Drew Kennedy

Drew Kennedy doesn’t have anything left to prove to anyone––except himself. His fans count on his songs and stories. His peers record them. Two and a half decades, 11 albums, one novel, and millions of miles into his singing, songwriting, traveling troubadouring career, Kennedy has cultivated the kind of wild artistic freedom only sown by a rare blend of grassroots trust and industry approval.

But Kennedy still has questions. He can record what he wants, how he wants, but he can’t stop wondering––and redefining––why. So when longtime collaborator and producer Davis Naish suggested Kennedy’s new album consist solely of new songs Kennedy wrote alone, Kennedy couldn’t resist. “It was such a challenge artistically that the end result is beyond my wildest dreams,” he says. “I’ve always been a collaborator. To purposefully not do that felt like I was tying one hand behind my back. But that limitation forced me to grow in areas that I wouldn’t have otherwise.”

The result is a stunning 11-song portrait of a songwriter discovering new ways to tell the truth. Produced by Naish in Los Angeles, Drew Kennedy eschews easy labels of genre, opting instead to follow the sounds that best serve each song. While liberating, the removal of sonic expectations also felt daunting. “In my mind, more folky production means it is serious––it’s from the Guy Clark school,” says Kennedy. “As soon as the song gets bigger and wider, I don’t have that old-school barometer I’ve grown up with as a songwriter to let me know that what I am doing is legitimate.”

Kennedy decided to trust himself. Nothing is off limits: Drum machines and synths mix with with acoustic guitars. While folk’s linear songwriting tradition remains an anchor, influences ranging from Counting Crows to Bruce Hornsby emerge. “There was never a point in this record where I thought, ‘Oh, can’t do that. Can’t write about that. Can’t use that instrument in a song,’” Kennedy says. “It’s an exploration of personal art, unfettered by constraints, because at this point, why not?”

It’s a point Kennedy has been working toward for 25 years. Raised outside of Philadelphia, Kennedy played baseball in college in Virginia, then found his way to New Braunfels, Texas, nestled between rivers and San Antonio and Austin. Nashville called next, and while Kennedy and his wife Holly, an artist and art teacher, have opted to raise their family in the Texas Hill Country, Kennedy spends a lot of time in Tennessee, writing in Music Row publishing houses. Entrepreneurial and a believer in deep ties to places and people, he’s also launched the Red River Songwriters’ Festival and Marathon Songwriters Festival. “I just want to keep doing things that are interesting to me,” Kennedy says. “As soon as I feel like I am repeating myself, I am done with it.”

Kennedy’s eponymous 11th album is a far cry from repetition––and yet, as Kennedy prioritized serving the song over becoming ensnared by any one genre, a funny thing happened: He has made the most Drew Kennedy-sounding album of his career, characterized by bright and moody pop, his warm, surprisingly wide-ranging voice, and lyrics that unfurl like a novel set to melodies.

Album opener “She’s Looking Into Mine” rolls into an intimate snapshot of youthful infatuation and possibility. The track is followed by “I Want It All,” a meditation on motivation, accented by muscly electric guitar. “I wrote that in the middle of the night on a plane flying home from Nashville, wondering, ‘What am I doing this for? I’ve been away from my family all week. What is the point?’” Kennedy says. “The point is, I want to be able to provide for my family through this. I want to find joy in it. I’m not afraid of working hard to get there, and there isn’t just one path to whatever success is.” He pauses and smiles. “I’ve totally made it.”

With fingerpicked acoustic guitar joined by electronic flourishes, both cascading like raindrops, “A Name” combs through the power of finding your missing piece. “I Can’t See Your Face” ponders what we remember and what we forget with sharply drawn vignettes, while “Movie Poster” coalesces around rapid-fire lines and a cinematic swell to a dreamy chorus. “They Know” is a singalong reveling in big, bold instrumentation.

“A Picture Nobody’s Taking” celebrates the private moments with a partner that no one else sees. “My favorite memories of our relationship are not hanging in frames on the wall. It’s the way she looks right before she’s going to cry,” Kennedy says of his wife of more than 20 years. “It’s my way of thanking her for choosing to share her life with me.”

While “A Picture Nobody’s Taking” is a moving tribute to long-term partnership, “Halo” is an ode to the innocent, bewildering first days of courtship. Featuring vivid imagery and a list of sweet worries layered over 90s garage pop guitars, the song shows off Kennedy’s gift for hooky melodies and visual lyricism. “I have a distinct memory of being nervous to knock on this girl’s door to take her to the movies,” Kennedy says. “You know, giving yourself a few minutes to gather yourself before you knock? That’s just as noble as any other love story.”

With hushed dignity and plaintive guitar, “Lizzie” shares a story of guts and hope. The song is personal––and political. “Lizzie is my great-grandmother, who came from Ireland in 1919, when she was 19 years old, and when immigrants from Ireland and Scotland weren’t exactly welcomed in the US,” Kennedy says. “If I can get someone to listen to that song and consider whatever they might be feeling about immigrants today…” Kennedy trails off for a moment, then sighs. “Songwriting is about nuance. It’s not about slapping somebody over the head with an idea. I wanted to honor her bravery and use it as a means to say, hey. We all got here from somewhere.” He pauses again. “There’s nuance everywhere. That’s where the songs live.”

In one more standout moment on the record, Kennedy puts another human face on another abstract idea: panic attacks. The face? His own. Beginning with stripped down, raw instrumentation, “Nerves” winds through fear and frustration before escalating into a full-bodied roar––and victory. It is Kennedy’s favorite song on the album. “It came from me having my first panic attack in public.” Kennedy says. “I wanted it to be an explosion of sound because a panic attack feels like an explosion. But I didn’t want it to be chaotic. I wanted it to feel like an explosion that I am reclaiming and making positive. Now, the song feels like a personal triumph over my least favorite experience within my own body that I’ve ever had. I’m proud of myself for turning it into something I truly love rather than something I loathe.”

For Kennedy, motivation has always been as important as execution. “If I have this opportunity, I don’t want to do things I’m not excited about,” Kennedy says. “So I just keep looking for things that pique my interest and feel natural to me. If I can keep doing that for the rest of my life, and be somewhat successful at it, isn’t that what it means to be an artist?”

--Elisabeth Parks, April, 2025

Host or Publisher Saxon Pub