Narc. Magazine Online
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Michael O’Neill revels in an intense and engrossing evening of song courtesy of Jason Isbell
Image by Michael O’Neill
It’s been a rather whirlwind couple of decades for the Americana genre in the time since a young, curly haired virtuoso first picked up an axe and started slinging glorious melodies in the pioneering Drive By Truckers.
Yes. Americana. Forgive the lazy muso-journo deployment of an even lazier umbrella term. The implications of such a half-arsed genre term are always slightly unkind and slightly inaccurate. At face value, it implies a shameless rehash of Outlaw-country tropes and reeks of shameless nostalgia. On further examination, it would seem like your writer here is asleep at the wheel. Indeed, that genre tag serves as a colossal disservice to the vast monument of song that Jason Isbell has been crafting since he first joined the aforementioned Truckers.
You’d be well within your rights, at this point, to query why I’m choosing to open this very review with a reference to it. In my defense, the vastness of the Isbell songbook and sound is simply too great to stuff into the neat-and-tidy device of a genre tag.
Over a 25-ish year run, the singer-songwriter and guitar god has constantly refined and perfected an approach that takes in a broad sonic world and condenses it down into a glorious sound, which has cast a broad shadow over the genre of country as a whole. From iconic auteurs like Sturgill Simpson and Margo Price, through to commercial wunderkinds such as Tyler Childers and Zach Bryan, Isbell has set a template (particularly with 2013 breakthrough Southeastern) of forward-looking and forward-thinking country rock that is equally indebted to R.E.M. and The Byrds as it is Cash and Nelson. Despite setting on a refined and iconic template with that LP (which, on the strength of its extraordinary songs, catapulted him into the pantheon), Isbell has spent the resulting 13 years being prolifically restless and unwilling to compromise; pushing his sound into bold new frontiers that never fails to deliver.
So, taking to the Glasshouse’s stage (with his trusty band The 400 Unit) in the wake of 2025’s stark and raw Foxes in the Snow (his first truly solo effort; recorded in NYC’s Electric Lady Studios solo-acoustic) you could forgive Isbell for being a man with very little to prove. However, from the intensity with which he tore into the slashing opening stabs of When We Were Close, it was abundantly clear that both Isbell and band were unsurprisingly uninterested in phoning anything in. Despite the wealth of acclaim and accolades, that hunger that drove him to craft some of the finest rock LPs of the century was still abundant in every note and every word.
The show was a phenomenal 2.5 hour and 22-song masterclass in their collective command of the craft, stretching back to his Drive By Truckers contributions and also deftly reinventing the intricate, solo-guitar songs of Foxes into fully-fleshed, full-band soundworlds.
Of course, even Isbell’s fretboard mastery alone isn’t the sole source of magic on stage. The 400 Unit have evolved over the years, but remain a potent and visceral force who effortlessly and brilliantly breathe life into these fantastic songs. Guitarist Sadler Vaden is an extraordinary foil for Isbell, with the two regularly interweaving and trading glorious melodies which brilliantly balance virtuosity with a strong respect for melody and power, and a healthy dose of one-upmanship; more a friendly spar than a dogfight, but a phenomenal feast for the ears.
The engine at the heart of it all is the glorious bed of sound provided by keyboardist Derry deBorja, drummer Chad Gamble and newer additions Anna Butterss (on bass) and Will Johnson (who brilliantly switches between third guitar and a second drumkit). The interplay and communication exhibited by the band creates a glorious, almost hallucinatory effect; transporting you into a rich and engrossing world of song upon which Isbell truly soars; he’s always been blessed with a powerful voice but it truly took hold in the pristine acoustics of the Glasshouse.
By the time that the final notes of the iconic This Ain’t It rang out I felt less like the gig had ended, and more like i’d returned to Earth after being swept on an odyssey of rock and country being shaped and remoulded beyond its limits. God bless Isbell, and long live The 400 Unit.
