectations by moving largely away from the bucolic intimacy of its illustrious predecessor and veering toward colorful pop atmospheres.

Preceded in late 2010 by the eloquent single "Walking Far From Home," the new record is marked by a lavish production that, between striking distortions and electronic incursions, radio-hit-worthy backing vocals and a varied instrumental palette, builds up in layers across the tracks, lending them some of the most disparate shades (ranging from the tribal ancestrality of "Monkeys Uptown" to the futuristic visions of "Rabbit Will Run," from the seventies pop of "Tree By The River" to the vintage jazz flavor of "Big Burned Hand").

Beam's superb gift for songwriting emerges throughout Kiss Each Other Clean with extraordinary expressive force, rising to the timeless elegance of "Godless Brother In Love" (perhaps the album's most evocative track), the decisive swagger of "Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me," the velvety softness of "Me And Lazarus" or "Glad Man Singing," the eccentricity of "Big Burned Hand." And it's precisely a controlled eccentricity that forms the musical and narrative core of the album, shifting Iron & Wine's artistic compass even more decisively than before, away from the lo-fi folk intimacy of its origins and toward a kaleidoscope that takes in jazz, country-blues, ethnic incursions and vaguely acid-tinged drifts.

Sam Beam's renewed inspiration carries faithfully through into the lyrics, via apparent nonsense ("I saw flowers on the hillside and a millionaire pissing on the lawn," "judgement is just a cup we share") and biblical symbolism, but it shows above all in a wealth of sonic solutions marked by a pop sensibility more pronounced than ever and backed by an actual band, in which talented musicians (among whom Thomas Bartlett aka Doveman and the two Califone men, Joe Adamik and Jim Becker, deserve a mention) trade off on horns and rhythm section, guitars and electronics, under the skilled guidance of producer Brian Deck.

Beam's palette grows richer with a certain orchestral flair and ever-fresh, colorful arrangements, without ever losing sight of that candor and intimate vein that have always accompanied the American songwriter's music: so we get the black-music vitality of "Half Moon," the highway rock of "Tree By The River" and the compelling mantra that closes the album, alongside the spare lightness of restrained piano fragments and acoustic folk ballads that, in the end, aren't all that far removed from those of Our Endless Numbered Days (particularly, "Godless Brother In Love").

Soul, come to think of it, seems like the natural home for a songwriter like Iron & Wine, given how fluid and emotional his compositions are — far more so than the world and Latin contaminations that had defined Beam's music from The Shepherd's Dog onward. With the new Ghost on Ghost, from 2013, the surrounding details — the jazz drumming, the backing vocals, the piano — seem measured with extreme precision, to create a tribute to 70s soul, precisely, and to the earliest crossovers between jazz and singer-songwriter fare. "It all came down to you and I": as Beam himself has stated, the couple is the central theme of the album, from the shadowy, theatrical "Singers And The Endless Song" and "Low Light Buddy Of Mine," which seem set in Anaïs Mitchell's "Hadestown," to the Marvin Gaye-esque "The Desert Babbler," which surely brings out the best that Iron & Wine's music has to offer. When Beam's voice soars into velvety falsetto ("New Mexico's No Breeze"), or slips into nightingale-like trills ("Joy"), it's immediately clear that the magic of Iron & Wine has never been clearer. Universality is a fundamental, openly stated trait of Beam's music, and even on Ghost On Ghost the empathy with songs of youthful infatuation, like the gorgeous "Baby Center's Stage," is sharpened by the surrounding strings, slide guitar and piano, on a track that defines the genre as "soft Americana." The acoustic guitar finally becomes an auxiliary instrument (a hushed chirr in "Grace For Saints And Ramblers"), set aside even where a simple arpeggio would have sufficed as accompaniment — instead turning into an a cappella passage on "Sundown (Back In The Briars)." But the transition is painless here, thanks to the record's great attention to overall unity and to the complementary nature of the arrangements, which, if anything, give real breathing room to Beam's more verbose compositions, as in the gently building "Lovers' Revolution," which spills out into a jam between percussion and sax.

Two years later came Sing Into My Mouth, with Ben Bridwell of Band Of Horses. A covers album that, starting from its very title, pays tribute to the Talking Heads song that opens the collection: the famous "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)." A collection in which, as expected, every track gets reworked in a folk key, with no particular flair and no particular harm.

That same year also saw the start of the Archive Series collection. Volume No.1 is a homemade recording of songs written between the debut and the following 2003 EP, a testament to his unstoppable creative streak.

These were followed by No. 2, entirely dedicated to His Majesty Neil Young, and, for Record Store Day, Archive Series Volume No. 3: a 7" containing the unreleased 1999-2000 tracks "Stranger Lay Beside Me" and "Miss Bottom Of The Hill."

The fourth chapter, meanwhile, came out to celebrate 10 years of The Shepherd's Dog.

But it was already time for new collaborations, and so in 2016 came Love Letter For Fire, credited to Sam Beam and Jesca Hoop. The project originated with Beam, who had already set aside a handful of songs over the years specifically for a record like this. The blueprint, then, is more or less tangibly recognizable as that of an Iron & Wine album. But in music, nuance is often everything, so even tracks that bear the I&W stamp, like the caressing melody of "Valley Clouds," take directions and cues they probably wouldn't have taken had they not passed through Hoop's hands. Thus emerge the pop nuances of her songwriting, closer to Kate Bush and Bjork than to the more traditional names of American female singer-songwriting, as in the chamber-music suggestions of "We Two Are A Moon," or the amorous flourishes of "Every Songbird Says." More broadly, Hoop's aesthetic — her music has been described by Tom Waits as "a swim in a lake at night" — shapes the record's overall atmosphere, a suggestion that lends depth and character to the songs. The musicians involved are all-star game material — to name just one, Glenn Kotche on drums. This, along with some adjustments to the arrangements, which are more sober and minimalist than on recent I&W releases, softens the vaguely cloying feeling that extended listening to Beam's songs can sometimes leave. The risk was even greater with the choice of a duo album, but the result is very well balanced between more classic, radio-friendly numbers ("One Way To Pray") and sharper-edged interludes ("Midas Tongue," "Chalk It Up To Chi" is Hoop's handiwork), and an overall state of grace that makes you think of the record as one of the artistic peaks of the year, despite an inevitable undercurrent of mannerist itchiness.

After a run of releases that were more exuberant both expressively (the almost groovy feel of the previous Ghost On Ghost and the faint avant-garde flirtation of the collaboration with Jesca Hoop) and in terms of songwriting, Beast Epic often risks drifting toward the merely "nice," the pleasant, leaning a bit too heavily on Beam's unmistakable caressing timbre and a bit too little on the melodic instincts of his writing, which here often runs on autopilot ("Bitter Truth"), without ever slipping into outright self-tribute, though it offers consolation prizes rather than new classics in the saga of his romantically melodic folk ("Song In Stone"), where the Steve Gunn-style acoustic country-rock of "Call It Dreaming" stands out more. The overall impression is of a transitional record, full of perfectly forgettable songs that nonetheless contain all the fundamental elements of Iron & Wine's music, which plays especially well when it hints back at the early part of his career, albeit with a less singer-songwriter spirit ("Right For Sky"). An unexpectedly "safe" record for an artist who had accustomed us to searching for new horizons, more in his own songwriting than in his sonic expression.

This Weed Garden shouldn't be defined as an EP of leftovers, of outtakes shelved for whatever reason, because the reality calls for slightly different considerations. Had these songs simply not been finished in time for the release of Beast Epic, the latest change of clothes for Sam Beam and his creature Iron & Wine, they probably would have met a different fate. But history isn't written with ifs, so it's only a year after the release of the parent project that this new six-track package sees the light of day, in obvious continuity with the main work. With a stylistic framework that further develops the album's fascinating chamber-americana trappings, built however on noticeably gentler and more emotional songwriting, the project serves as an ideal complement to this recording era, highlighting aspects that had remained muted, while maintaining great unity of intent. Along with that homogeneity come, besides Beam's well-established craftsmanship, some less convincing aspects already found on the main record, which simply resurface here in slightly different guise. The author's extraordinary arranging skills come through forcefully, able to move between more overtly chamber-music openings (the dazzling string carpet of "Waves Of Galveston," the piano jests and vocal drones of the more distinctive "Milkweed"), fine alt-country packages (the earthy "Last Of Your Rock'n'Roll Heroes") and soulful ballads in line with the romantic openings of "Ghost On Ghost" ("Talking To Fog," complete with a sweeping final climax). All of this, though, comes at the expense of writing that continues to rest on patterns the musician has used extensively, on a cart of melodies that highlights the moving emotional grain of his pen ("What Hurts Worse" is the prime example, starting with its title), but doesn't add much more to a rather static, if classy, penmanship. Weed Garden is a dignified coda to a season of great creative fervor, a small box set of songs that will appeal to the diehard fans of one of the great folk minds of the past twenty years, but it doesn't open any new doors. It remains a small consolation, to satisfy appetites while waiting for a new reinvention.

In Sam Beam's memories of his first collaboration with Calexico, which dates back almost fifteen years, there's this image: "In my mind, I was the guy who knew three chords and recorded in a closet, they played the biggest stages and were superb musicians." Already in that statement lies something that might explain the wariness toward this new collaboration, the Years To Burn project (2019). What Calexico give to Iron & Wine, perhaps, isn't what the latter's admirers look for in his music (and probably the reverse is true too). The acclaimed In The Reins, after all, already suffered from this only apparently well-engineered duality, in which Sam Beam is alternately the vocalist on songs that aren't his, and Calexico the arrangers of songs that aren't theirs. In certain stretches, the author of "Trapeze Swinger" and so many other memorable melodies has to forget he's first and foremost a great songwriter, reduced to playing backing singer on long "big stage" suites, built by layering but without a shred of unifying theme ("The Bitter Suite"). Elsewhere, as on the opening "What Heaven's Left," the accompaniment (with its insistent country counter-melodies, as on other tracks) adds no freshness to a song that, frankly, is almost an automatic gesture for someone like Sam Beam. Years To Burn is a product built on the respectability of its authors, but paradoxically manages to offer less than the sum of their parts.

The fifth installment of Iron & Wine's "Archive Series" is a fundamental piece of the early steps of his career. While Archive Series Volume No. 1 collected unreleased home recordings written around the time of the debut The Creek Drank The Cradle (2002), Tallahassee Recordings goes even further back in time. We're between 1998 and 1999, and Beam put twenty-four tracks to tape. Of these, eleven were selected to make up an album "lost in time," as stated on the official website. In the story of Iron & Wine, friends and people close to him have always played an important role, capable of giving his artistic path a small but decisive push. Michael Bridwell (brother of Ben, singer of Band Of Horses) brought the four-track recordings to the future label, and just as important was his roommate EJ Holowicki, who lent the providential recorder for the home sessions. And on those tapes, where Holowicki plays bass, we find the Tallahassee Recordings. The title comes from the College of Motion Picture Arts at Florida State University, where the future singer-songwriter was studying film. Staying with cinema for a moment, this release could be his biopic's "begins" chapter: the story intent on reconstructing his life before the big leap, before fame. Opened by the slow tread of "Why Hate the Winter" and threaded through with the bloody tales of "John's Glass Eye," it's hard to believe that Tallahassee represents some brand-new "serious" approach to music on Beam's part: it sits in perfect continuity with The Creek Drank The Cradle and the sparse opening chapters of his body of work, at least up through Our Endless Numbered Days. Although Holowicki went back and worked on the tapes (he remained a collaborator of Iron & Wine's after these recordings), the result is rougher due to the recording circumstances, but the voice and the hand on the guitar are clearly recognizable. In fact, "This Solemn Day," with its drum beats and harmonica cuts, or "Elizabeth," with its interlacing guitars, could pass for unreleased material from right now. Lyrically, the coordinates of the Iron & Wine universe are already taking shape. The outlines aren't fully defined and the colors are less vivid than on the official works, but in the verses we find his gaze already fixed on the subjects he would never again let go of: the presence of the animal world, the torments (often romantic ones, "Valentine," "Ex-Lover Lucy Jones") of the human soul, and a predilection for stories with a bitter aftertaste. And if, at the moment, the latest production with Calexico is called Years to Burn, there's nothing left to burn from Iron & Wine's early years.

The evocative power of Sam Beam's compositions has always been one of his trademarks, which is also why his songbook has been raided by TV series and films ("The L Word," "House," "Twilight") that found in his light, romantic narratives the perfect soundtrack. In Who Can See Forever (2023), though, the star of the "film" is the South Carolina singer-songwriter himself, captured both in a live dimension over two nights at the historic Haw River Ballroom in Saxapahaw, North Carolina, and in more intimate moments at his wooden home nestled in the greenery of Durham, together with his wife and five daughters. Director Josh Sliffe was tasked with making a live documentary, but as he spent more time with Beam he realized that the family, the friends, the creative moments in his recording studio or the painting sessions in the back of the house were all pieces of a story that deserved to be told in full.

The songs making up the album are live reworkings of some of Iron & Wine's best-loved tracks: "Passing Afternoon" is as poignant as a November afternoon spent on the porch watching the rain-bent leaves while choices, regrets and memories drift through the mind, piling up the way only memory can; "The Trapeze Swinger," recorded in 2005 for the film "In Good Company," is the testament of a reserved man raised on folk music and the Bible in a small rural town, now searching for something that might explain joys and failures, scars and smiles, tears shed and tears caused, unable to find in a monotheistic God the answer to his soul's restlessness.

It's from this last song that the album takes its title, Who Can See Forever, a flow of 19 tracks lit up by Beam's compositional grace, by his sweet, slightly cracked voice, by Elizabeth Goodfellow's drums and percussion, Eliza Hardy Jones's keyboards and mandolin, Teddy Rankin-Parker's cello and Sebastian Steinberg's bass. "Grace For Saints And Ramblers" has a Dylanesque gait, with a spoken-word delivery looming over cloud-shaped origami drawn by the cello, while "Thomas County Law" — chosen as the film's first promotional video — is intimate, warm and welcoming, enriched by weightless harmonies and a gently rebellious gait.

Every composition is an evocative inner portrait, a fragment of private history that speaks to everyone's heart, because the strength of the storyteller lies precisely in immersing himself in the world with raw nerves exposed, ready to capture weaknesses, fears and hopes: “Uno di noi morirà tra queste braccia/ Occhi spalancati/ Nudi come siamo arrivati”, Sam sings in a thin voice on "Naked As We Came," while his guitar traces out delicate arpeggios.

A year later, with Light Verse (2024), the inspiration that had been frozen during the pandemic years returns to Beam's universe. Still marked by serene, unhurried tones, the album — again released by Sub Pop — is characterized by "light" moments, as hinted at by the title itself. And we realize everything is back to normal with "You Never Know," the opening track. Once the noise and distortion of the very first seconds have passed, there it is — as if nothing had happened — the return of Iron & Wine, accompanied by acoustic guitar, that unmistakable voice, and those "creaking" sounds that give the impression of watching him play on his home's wooden porch. Less fragile and romantic than past works, bolstered by fuller sounds and instrumental arrangements he often "duets" with (just listen to the ending of "Tears That Don't Matter"), Beam still writes great songs: from the surprisingly more propulsive ones — "Sweet Talk" or the fine pop craftsmanship of "Anyone's Game" — to the more poignant moments that made him famous worldwide ("Taken By Surprise," the closing "Angels Go Home"). And when Fiona Apple joins the game, the quality bar rises even further. The singer-songwriter's vocal timbre meshes perfectly with his colleague's husky rasp and her piano on "All in Good Time." The rest is quality American songwriting, 100% guaranteed by the Iron & Wine brand.

In some ways a mirror image of Light Verse, the following album Hen's Teeth (2026) was recorded during the same sessions, with the now-inseparable David Garza (guitar), Tyler Chester (organ and keyboards) and Sebastian Steinberg (bass). The album has a fluidity and breadth that let the songwriter engage with sun-drenched, postcard-perfect Brazilian sounds on "Defiance Ohio" and with a refined dialogue between voice and bass that brings back the already-familiar jazz influences explored on Kiss Each Other Clean, on the sensual, coquettish "Dates And Dead People."

It's clear that Iron & Wine's records are growing less and less intimate and poignant, undoubtedly more empathetic and communicative, more prone to imperfection and a certain looseness; the voice no longer lingers in melancholy, and the timbre often recalls Ian Matthews, especially when Laurel Canyon-style country inflections take over, as on "Robin's Egg" (with I'm With Her on backing vocals) and "Roses." A creative dimension is solidifying in which the hallmarks of his style — the confiding voice and the direct, unvarnished guitar touch — carry even more weight; whether intricate, like the dreamlike "Singing Saw," or delightfully simple, like the solid chamber-folk of "Wait Up," which again features I'm With Her on backing vocals, the songs all possess a personality of their own.

"Grace Notes" earns the title of the album's most ambitious and successful track, with mandolin and violin swirling above the vocals while the piano spikes the turbulent harmonies with a touch of swing, building to an emotional crescendo that leaves its mark. For once, being at peace isn't a sin.

Iron & Wine is a rare case of an underground talent who rose into the mainstream (he's even picked up four Grammy nominations) without losing an ounce of honesty or inspiration, because deep down he only knows how to do one thing... tell the story of the stuff we're made of, somewhere between stars and ashes, and he does it like few others can.

Contributions by Lorenzo Righetto ("Beast Epic," "Love Letter For Fire," "Ghost On Ghost"), Vassilios Karagiannis ("Weed Garden"), Alessandra Reale, Raffaello Russo ("Kiss Each Other Clean"), Michele Saran ("Around The Well," "Our Endless Numbered Days"), Ciro Frattini ("The Shepherd's Dog"), Barbara Tomasino ("Who Can See Forever"), Gianfranco Marmoro ("Hen's Teeth")