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Feb 26, 2026 Web Exclusive By Austin Saalman

Sam Beam (aka Iron & Wine) has always colored his narratives with the peculiar intimacies and dark enchantments of the mercurial American landscape and its often-surreal mythologies. From the rustic American tragedies of his early bedroom recordings to the apocalyptic experimentalism of his finest work, Beam has spoken of dreams and history in a tangled, gothic tongue, some modern-day Dylan of the lowly lit Southern carnival stage. Part sleepwalking preacher of the Void, part humble oracle whose visions arrive slung with the Spanish moss and smoky scent of his dreamscapes, Beam has long since established himself as an inimitable American poet.

Around the release of 2017’s breezy, pop-inflected Beast Epic, however, a noticeable shift, (certainly not the first), occurred within Beam’s music. Suddenly, Judgement Day had come to pass and the gorgeously disjointed mania of such gems as The Shepherd’s Dog, Kiss Each Other Clean, and Ghost on Ghost soon crystallized into a certain sense of contentment, with Beam adopting an air of romantic nonchalance as he began the peculiar third phase of his musical career. For the optimistic fan, this “turning” may represent a blessing, a refreshingly cathartic ray of easygoing pleasantry, with Beam inviting listeners on an easy stroll down the dusky country lanes of his memory.

For this critic, however, Iron & Wine’s eighth studio album Hen’s Teeth bears a cursed mark—that of its recent predecessor Light Verse, whose meandering mundanity served to place Beam lightyears away from his finest, most impactful work. Far stronger an album than Light Verse, Hen’s Teeth offers occasional glimpses of the powerful and innovative brilliance of which Beam is clearly still capable, but the overall project ultimately falls short.

Certainly, such tracks as “Roses,” a gorgeously Brian Wilson-esque reflection on the near-cosmic oneness of passion and nature, and “Grace Notes,” a hauntingly wistful meditation on ghosts, history, and legacy, find the esteemed indie-folk troubadour contemplating a noble artistic path forward while simultaneously drawing from the best of his past work. These moments serve to justify Hen’s Teeth’s existence, filling the listener with the same sense of pining and mystery as Our Endless Numbered Days or The Shepherd’s Dog. The same may also be said of the oddly beguiling “Defiance, Ohio” and twangy Nashville Skyline-esque jaunt “In Your Ocean,” both of which find Beam reveling comfortably in the phantasmagoric Southern Americana upon which he built his name as a premier lyricist.

Elsewhere, however, I’m With Her collaborations “Robin’s Egg” and “Wait Up” prove largely unremarkable, while the ever-shifting Appalachian baroqueness of album epic “Dates and Dead People” cannot help but feel half-baked in its unsatisfying conclusion. And while the rich melancholia of closing track “Half Measures” musters some charm, it cannot compare to Beam’s more emotionally devastating work. Likewise, the mystical “Paper and Stone” arrives just short of transcendence, and spare folk number “Singing Saw” misses the mark entirely.

Hen’s Teeth—pretty, dreamlike, and marked by highly educated craftsmanship and literate writing—seems a ghost of superior works. That said, the album’s highest points may justify a certain excitement, as the artist is clearly still experimenting and expanding stylistically, always a welcome sign from someone as historically daring and luminous as Mr. Beam. Perhaps this is his creative purgatory, in which his ideas are in flight with nowhere to land, and next time around, the Sam Beam of “Roses” and “Grace Notes” will reemerge with his next triumph. Until then, I must confess, the issue with Hen’s Teeth is its utter lack of bite. (www.ironandwine.com)

Author rating: 5/10