Kathleen Edwards – Billionaire (Dualtone) (13th Floor Album Review)
Kathleen Edwards has always been a songwriter who tells stories through the details: a hockey team that cannot win, a car driven across Los Angeles, a door painted pink. Through vivid detail and a deep sense of place, she turns the specific into something relatable and universal.
Her sixth album Billionaire is full of those moments, witty and poignant in equal measure. What is different this time is the setting. With Jason Isbell contributing guitar and co-production alongside Nashville engineer Gena Johnson, the sound is fuller, more muscular. It occasionally veers into polish that risks smoothing over the edge and clarity of her writing.
The album opens with Save Your Soul, a slow, guitar-based groove where Edwards’ voice rises gently against backing singers. Rather than a confrontation, it asks: who will save you when money is no use? The track is inviting more than accusatory, and the intensifying guitar riff hints at the turbulence beneath its calm surface. Say Goodbye, Tell No One picks up the pace with pulsing drums and a start-stop guitar riff. At over six minutes it feels like a journey through the aftermath of a relationship. The title held back until the end of each chorus, gaining power with repetition.
Little Red Ranger, is a dreamlike song with shuffling drums and acoustic strums, the bass pushing it forward. Edwards’ voice feels close and conversational, as she slips in humour that underlines her ability to make memory vivid: “Channeling the spirit of Rick Danko, the Leafs still suck at playoff time.” With a single line she ties music history, Canadian sport, and personal reflection together, creating the kind of nostalgic lyric that resonates beyond its scene-setting. When the Truth Comes Out, co-written with Ken Yates, suggests resilience and defiance, yet here the sheen of the production distracts from the distinctiveness of the lyrics.
The title track, Billionaire, begins in sparse form, only Edwards’ voice and a faint guitar, and slowly builds in intensity as synths and strings shimmer and drums patter beneath. “If this feeling were currency, I would be a billionaire,” she sings, stretching the last word into something both triumphant and aching. It is a song about grief and remembrance, rendered as more valuable than traditional measures of wealth.
Need a Ride snarls back at small-town hypocrisy. Its slow groove grows into a storm of guitar riffs, organ swells, and crashing drums, pushing anger into noise whilst retaining its beat. Edwards captures the unease of communities where neighbourliness has soured into mistrust. Her escalating list of changes captures the frustration of watching those shifts unfold. “People get worked up about the strangest things,” she sings, “people get worked up about everything.”
By contrast, Little Pink Door is quiet and intricate, built on a picked guitar pattern with vocals that feel almost whispered. Edwards captures the ache of memory through small, vivid details that make the past tangible. “In 2004 we were sleeping on the floor,” she sings, and the line does all the work of taking you back to a moment of youthful intimacy that has long since slipped away. It shows how she makes an ordinary image carry extraordinary weight.
Place is an anchor for other songs. FLA, at just over two minutes, is a rush of acoustic guitars and specific references. The lyric maps a car trip, “south of the St Mary’s River,” while the radio plays “Seminole Wind.” These details give the song its buoyant celebration of home.
Other People’s Bands turns envy and ego into metaphor, its country sway lifted by the soulful harmonies of Shelby Lynne and Allison Moorer, whose rich backing vocals bring warmth and depth to Edwards’s satire. The closer, Pine, pares everything back to a heartbeat-like drum and echoing guitars. Its lyrics offer a resigned but thoughtful farewell, letting the album fade out with quiet reflection: “Nothing ever comes of holding on to hope too long.”
Across these ten songs, Edwards returns to familiar ground: wit, humour, nostalgia, and the ache of loss. The strength of the album lies in memorable lines of observation and feeling that bring whole worlds into focus. What holds the record back is the musical setting. The beefed-up production can push the listener away from the intimacy and wit that make her writing shine.
Billionaire succeeds in mapping an emotional journey. It opens with moral challenge, rises through heartbreak, and ends with reflection on the wealth gained. Along the way, wry asides, details of place, and warm emotions reflect on the journey taken. It is a record about how memory, truth, and people become the real currencies of our lives. For all its sonic polish, the richness of this album is in the emotions of the lyrics, as Edwards reminds us, “If this feeling were currency, I would be a billionaire.”
John Bradbury
Billionaire is out now on Dualtone Records. Click here to buy
