Last night I had one of those dreams.
The kind that leaves you suspended—adrift in a half-formed ship, or maybe no ship at all. I was lost in the deepest part of the ocean, no land, no horizon. Just black water and 50-foot swells tossing my body like paper. The sky was gone. The tide turned my stomach. The kind of dream where hope doesn’t just fade—it never existed in the first place.

And then suddenly, this burst of sea rose up like a cannon beside me. I turned and saw an eye—easily the size of my head—staring back at me. A blue whale. Towering, breathing, present. I could feel its lungs underneath me, the rise and fall of ancient rhythm. And for a few perfect moments, I was no longer drowning. I was riding. Floating on something impossibly strong. Hope cracked the surface.

That’s exactly how the opening track of Father John Misty’s newest album, I Love You, Honeybear, feels. It’s the breath you didn’t know you were holding. A lift out of the dark, into a haze of major chords, winded horns, sweeping acoustic guitars, and unexpected electronic color. It’s a sonic swell that carries you if you let it. The production is rich—rounded, alive. This album breathes. It holds you. For a while, it even feels like it loves you back.

But like all calm eyes at the center of storms, it doesn’t last. As the album progresses, the edges fray. Familiarity creeps in. It’s clear Josh Tillman’s past in Fleet Foxes hasn’t fully left him—nor has the comfort of his usual tricks. Oohs and aahs, tambourines, soft wit, and major key safety. He evolves in inches. Not leaps. By the time the record ends, it’s more of a circle than a journey. Pleasant, yes. Surprising? Not really.

It’s not a bad album. It’s warm, textured, and at times genuinely moving. But for me, it didn’t earn a spot on the shelf. I won’t be chasing it down on vinyl.
Some rides are worth remembering—but not all of them are worth replaying.