The Bros. Landreth – Dog Ear (Birthday Cake) (13th Floor Album Review)
On Dog Ear, The Bros. Landreth continue their growth from a technically gifted roots outfit into something warmer, wider and more generous.
Joey Landreth’s mastery of guitar tones glows at the heart of the songs and Dave Landreth’s bass parts hold them in the same way a friend holds a confidence. On Dog Ear, joined again by drummer and co songwriter Roman Clarke, plus new collaborators like Bonnie Raitt and Begonia, they create an album about friendship, family, fatigue, travel, and the long slow work of showing up for one another. What emerges is a portrait of people navigating the world’s demands and finding steadiness in companionship, musicianship, and shared voice.
The opening track, Sunrise, Sunset, is feather-light: vocals tracing soft circles, acoustic guitar flickering in the gaps. The lines trail off and pick back up again as if thoughts are being completed mid-air. The emotional pitch is quiet resilience, with the refrain “I don’t think I’m ready to lay down my head” resisting stillness even as the song lulls you into it. It sets the emotional tone for the album: longing for rest and yet being pulled forward by love, responsibility, and the road.
I’ll Drive arrives like a gust of air through an open window. Clarke’s drums and Glen Patscha’s keys give the song a spring-loaded feel, riffs tumbling forward, overlapping vocals that mimic the energy of getting out of town before doubt has time to settle. It’s a road song in structure and in spirit, and one of the few moments on the record where the band lets the throttle open. Beneath its brightness lies a tenderness, a recognition that sometimes the most caring thing you can do is offer to steer.
With Half of Me, the album exhales. A soft drone anchors the track while Joey sings with a warmth so intimate it feels spoken. The idea that the person you love becomes part of your internal architecture needs careful handling, which Joey gives it. Each word lands softly but with weight. Halfway through a light snare tap and glimmering keys lift the song off the ground without disturbing its calm.
Vincent could be the album’s most rousing song, though the band plays with characteristic restraint. Joey’s acoustic strums form the melodic spine; Dave’s bass keeps it grounded; Clarke’s drums give it momentum. The verses draw back, rebuilding tension each time, and Joey’s vocal stays centred even as the band swells. It’s a portrait of someone living hard and burning bright, and it captures that strange ache of watching someone you care about outrun themselves.
Bonnie Raitt’s presence is felt twice on the album. On Half Moon Eyes, she tucks into the edges of the mix as electric guitars curl and unfurl around her harmonies. On Knuckles, her voice becomes a second centre of gravity. The song reads like a letter to someone who armours themselves in stoicism: “Sadness isn’t something you’re meant to face alone.” The Bros. Landreths and Raitt trade lines like seasoned confidants, and the chorus, “Just keep on swinging till your knuckles bleed” reframes exhaustion as devotion.
Tumbling Wild floats at first, muted strings and echoing vocals creating a sense of drift. But a steady drum pulse builds beneath, and by the end the song breaks open into a long, restless outro. It feels like the kind of wandering that follows heartbreak, or maybe the price of choosing a life lived in motion.
The title track, Dog Ear, is a whispered reassurance: a promise to be someone’s constant in a world that keeps shifting. The phrase “dog ear” hints at the fold in a treasured page, the place you return to when you need grounding. The song itself works that way: wide droning circles, stray piano notes, and reassuring vocals delivered like a private vow. “I’ll be the dog ear, my friend.” In that phrase sits the album’s heartbeat: a promise to be a place of return, a crease held open in the chaos.
Two late album highlights deepen the emotional palette. Let Me Down Easy is a breakup sung without recrimination, tender, bruised, and honest about the way endings rarely arrive clean. Wide Awake and Dreaming is the opposite: a surging, heart racing ride through fear, faith, and the desire to find steadiness before losing control.
Finally on Strange Dear, featuring Begonia, the album closes with a gentle benediction: a call to be “a lighthouse in the dark.”
Across Dog Ear, the arrangements, playing, and vocals are finely shaped, yet what lingers is the humanity as the band charts a wider course, welcomes more voices, and holds each other up in the process. An album for people looking for steadiness and comfort when life won’t settle. And for The Bros. Landreth, the road ahead looks open with possibilities.
John Bradbury
Dog Ear is out now on Birthday Cake Records
