Iron And Wine - Beast Epic (2LP) - Red/Blue Vinyl

Sam Beam has a knack for making time slow down. Back in late August 2017 he returned to Sub Pop with Beast Epic, an album that feels like a long exhale after years of restless expansion. He had chased bigger, jazzier palettes on Kiss Each Other Clean and Ghost on Ghost, then made a gorgeous detour with Jesca Hoop. Here he circles back to a smaller room, a handful of acoustic instruments, and words that sit close to the body. It is not a retreat so much as a re-centering, a record about how age sneaks up on you and then stays for dinner.

You hear that right away in Call It Dreaming, the lead single and still one of his great melodies. The fingerpicked guitar lopes forward, the bass hums gently, and strings bloom at just the right moment. Beam sings about holding onto small mercies when the big answers refuse to come. It is classic Iron & Wine in the way it refuses drama yet still lands like a benediction. Thomas County Law plays the foil. The cadence is spry, the lyrics nod to tradition and community, and the video sets him walking through a quiet church, which suits the song’s plainspoken moral weight. Beast Epic keeps finding that balance, hymns for private moments that happen to feel communal.

Part of the album’s magic comes from the way the players breathe together. The drums are brushed more than struck. Cello and violin shade the edges but rarely crowd the room. You can almost count the space between notes. Sam Beam produced it himself and leans into air and wood, so little creaks and fingertip sounds become part of the storytelling. It recalls the intimacy of his early Sub Pop years, yet the writing is lived-in, less about whispering secrets and more about telling the truth you finally trust yourself to say.

Bitter Truth stands out for that reason. The title promises a sting, yet the song feels kind, almost like advice from an older sibling who has been burned and learned. About a Bruise touches the same nerve. Small hurt, bigger lesson. This is the quiet confidence of Beast Epic. It does not need to announce a grand theme, it just keeps gathering small proofs. By the end you realize you have been walked through a season of adult life, complete with doubt, forgiveness, and the hum of hope that will not quit.

Critics heard it too. NPR rolled out an early stream and wrote warmly about its return to a gentler mode. Pitchfork and The Guardian praised the songwriting and the sidestep away from the brass and bustle of the early 2010s. Fans welcomed it like a familiar porch light. In a catalog that now stretches over two decades, Beast Epic has become one of those Iron & Wine albums people hand to friends who ask where to start. It is patient, melodic, and unashamed about sincerity, which is rarer than it should be.

If you are crate-digging, the Beast Epic vinyl is exactly how this record wants to live. The acoustic tones feel rounder, the strings sit warmer, and Beam’s voice carries a soft grain that digital sometimes sands down. Sub Pop has kept Iron & Wine vinyl in healthy circulation, and you will often find this one shelved alongside Our Endless Numbered Days and The Shepherd’s Dog. I spotted copies at a Melbourne record store while traveling, proof that vinyl records Australia buyers have good taste, then grabbed one for a friend who had been stuck streaming in tinny headphones. If you like to buy Iron & Wine records online, this is the pressing to reach for, and it pairs well with other Iron & Wine albums on vinyl when you want a quiet evening that still has backbone.

The title points the way. In interviews, Beam talked about Beast Epic as a meditation on growing older, on stories that use animals to show us our human messes. You can hear that fascination with fable and frailty, yet nothing here feels dressed up for effect. It is music for kitchens and late drives, for people who do not need to be dazzled to be moved. Spin it once and it feels gentle. Spin it a dozen times and you realize how sturdy it is.

I keep returning to the simple pleasure of the playing, the care in the arrangements, the way a line will flicker into your head while you wash dishes. That is the measure of this record’s staying power. It does not tug your sleeve, it just keeps you company. In 2017, that felt like a small miracle. Today it feels like a standard to measure by.