Favorites of 2025: The Kyle Sowashes – Start Making Sense

We could have easily titled this column ‘Making Sense of It All: The Kyle Sowashes and the Enduring Power of Indie Rock Honesty,’ because the band’s new record not only showcases their musical growth but also highlights how their plainspoken sincerity continues to resonate in a genre often crowded with irony and affectation.

Independent rock has long thrived on the margins—small rooms, frayed gear, and bands that carve out meaning from the ordinary. Few groups embody this spirit as honestly and as energetically as The Kyle Sowashes, the long-running Columbus, Ohio outfit centered around singer, guitarist, and songwriter Kyle Sowash. Their terrific new record, Start Making Sense, feels both like a culmination of years of steady work and a refreshed sense of purpose. It is an album that sounds lived-in yet ambitious, familiar yet surprisingly expansive.

Like so many of their releases, it is driven by a collaborative band spirit, anchored by Sowash’s unmistakable songwriting voice. But on Start Making Sense, the musicians around him play an especially notable role. This is not merely a collection of songs written by a single songwriter—it is a group effort in the best sense, marked by thoughtful arrangements, spirited performances, and a chemistry that can only develop after years of making music together. The result is a record that feels warm, wry, cathartic, and deeply human.

A Band Made of People, Not Parts

The Kyle Sowashes have always been a band that foregrounds musicianship over mythology. No one is placed on a pedestal; every member shapes the sound. On Start Making Sense, the interplay among the musicians is central to what makes the record feel so alive.

At the center, of course, is Kyle Sowash, the principal songwriter, guitarist, and narrator of the band’s emotional landscape. His style has always blended self-deprecation with sincerity, humor with frustration, resignation with hope. He writes songs the way people talk when they’ve stopped trying to impress anyone. That honesty, paired with a gift for sticky melodies and driving chord progressions, continues to anchor the band.

But the supporting cast expands and elevates the material. The rhythm section, always a strength for the group, is especially tight on this release. The basslines give songs bounce and propulsion, while the drumming adds both momentum and nuance—capable of big-room punch but also subtle shifts in tone that mirror Sowash’s lyrical turns. Together they give the album its shape: urgent when needed, contemplative when the songs pull inward.

The guitar arrangements, too, show a band deeply comfortable playing with space. There are moments of noisy celebration, fuzzed-out riffs, and guitar lines that nod to 90s indie rock and power pop without ever feeling derivative. But there is also restraint when the songs call for it—arpeggiated lines, single-note phrases, and open-chord patterns that accent Sowash’s vocal pacing. The band understands when to push and when to stay out of the way, and that mutual sensitivity is one of the record’s quiet triumphs.

All of this makes Start Making Sense feel less like a front-person project and more like a snapshot of a genuine musical community. The band members are collaborators—not session players—and the record reflects that shared vision.

Sound: An Indie Rock Dial Tuned Just Right

The defining pleasure of listening to The Kyle Sowashes is the feeling that the band knows exactly who they are and that they approach their sound not as a limitation but as an expressive engine. Start Making Sense follows this tradition, delivering songs that are rooted in classic indie rock but refreshed through craft, energy, and emotional clarity.

The album’s guitar-forward sound recalls the big-hearted crunch of bands like Superchunk, The Weakerthans, early Guided by Voices, and 90s midwestern basement rock. But The Kyle Sowashes are not imitators. Their tone is warmer, their pacing more deliberate, their hooks more conversational. They capture what it feels like to be a functional adult who still carries adolescent anxieties; what it feels like to want to grow but not always know how.

The production strikes a careful balance. It is clean enough to reveal the band’s tight musicianship but raw enough to preserve the lived-in charm that defines their identity. The vocals are present but never over-polished; the guitars are textured but not overly layered; the drums have a live-room feel that makes even the more introspective songs sound communal.

This approach is particularly effective because Sowash’s songwriting thrives on immediacy. These songs feel like they were meant to be played in small rooms full of people who understand what it’s like to try, fail, and try again. The sonic palette—guitars that jangle and buzz, drums that sprint and shuffle, bass that grounds and guides—mirrors the emotional palette of the songs themselves.

What the Lyrics Reveal: Vulnerability Without Pretension

What has always separated Kyle Sowash from many of his indie rock peers is his ability to write lyrics that feel like real conversations. He avoids metaphors that spin out into abstraction and instead leans on the everyday: the tension between optimism and exhaustion, the mundane rhythms of adulthood, the stubborn persistence of doubt.

On Start Making Sense, the lyrics feel particularly pointed. There is a thematic thread running through the record about wanting to take stock of one’s life, wanting to be better (or at least different), but also feeling the tug of old habits or long-held insecurities. This tension animates the album emotionally.

Sowash wrestles with questions familiar to anyone who has lived long enough to feel the weight of their own decisions:

  • Am I becoming the person I hoped to be?
  • Am I letting people down without realizing it?
  • Is it too late to make meaningful changes?
  • Why does clarity arrive when I am least prepared for it?

And yet, the writing never lapses into self-pity. Sowash has a rare talent for pairing difficult emotions with flashes of humor or casual understatement. His delivery—half earnest, half exasperated—adds to this effect. Even in the most introspective moments, he trusts his audience. He doesn’t sermonize or hide behind dense metaphor. He simply tells the truth as he sees it.

The Album as a Whole: Why Start Making Sense Works

The strength of the record lies not just in its individual songs but in its overall narrative arc. Start Making Sense feels like a journey, not in a conceptual or theatrical sense, but in the emotional progression from beginning to end.

The early tracks tend to have a forward-thrusting, energetic urgency—songs filled with questions, doubts, and attempts to find clarity. As the album unfolds, the pacing shifts: there are moments of introspection, acceptance, humor, resignation, and renewed commitment.

By the final songs, the album arrives somewhere quieter and more grounded. The narrator has not solved everything—far from it—but there is a sense of movement, of incremental progress. And that sense is arguably more meaningful than any dramatic revelation would be.

This emotional pacing mirrors the band’s musical pacing. The guitars pull back when the lyrics sink deeper; the rhythm section tightens when the narrator feels unsettled; the arrangements widen when Sowash leans into hopeful refrains. The band listens to the songs, and the songs reward that attention.

Why They Matter Now

There is something profoundly refreshing about hearing a band like The Kyle Sowashes release a record like Start Making Sense in 2025. In a music culture where so many albums are shaped by algorithms, trends, or online personas, this record feels defiantly human. It is made by musicians who value craft, community, and honesty over spectacle.

Moreover, the themes of Start Making Sense—struggle, ambivalence, small victories, persistent hope—resonate in a cultural moment marked by fatigue and uncertainty. Many listeners will hear echoes of their own lives in the record: the feeling of trying to recalibrate when everything seems slightly off; the desire to “start making sense” of things that once felt straightforward.

The album does not promise transformation or transcendence. Instead, it offers companionship—a reminder that confusion and self-questioning are universal, and that music can help make sense of things even when life does not.

A Career Highlight and a Quiet Triumph

Start Making Sense stands as one of The Kyle Sowashes’ most affecting and best-crafted albums. It blends the energy of earlier records with a deeper emotional palette; it shows a band confident in its identity yet open to growth. The musicianship is sharp, the lyrics are resonant, and the sound manages to be both comfortingly familiar and subtly evolved.

It is not merely a strong indie rock record—it is a document of adulthood, of persistence, of reassessment, of trying again. In its modesty, it finds profundity; in its humor, it finds catharsis; in its unvarnished honesty, it finds connection. For longtime fans, Start Making Sense will feel like a natural and satisfying next chapter. For new listeners, it offers a compelling introduction to a band that has quietly built one of the most sincere bodies of work in Midwestern indie rock. And for everyone, it offers something increasingly rare: a rock album that makes you feel less alone.

The Shining Sound of Soft White Gold

Just watched the Music Box documentary on Yacht Rock and while I really enjoyed the doc and learned a lot, I have a few thoughts.

Let’s get something straight right away. What you think you know about yacht rock, the fluffy sound of pastel sunsets and private islands that has become this new-age cultural obsession, probably isn’t it. You’ve heard it described as “easy listening,” “smooth,” and “classic,” but that’s missing the point. It’s not just the music. It’s the myth, the lifestyle, and more importantly, the swagger of a scene that existed so perfectly between 1975 and 1984 that it might as well have been designed by a board of directors on a private jet circling above Malibu. But let’s go deeper. Let’s talk about the boat.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Dr. J, come on, you’re gonna write a whole column about yacht rock? About that thing that’s been hijacked by irony and people who don’t even know who Steely Dan is?” Yes. Yes, I am. Because yacht rock isn’t just about the Steely Dan hits or Hall & Oates’s most absurdly catchy singles. It’s about capturing that moment in time when the music was way too smooth for its own good, when it gleamed like a diamond but had a heart of condescending, bougie brass. This is the kind of music that, if it were a drink, would be a gin and tonic mixed by someone who’d never seen a factory, whose whole life had been spent swimming through trust funds and palm trees. And that’s what makes yacht rock not only fascinating but, in a sick way, beautiful.

The term itself came from a set of YouTube videos where some twentysomething comedians, probably using too much gel in their hair, tried to describe the genre by showing clips of a pretend Michael McDonald crooning into a microphone in a ridiculously pristine studio and footage of people on boats with their aviator glasses reflecting back the California sun. It was a term born out of the early 2000s nostalgia machine, washed through a modern lens of irony and undercut by hipsters who loved to act like they were the first to discover what we were already all too familiar with from an incessant amount of radio airplay. But when you put the irony aside—yes, even you, Mr. Mustache and Lumberjack Flannel Guy—the truth is undeniable: yacht rock is brilliant, and in its own way, it’s a microcosm of the 1970s and early ’80s: the last days of the American dream before it descended into the ironic, grating corporate nightmare it would later become. Think in terms of the corporate rock of ’80s Journey or later period Styx.

Yacht Rock isn’t just music—it’s a way of being. A sonic ritual, a testament to the last great age of the American elite who could pull off a smirk without breaking a sweat or even the tiniest hint of sarcasm. The millionaires who sat at dinner parties telling stories about private planes, untraceable offshore bank accounts, and their perfectly groomed Labradoodles. And, yeah, when they popped in a Hall & Oates tape or fired up the Boz Scaggs album on vinyl, they weren’t just looking for an aesthetic. No, this was the soundtrack to their lives, their enviable lives where everything was polished and dripped with the perfect mixture of effortless cool, and terrifying boredom.

Yacht Rock is fundamentally lazy. This isn’t rock music for people who give a damn about being rebellious or standing for anything. This is the sound of those who’ve long given up on caring and instead embraced the art of looking like they don’t care at all. And if you’ve ever wondered what happens when the desire for wealth and success collides with a complete and utter lack of passion—look no further. This is yacht rock’s emotional landscape. Look at the lyrics of “Africa” by Toto, for instance: it’s the sonic equivalent of sitting in a mansion in a hot tub while someone brings you another margarita. There’s no world-threatening crisis in the background, no apocalyptic landscape looming on the horizon. The only looming thing is the sunset on a yacht deck, the plush leather seats in the air-conditioned salon, and the real prospect of not doing anything for the next 45 minutes while a vague sense of satisfaction pervades your soul.

I’m not saying yacht rock isn’t talented. It’s composed with musical precision that I, and maybe you too, have to admit is impossible to ignore. The chord progressions are impeccable, smooth without crossing into sugary. The musicianship? Slicker than a greased weasel. Michael McDonald’s falsetto was made to soar over a sea of impeccably placed synthesizers and guitars that no longer knew how to rock—only to glide, dream-like, toward the horizon. Jeff Porcaro’s drumming on Toto’s hits has a loose-tight perfection that makes you feel like you’re cruising, even if you’re sitting in your bedroom, staring at a T-shirt with a tiger on it.

But there’s an undercurrent to yacht rock that sets it apart from your average cheesy ‘70s pop. It’s the dark side of paradise, the awareness of its own emptiness, a reflection of a time when everyone, in a desperate attempt to have it all, realized that they had lost it. It’s that strange, magnetic pull between desperation and detachment.

Take, for example, the 1979 smash hit “What a Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers. It’s a killer track, sure—undeniably catchy, sweet, and clean. But the song’s protagonist, though utterly convinced he’s still in the game with some former lover, is a fool. It’s almost a warning, but not quite, a portrait of men in their prime, still obsessed with their fading youth, convinced they can recapture it, even though they never could. Yacht rock is rife with these kinds of paradoxes. The juxtaposition of slick, professional presentation and emotional desolation makes it deeply compelling, even as it lures you into its own trap.

Some would say that yacht rock is just ’70s soft rock with the volume turned down. I get it; it’s easy to dismiss. It’s easy to call this stuff middle-aged dad music or even worse, corporate background noise. But dismissing yacht rock is like dismissing the materialism of the 1980s by calling it just ‘cheap plastic.’ You don’t really get it unless you understand that the music was the product of an era, a time when the American dream was sold with a glossy, well-packaged exterior but was as hollow as the yachts it was named after. The lush, tropical sounds could’ve only come from an era obsessed with excess but hiding an ugly truth beneath the surface. There’s something unsettling about yacht rock, an idea that keeps pulling you in even as you feel yourself getting stuck. It’s like a perfectly formed trapeze swing at the edge of the world—inviting, smooth, but ultimately designed for you to fall off into the unknown.

Yacht rock also does something even rarer—it’s tragic without being overtly melancholic. When I listen to Steely Dan’s “Peg,” for instance, I can hear a longing in the gleaming production, a sense of trying to perfect something that can never be perfected. The track glistens like the dashboard of a car you never want to get out of. The keyboard melodies are so tight you could cut glass with them, but then Donald Fagen sings about a love that doesn’t care. And that’s the thing: Yacht Rock is all about yearning for something just out of reach, even as it sips from the top of the financial food chain. It’s crafted into a beautiful lie we’re all willing to buy into because we think that we need it. In the end, the joke’s on us, but the joke sounds damn good as we gently nod or heads to the tune.

Let’s not kid ourselves. Yacht rock is not about rocking. This isn’t your punk or your heavy metal or even your classic rock. This is smooth sailing, low-effort, aesthetically tuned, self-aware decadence that’s more about the vibe than the actual substance. It’s a celebration of excess, yes, but more than that—it’s the soundtrack of the very realization that excess itself is meaningless. So let’s set aside the hipster irony and take the music for what it is: a time capsule of a world that floated effortlessly toward the horizon without ever looking back. A place where love and loss, wealth and alienation, beauty and emptiness were all woven together in a smooth, crystalline melody with unassailable harmonies.

And here’s the thing—if you’ve ever found yourself on a boat, or even just on the edge of a dream, trying to forget the world for a moment, yacht rock will be there waiting for you, like an old friend who never quite left. So yeah, it’s Yacht Rock. It’s slick, it’s soft, and it’s, in its own absurd way, the music of a generation that sailed too close to the sun.

And God help us, it still shines.

Joe Anderl’s ‘Short Takes’

Short TakesLet us take a moment and introduce our latest feature, Short Takes. We are asking musicians, artists, DJs, writers, spoken word performers and others involved in music and creative expression to write some short comments about what they are listening to right now. There are no rules regarding genre, style or year of release. What are people listening to now? What does it mean for them in a brief few sentences — hence the idea of a ‘short take.’

20992760_10159165029090537_2527313783301675441_nOur first ‘Short Takes‘ comes courtesy of Joe Anderl of The 1984 Draft. Joe is a kind, warm and thoughtful person who not only loves music, he feels it. His passion for music is inescapable in his current project The 1984 Draft. The ‘Draft are a phenomenal live band who capture the spirit of punk and post-punk melded with the introspection of the best music of the ’90s and beyond. 

The Draft’s last record ‘Makes Good Choices‘ was one of our favorite records of 2018!

The-1984-Draft-band-2018As quarantine and social distancing continue, as the world burns around us, and as I find myself filled with more and more rage over the ignorance and injustice in our county, I have found myself searching deeper in my music catalog for little nuggets of joy. Songs that remind of the past. Songs from simpler times. The thing is, there were never simpler times. Just different times. That being said, there can often be comfort in nostalgia, joy in discovering something new, and a new wave of emotions caused by a song listened to in a different phase of life.

These songs are the little nuggets of joy I have had in my life for the last couple weeks.

First, ‘Slackjawed’ by The Connells – I found myself watching a video on YouTube with the Best of 1993 from 120 Minutes. I particularly wanted to watch it as it included videos of the Afghan Whigs, Paul Westerberg, and Buffalo Tom.

R-2028725-1562522314-3760.jpegAs I watched all the videos and reminisced about wrapping tin foil around my boom box antenna to pick up 97X [modern rock radio station from 1983-2004], a song came on that I had remembered loving hearing every time it came on. That song was ‘Slackjawed’ by The Connells. I wondered to myself why I had never tried to purchase an album by them and why this song never found its way into my collection. That will change very soon as I have probably listened to it 30 times in the last week.

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Next, ‘Inside of Love‘ by Nada Surf.  I was a late adopter on Nada Surf. I heard ‘Popular‘ in high school and kind of wrote the band off as a one hit wonder. That changed some 20 something years later watching them headline at Midpoint Music Fest [Dr. J was there too! The band gave a great live performance and won over many music fans that day!] There is an absolute softness in the voice of Mathew Caws. His choice of words can often be so simple and telling in same moment.

When I listened to this song a couple weeks ago, I found myself so grateful that I live in a loving marriage, that I am on the inside of love. So much so I just keep listening to this song every time I need to remind myself how lucky I truly am.

Paul-Westerberg-Dyslexic-HeartLast but not least, ‘Dyslexic Heart’ by Paul Westerberg – What GenXer did not relate to singles in some way?

After spending the last few years of my life completely ravaging my Replacements catalog, I decided I needed to dive further into my Westerberg records. I started with something comfortable and easy. This song and ‘Waiting for Somebody‘ [also from the Singles soundtrack] have been every other day listen for me lately just to try and feel a little normal.

Thank you for a terrific ‘Short Takes’ Joe!

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