Dogwood Tales’ Every Star in Rockingham County was released August 28 on Born Losers Records. Publicity photo.
The lyrics of “McMemories,” a twangy, distortion-drenched standout from Dogwood Tales’ new album Every Star in Rockingham County, unravel like a flashback in an episode of “Friday Night Lights.” Seeing a street sign sends singer-guitarist Kyle Grim’s mind reeling, and he’s suddenly recalling moments of youth—sharing a Coke at a fast-food restaurant and kissing someone by the gate at a high school football game. As the song progresses, a tinge of sadness creeps in, and by the end Grim realizes that growing up in a rural setting can be equally idyllic and stifling. “Stadium lights always felt like the only way this little town could see a good thing,” he sings.
Dogwood Tales excel at this kind of full-hearted reflection. The Harrisonburg-based band formed in 2016 as a partnership between Grim and childhood friend Ben Ryan, who started playing together as part of the town’s DIY house-show scene. The pair—both wistful songwriters who find profound significance in little moments—like to anchor their songs with warm chorus harmonies, and they really found their sound when they started to favor electric guitars and added a rhythm section, pulling in shades of Neil Young, Jason Molina, and Son Volt.
The band now fits nicely into the current indie country movement led by MJ Lenderman, Wednesday, and Wild Pink—acts that lean into blasts of alternative rock but give it touches of sun-kissed pedal steel to brighten the corners. Yet where some of their contemporaries favor wry dude-isms, random pop culture references, and shady character sketches, Grim and Ryan take a more earnest lyrical path, offering vulnerable revelations with a vivid sense of place.
Every Star in Rockingham County, the band’s fourth full-length album (counting a January-released collaborative effort with Euphoria Again), is largely a love letter to the Shenandoah Valley. The new set of tunes romanticizes the landscape and ruminates on formative mundane interactions that unexpectedly become emotional milestones, often with an overhang of melancholy.
In “Angel Dreams,” Grim sets an intimate scene at a diner, where a depressed friend cries in their fried chicken. It feels personal and poignant, even as the song soars with a greasy riff that would please a Lynyrd Skynyrd fan. He goes even deeper with “Ralph Sampson” and “Mt. Jackson,” dusty rockers that explore old lore, family strife, and the bigger societal picture of small-town economic struggles.
Later, on the atmospheric title track, Grim and Ryan each take a verse, offering different perspectives on a drive through the Valley, thoughts drifting to purple mountains and passing trucks. But the peaceful nostalgia eventually gives way to restless unease, and Grim wanders into an empathetic last line for anonymous outsiders stuck with their dreams in rural obscurity. “It’s so hard to focus when everything feels broken,” he laments as the song fades out.
Despite the at-times heavy sentiments, the band lightens the mood with a loose edge in the studio arrangements. They fool around with vocal effects in the raucous opener “Soundcheck Infinity,” and embellish the fuzzy shoegaze guitar wails in “Shield.” It’s impressive range for a band that seems to be just getting started and still has plenty of everyday stories to turn into disarmingly honest songs.
