Dean Johnson and Esther Rose

Dean Johnson

With I Hope We Can Still Be Friends, his debut for Saddle Creek, Dean Johnson makes a pact with the listener: He will sing you his truth in the most heartfelt and charming way possible, if you promise to keep an open mind.

The title partly stems from the playful way the Seattle-based singer, songwriter and guitarist communes with his audiences at concerts. “I hope you’re not afraid to talk to me after the show,” he’ll say, sweetly, before launching into “Death of the Party,” the album’s seventh song. Centered on the “energy vampire” archetype — the exasperating windbag we’ve all encountered at some point — its lyrics are at once intellectually biting and unmistakably hilarious. His tender voice rings out like the ghost of Roy Orbison or a misfit Everly brother. 

“Words don’t come easily to me / I notice you don’t have that problem / It sounds to me you cannot stop them,” Johnson sings over acoustic guitar strumming, and gentle bass and drums, like the narrator in a dark comedy whose coming-of-age misadventures have made for an excellent film.

Johnson spent years tending bar at Al’s Tavern in Seattle’s Wallingford neighborhood. There, he encountered folks of all stripes; and regulars enthusiastically murmured about his budding musical greatness — There’s the best songwriter in town! Johnson was a kind of local lore, a long-held family secret, before the singer finally broke out in 2023 with his debut album, Nothing For Me Please, at age 50.

“‘Death of the Party’ is a great example of that,” he says of the sociological experience of bartending. “Being in that environment, lyrics did solidify. If I was working on a song, it wasn’t unusual for some new aspect of it, or a line that was too vague, to suddenly come into focus.”     

I Hope We Can Still Be Friends is essentially an anthology that bridges Johnson’s earliest days as a songwriter with his present-day outlook and abilities. There are songs that have been in his setlists for years, and others that will be new to fans. Each of its 11 tracks contains jocular social commentary or lovingly rendered affairs of the heart. The album’s songs about love and relationships offer another way to interpret its title: as a parting thought to an ex. 

Like all of Johnson’s cable-knit writing, the title is a clever banner for the album’s dual nature, the thing that binds its tragedy and comedy masks. Johnson explains that he didn’t set out to make a concept album. It’s a coincidence that about half of the album’s songs are a bit sardonic, and the other half are more lighthearted. The singer playfully refers to the former as his “mean” songs, which is why the album’s back cover is adorned with a warning that says “Beware of Dean.”

Like John Prine or Kris Kristofferson’s country-adjacent sound, devastating humor and economical profundity refracted through a barroom’s haze, the album is filled with easygoing twang, sad characters, universal truths and the absurdity of everyday life. “Carol” recounts the numb consumption and dissipating cultural attention that is besieging America. There’s a search for optimism amid meditations on dying in a plane crash in “Before You Hit the Ground.” Romance that is best forgotten steers “So Much Better” — only Johnson could weave electroconvulsive therapy into a gentle, chuckle-inducing missive on unbearable heartbreak.

I Hope We Can Still Be Friends floats in a liminal plane between timely and timeless, its minimalist instrumentation elevating Johnson’s affecting voice to new heights. Recorded at Unknown Studio in Anacortes, Washington, the record was produced by Sera Cahoone — the Seattle-based singer-songwriter Johnson describes as a “soulmate sibling.” Overdubbing took place at Seattle’s Crackle & Pop!

For the sessions, Johnson assembled a small band of friends including Abbey Blackwell (bass, backing vocals), multi-instrumentalist Sam Peterson and Cahoone (drums, backing vocals), who created a familial tone on the already intimate album. I Hope We Can Still Be Friends, with its sharp observations and stirring personal insights, holds space for both intense reflection and emotional release. You may laugh, or cry or both. In this sense, the album is powerful medicine — a way to both expose yourself to and inoculate yourself against the ugly, absurd, existential and heartbreaking. At its core rests a basic truth that is often difficult to remember or accept: Happiness wouldn’t exist without sadness as its counterpart.

On his uncanny ability to so clearly see and then encapsulate humanity in all its messy glory, Johnson offers this core memory, drawn from his childhood on Camano Island in the Puget Sound. “I was raised on a bluff,” he says. “I’m not trying to make it sound dramatic, but I did have a sweeping view.” 

Esther Rose

Esther Rose was on a long solo drive when she started writing the opening title track of Want, her stunning fifth album. At first, the words seemed almost like a joke, something to keep herself amused as the miles passed. “I want a puppy, but I don't want a mess. I want to know where I’m going without GPS,” she sang from behind the wheel. Soon, the idea snowballed into a list of desires that spanned existential, spiritual, and mundane; romantic to platonic to familial; at once wildly ambitious yet piercingly relatable; all set to a catchy melody that blends her pop instincts with country storytelling and the raw immediacy of a basement punk show. In other words, she was on her way to another classic Esther Rose song.

This precise blend has made the Santa Fe-based artist one of her generation’s most beloved songwriters: someone whose live shows are known to conclude in mass tears and group hugs. Still, something was different this time. “For me, these songs felt like revelations,” she explains, comparing the 11-song record to a memoir, alive with kinetic storytelling and personal insight. In its newly direct and stirringly nuanced writing, you’ll hear about rock bottom encounters, shifting relationships with substances, evolving perspectives on adult partnership, and, as evidenced by those early lines in “Want,” a few jokes along the way. Vivid and bracing, Want places you in the passenger seat while each of these feelings arrive.

To match the multi-dimensional tone of the writing, Rose has made the most adventurous, hardest-hitting record of her career. Working with producer Ross Farbe and recording live-to-tape in Nashville’s Bomb Shelter, she travels as far as she’s been from the stripped-down classic country of celebrated early work like 2017’s This Time Last Night and 2019’s You Made It This Far. Following the wide-open serenity of 2023’s momentous Safe to Run, she now leans toward confrontational arrangements full of distortion and full-band spontaneity, never sacrificing a classicist’s gift for melody that makes each song instantly memorable.

“Making this album was the most beautiful experience of my life,” Rose explains, describing the euphoria of sharing these intimate stories among trusted collaborators like guitarist Kunal Prakash, drummer Howe Pearson, bassist Gina Leslie, and pedal steel player John James Tourville. She also enlisted friends like singer-songwriter Dean Johnson (who duets in the stunning “Scars”) and New Orleans rock band Video Age (who she co-wrote “tailspin” with) to flesh out her vision. Ranging from stark solo performances to grungy blowouts, the album maintains a steady focus while never staying too long in one place. (Like David Bowie, Rose would arrive at the studio in carefully chosen outfits to set the tone for each session, guiding her bandmates to follow the mood.)

To reach this level of confidence, Rose had to recalibrate her entire relationship with music. When she concluded the tour for Safe to Run, she considered quitting altogether, feeling exhausted and depleted, seeing no way to continue at her relentless pace. But after quitting drinking and finding new momentum in therapy, she devoted herself to the new material, letting ideas flow without worrying about the final product. She considered making an electro-pop album; a self-titled acoustic record. Eventually, she began categorizing her disparate ideas under the working title The Therapy LP.

“There are things that I have tiptoed around in my writing—and in my life—that I wasn't ready to look at,” she reflects, “and now I’m going for it.” The results are breakthroughs like “Had To” and “Rescue You” that tether her tightly structured melodies to narratives that bring distressing subject matter down to earth. And where her love songs in the past often found universal resonance in simple questions about heartbreak, these ones explore complex subjects like accountability and true connection: “Baby, I’ve got scars that you cannot see/Love them for what they gave to me,” she sings boldly in “Scars.”

This level of vulnerability is new from Esther Rose—a vow to be known more fully by her audience, herself, and the people in her life. “Each time I write a new album, I go a little deeper,” she says. “For me, it’s been very challenging to stay... I’m always packing the Subaru in my mind.” And while she can still craft a road song like nobody else—“Two days on the highway, solo drive/Today is the greatest day of my life,” she sings in “tailspin”—she now searches for stability, even when that means confronting internal chaos. The album’s closing song, titled “Want Pt. 2,” returns Rose to her old hometown of New Orleans during Mardi Gras, watching a Rolling Stones cover band in a bar she frequented back in the day. She’s teary-eyed, surrounded by loved ones, finding new profundity in a shaky rendition of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.” As she reflects on the scene—even interpolating some of the Stones’ lyrics and melodic cues—her friends provide celebratory backing vocals as the band thrashes away. It’s a fitting finale for the strongest, widest-reaching album of her career—a moment when the past, present, and future collide, a panorama of emotions, the kind of party you never want to leave.