Album review: Daniel Folmer’s Dead End

by Sarah Crisman

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I sat down with Daniel Folmer's new album and came out the other end in a gorgeous, crippling depression.

My laptop and I sat down with Daniel Folmer's new album, Dead End, to explore this strapping young Dentonite's disconcerting depth. You may recognize him from The Paper Chase, he'll be celebrating the release of his latest solo effort October 17 at J&J's Basement with Dust Congress, Sabra Laval, and Glen Farris.

The album begins disruptively with the title track. Sound bytes of voices reminiscent of Ryan Thomas Becker's screams and that confusing place between nightmares and waking up alone fold acquiescently into the sounds of a distant piano. Suddenly I feel very far away. The tempo rocks back and forth as Folmer's lyrics make sense of the noise:

“You're down in the dumps in the dead end of Texas | Going nowhere at half-speed.”

I am now soundly depressed and completely understood.

Before I curl up in a ball under my desk and weep in melodramatic desperation, “Old Times” perks me up ever so slightly.

“Pack your bags and sing one more song | the show must go on.”

His voice, like a sedated Ben Folds, soothes me. Clearly we aren't giving up. We're getting the 'ell out of here, but still acknowledging what it sounds like to live in Texas. Kind of sad, but not suicidally so.

Folmer continues the steady climb on the up with “Careful Dear” and “Whiskey Warewolf.” The piano seems to be cheering up as the tracks go on, while the guitar grounds us that we've yet to wander far from the acoustic roots of Southern songwriting.

“Take the man out of the city | But you cannot take the city from the man.”

It seems that we've managed to escape the desolation and loneliness of the first few tracks. Alas, an underlying sadness remains. It seems the more painful bits of being in a dead end remain. “Wasting Time,” on the other hand, feels like the end of really rough day – once the chorus starts in it's clear we're not going to let the “pain to see the curtain fall” kill all hope of spirit. Folmer's vocal distortion juxtaposed against his raw guitar make for a fitful awakening.

Folmer manages to match his lyrics and music in surprising ways. “Open Arms” is immediately recognized as straight-up Texas. Sure enough, we're “back in Texas,” but once the song ends we're “six feet underground with open arms.” It seems I've died and gone to Austin.

“Flying Shoes” starts in, and I get the feeling I'm walking through Noah and the Whale's album, Gently the World Lays Me Down. The song cycle of this album has a similar morose, yet beautiful undertones of one's journey continuing through mortality.

There is a great sense of loss here. It finally gets to me during “In the Smoke,” and I have to blink back tears. The sound sits heavy on my chest, quiet and invasive. There is nowhere to go to escape this beautiful, wretched agony.

Two songs remain, I hope Folmer will take it somewhere slightly less depressing. Thankfully, “Narcocism” follows the comforting ebb and flow this album provides. The past hour has been a melancholy yo-yo. The sadness is never far away – but neither is the pervasive hope. How will it end?

“The Plane” begins, and it does not sound like a happy ending. Nope, we're stuck in the city now, and someone important has left. It's really getting to me now. The music become distorted in pain – Sonic Youth-like pain – and the very last really is downright painful monitor feedback that leaves the ears ringing before you can unplug.

I am now curled up in a ball under my desk.

This album is incredible. I love it. You must experience it and keep it in your imperative sad day mix. Especially “In the Smoke.” That's one, I promise, I will listen to whilst crying on an airplane someday.

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