Album Review :
Zane Vickery - Interloper

I have never been the kind of person to cheaply review an album. I’ve written a fair amount of things over the years, so I’m well acquainted with how much time goes into penning each lyric, and, to a larger extent, the intentionality placed into each note and melody. Sometimes this means I listen to an album for upwards of 20 hours beforehand to do it justice. So, when I was presented with Zane Vickery’s upcoming 77-minute, 17-track behemoth of a record, I can only say that I felt immense pressure to give it proper honor. This is a very rare type of record, not simply due to sheer length and breadth, but due to how transparent it gets. Uncomfortably transparent, even, and quite often at that.

Interloper, in some ways, is the story Vickery has been telling all along. From the Narnian trappings of Breezewood to the questions of Jesus on Where Is Your Faith?, Vickery’s lyricism and overall sound has shifted as fiction gives way to fact and pain gives way to healing. Shortly after the release of his most recent EP, Vickery was hit by a drunk driver while traveling after a show in Knoxville. The crash left him on the brink of death, while the other driver died in the process. At that moment, all the momentum was gone. For anyone close to Vickery, music was the last thing anyone cared about. Would he survive to see his wife and children? Could he get back on his feet, quite literally? Thus followed a season of silence.

Then, there were whispers, starting with “Whatever Light We Have” back in 2023. Vickery’s piano, albeit a bit bruised, had survived the crash, as did his will to press forward. This all culminates in his most involved work to date, a sort of magnum opus project that peels back the veneer of Breezewood, expands on the sonic foundations of Where Is Your Faith?, and tops things off with heartbreaking lyrics and profound sentiments of endurance. Musically, there are plenty of dynamics to behold, from the lofi nature of the opener and closer, to mid-track genre swapping and big-and-bold crescendo endings.

Interloper is a mixed bag emotionally, and its structure is particularly interesting. Would I say this is the kind of album that might make you cry? Yes. Does that necessarily mean, as a whole, that it is sad? Perhaps to some significant degree, but not solely. The album is laid out to walk through very specific chapters in sequence – chapters of shame and guilt, of abuse and forgiveness, of deepening romance, of the crash and of making the most of the years Vickery has left. He does not cut corners or obfuscate. This is not some amorphous type album with an abstract type of meaning, and maybe some listeners at large will dislike it. In a recent interview, Vickery likened it to “bleeding on the audience” and understanding that they are bleeding, too. And bleed, he does, as he recounts in vibrant detail the night he almost died, the bruises he hid from his teachers, hiding shame in relationships, and so much more. Honesty and vulnerability in themselves are not necessarily powerful, though they are often lauded as such. That said, Vickery wields these verses of suffering as a means to point beyond the present. Sometimes God will break your body to mend your soul.

The album wastes no time diving in. After the lofi title-track ballad opener, the gloves are off. The combination of “Whatever Light We Have” and “The Grateful & Grieving” feels like something most artists would save for mid-to-late album in order to revitalize things a bit. The former has a pretty critical lens, asking questions like “What’s the point of wanting when the getting breaks my back?” and spouting one-liners like, “You asked to break bread / Well, I just prayed you for instead / all good intentions with no guts to give a damn.” Even so, Vickery notes that light hasn’t faded – something that eerily plays into the imagery of incoming headlights at the end of the song. The latter begins with exploring the crash from the prospective of the drunk driver (with a subtle twangy riff that accompanies the man listening to the “country greats”). Much of this track is subdued as Vickery walks through survivor’s guilt. One of the most chilling lines on the record is here – “Why does my miracle make my finger want to pull a trigger back to where I want to be?” But almost on the drop of a pin, the tone changes to expressions of praise and thankfulness. It’s a little jarring the first time around, but I genuinely think it works so well this way. “The farthest you have felt is the nearest you have been,” Vickery notes toward the end of the song.

“Demimonde,” “Greenhouse,” and later on, “Hydrangea,” are some of the more experimental tracks and carry much of the relational and marital imagery, all paired with references to plants of some sort. The first pair of these also features some incredible female vocals – indeed, there are a fair number of tracks with guest contributions and the interweaving vocal parts really shine. There’s a lot of work on the vocal production, too. In some moments, there’s perfect clarity. Other times, it sounds like Vickery is in a shower (this is done tastefully). Ultimately, these tracks are all strong in their own ways, but they’re definitely not the hardest-hitters in terms of lyrics and overall energy. The more contemplative listener will find much to enjoy in the sobriety of these songs and the running lyrical threads nonetheless.

“Mockingbird,” “Honest,” and “The Best You Could” explore Vickery’s relationship with his father growing up through to the present day. “Honest,” quite simply, is honest. It’s potentially the most painful track, and much of if it simply sees Vickery’s voice float over a minimalistic bed of guitar. He recounts neglect, abuse, and almost erased from his family. Unfortunately, the same neglect continues into adulthood, seeing his father skip Vickery’s wedding as well. The track explodes as Vickery cries out, “Tell me father, can you hear me?” The transition into “The Best You Could” reuses some small motifs from “The Grateful & Grieving” as Vickery manages to find empathy with the man who hurt him. It’s a beautiful display of forgiveness, one that is so sweetly painful and beautiful at once.

One of my qualms with the record is the structure. There aren’t many tracks that don’t hit hard, musically, emotionally, or otherwise, but from a narrative standpoint, things do seem to move very quickly from hurt to healing. There’s an undeniable balance to the record, but it’s strange to not even be through half of the album and hear a number of songs that feel like points of resolution. This certainly keeps the mood a bit lighter, but mentally, I think I need a minute to process some of the heaviness of a car crash and childhood abuse before I can truly accept things are better. Years of Vickery’s life are condensed into the mere seconds of outros and intros and I feel like that does impact the pacing a bit. Does it significantly hurt the album? No, but it does change the momentum a bit.

“weighted” sits right at the center of tracklist which seems like a very decisive move. This is a revamped version from the opening track off Breezewood, this time swapping out the trademark piano riff for a heartbeat of drums and guitar. I’m not sure if it’s my familiarity with the previous version or just the particular nature of the drums here (I don’t personally feel like there’s a similar type of beat elsewhere on the album), but I’d have to argue that I prefer the first version. Most of my critiques here are simply preferential, and I definitely don’t think this is a bad track – but the reinterpretation misses something from the original, even if that iconic piano riff might feel a out of place within the more rock-oriented space of the collection.

Just like the first half of the album, the latter part opens with a pair of bangers. “Sad Dads Club” is a tongue-in-cheek commentary on losing perspective and finding it again, and it’s definitely a fun track musically. There are synths and modulated guitars and the rhythm is very danceable. The refrain of “Tell me it’s alright” is a callback to Breezewood‘s “Exodus,” and Vickery BELTS it during the instrumental for beautiful effect. After things cool down a bit, Vickery notes, “Be confident of this that He begins good works will see them through.” It’s a powerful reflection on God’s continued power in our lives.

“You Don’t Want Me Around” is one of the heaviest tracks on the record and easily one of the best. There’s a lot gain on the guitar and bass this time around, and Vickery certainly can pull of a good rock track. Once again, guest vocals serve as a beautiful addition to the track, this time chopped and panned. The middle of the track even has a nice interlude of several voices, cementing the song’s notions of insecurity, the difficulty of belonging, and recurring feelings of being unwanted. Even so, Vickery isn’t throwing a pity party and acknowledges that these are lies and evidences of pride.

“Big Things Coming” is another rock track, maybe not quite as single-friendly, but certainly intricate and melodic – think mid-00s post-hardcore. Lyrically, the track speaks to the pressure of people to craft perfect online personas in order to feel validated and have dignity. Vickery definitely presses some buttons across the album, but his snark is usually softened by his poetry. Overall, this is a very strong track, but it does feel maybe a bit on-the-nose and a bit more outward than inward compared to the rest of the record.

Things slow and soften on “Breathe & Affirm” and “The Gallery”. The former feels like an early 20s alternative radio song, something from Coldplay’s halcyon days or maybe the era of “Bittersweet Symphony.” “The Gallery” is definitely a late album-favorite of mine that’s a bit of a slow burn – it begins as a piano number before coming to an almost cinematic close as Vickery sings how “it’s still beautiful.” There are a number of big crescendos on earlier songs, but this is a strange moment of soft power, sort of like the “big” moments on Benjamin Daniel’s albums, that show there are many different ways to capture strong emotions.

It’s no mystery why “Hydrangea” was released as a single. It’s a powerhouse of a track that explores plenty of musical territory – from icy guitars to a belted chorus and even a giant sax solo. It’s a beautiful tribute to Vickery’s wife and serves as a nice juxtaposition against the uncertainty and shame that accompany “Demimonde” and “Greenhouse” earlier. This song exudes confidence at every angle, and it’s a great microcosm of what to expect across the album’s runtime.

“Hymn for the Heavy & Hopeful” is perhaps the true closing track (more on “Michael Thomas” in a moment) and it’s definitely one that’s taken a bit to grow on me. “All you favored and wandering, come savor while suffering,” is easily one of the most powerful lyrics on the entire record, managing to serve as a bit of a thesis statement of sorts. The song essentially has two phases, and it’s the first half that has taken a bit to click. “Mercy tends to play in the minor,” Vickery notes. The track itself seems to consist of modal tension, a curious interplay between major and minor, that makes it stand out among its compatriots. Something about it feels weird at first, and I’m only convinced it’s supposed to be this way. This is an album full of thematic tension, but here, everything really culminates in a musical way. And in the second phase of the track, we finally see what appears to be resolve: the reminder that joy and suffering can coexist. It is not the biggest ending by any degree, but it does work as a nice closing bit.

“Michael Thomas” wraps things up with its sub-one-minute runtime. It’s a lofi piano track that sees Vickery simply sing, “I’ve got my mind made up and I won’t turn back cuz I want to see my Jesus some day.” It’s not a throw away track by any means, and structurally, it fits well with the album opener. I guess in some ways it maybe feels like an extended outro or closing thought, though it’s interesting conceptually to see things shift from the full-band triumph of “Hymn for the Heavy & Hopeful” back toward the barren and broken tones of this arrangement. There’s still forward-looking moment, but there’s a sense that there’s still a fight ahead. The title refers to one of Vickery’s childhood friends who died, and it’s a beautiful tribute and resolution to the sub-theme of survivor’s guilt.

I’m not sure I can describe Interloper more concisely than to say it is a rare album. Vickery has truly put so much of his life into these songs that I’m wondering what could even come next. Now that the curtain is pulled back and all the bloodstains are out and the scars are getting bandaged, now that over 70 minutes of conceptual songs are finished, what could possibly be ahead? This is a work of oft-hidden levels of commitment and honesty, an independently-released and independently-funded project that puts major record label releases to shame. Interloper joins the small club of long records that are truly worthy of their entire runtime. Does that mean I enjoy every creative choice? Definitely not. But do I feel like the album would be better at half or a third of its length? Not at all. There are a lot of threads of storytelling at play, and it can get a bit confusing to navigate the how the meta-narrative fits in on the latter half in particular, but there is also plenty of clarity where there needs to be.

This is album with pain, but it’s not afraid to push the listener, either. “The Best You Could” is a call to show understanding, grace, and forgiveness in light of how destructive patterns can be passed down. “You Don’t Want Me Around” calls out the propensity for us to want to wallow in sorrow. And all throughout, there’s a sense that for some reason we can’t explain, car crashes, abuse, neglect, anger, and pride all can somehow still be things God brings good from without endorsing it Himself. There are few albums that have the courage to smack me in the head like this, and even though Vickery uses his own story, I can’t help but see the same needs and weaknesses in my soul. Vickery bleeds quite a bit on this record, but if you’re like me, you’re bleeding too.

All in all, Interloper embodies major-label quality with an independent form factor. Vickery, alongside producer Jay Arrington (Greenbrier Studio) and a team of guest instrumentalists and vocalists, has crafted an album that is in many ways indistinguishable from more established bands and producers. And you certainly won’t find an album that manages to wrestle this closely with the particulars of pain, joy, grief, and forgiveness on the radio. Many artists choose to keep things general, but God has always had a specific plan of redemption. It’s okay to own the details, and that’s what this album does well. Musically, there’s a good balance: the first half shows off some of the ballad-to-banger tracks with their gentle builds and powerful crescendos, while the latter half leans toward no-nonsense rock powerhouses. This is a bit of an oversimplification, but there’s a specific movement to the dynamic on the record. But at the end of the day, its strongest element is how real it is: the real story of all kinds of challenges and forms of brokenness that neither ends in despondency nor perfection. There are plenty of people who would throw in the towel after a crash like this, but Vickery has chosen to use it as part of his healing. And there’s a good chance, if you listen attentively, it can become part of yours as well.