There is a very specific kind of artist who makes you feel like they are constantly in the middle of figuring themselves out in public, and somehow that’s the whole appeal. Not in a messy, “I uploaded my demo folder by accident” way, but in a deliberate, ongoing process of refinement. Tyson Dickert has quietly become one of those artists. With Endless, his latest album, the Michigan-based musician continues a run that already felt unusually productive, following last year’s Beneath the Stars, We Dream of Tomorrow’s Sun and An Endless Voyage on the Astral Sea. Those records established him as someone fascinated by atmosphere, instrumental sprawl, and emotional scale. Endless takes that foundation and says, “Okay, now let’s make this hit harder, feel sharper, and say some things out loud this time around.”
The result is an album built on dynamic guitar textures, expressive vocals, and a constant tension between introspection and catharsis. Dickert isn’t abandoning his post-rock and instrumental roots here, but he’s clearly leaning further into songwriting in a traditional sense. There are hooks now. There are lyrics you remember. There are moments where you realize he’s not just building soundscapes anymore, he’s building narratives.
The opening track, “Awake Inside a Dream,” sets that agenda immediately. It arrives with climactic confidence, layering pulsing distortion under vocals that sound both vulnerable and determined. When Dickert sings, “Sleep all night when the lights are on,” it lands like a line pulled straight from the notebook of someone who hasn’t slept properly in years. It’s restless, anxious, and oddly comforting. This is a recurring theme across the album: emotional unease presented with melodic warmth. You’re never overwhelmed, but you’re never allowed to fully relax either.
“In the Quiet Machine” follows with a more immediate, guitar-forward energy. There’s a colorful rhythmic bounce here that feels almost playful, until you notice the subtle melancholy underneath. Dickert’s songwriting maturity really shows in how he shifts between these modes. He can move from driving post-punk urgency into reflective stillness without making it feel like two different songs taped together. The faint echoes of bands like The Chameleons UK are noticeable, especially in the way he balances nostalgia with modern clarity.
Things get darker and more fragmented on “Waking from a Fever Dream,” which lives up to its title. The song lurches between gritty heaviness and hushed, nocturnal passages, capturing the disorientation of emotional burnout. Lines like “I watched you disappear again” feel less like dramatic statements and more like exhausted observations. It’s the sound of someone who has replayed the same memory too many times.
“Remember Who We Are” swings the emotional pendulum back toward optimism. It’s one of the album’s most uplifting moments, built around lyrics about light returning after darkness. There’s a sincerity here that never tips into corniness, which is harder to pull off than it sounds. Dickert doesn’t present hope as a grand revelation. It’s fragile, tentative, something you have to keep choosing.
Midway through the record, softer acoustic textures start to emerge. These moments, occasionally reminiscent of Radiohead’s “Nice Dream,” offer breathing space without killing momentum. They function like emotional reset buttons, letting the listener process what’s happened so far before being pulled back into more jangling, layered arrangements. Tracks like “Dust Before the Embers” thrive in this middle ground, pairing heavy distortion with calm, steady vocals in a way that feels strangely peaceful.
What makes Endless particularly compelling is how consistently it maintains this balance. Brighter tracks and brooding ones aren’t segregated. They coexist, bleed into each other, and inform one another. This gives the album a sense of internal logic. It feels like one long emotional arc rather than a playlist of loosely related moods.
The closing stretch is especially strong. “Hollow Sun” leans fully into hard rock territory, stacking thick guitar layers into something dark and energizing. It’s the album at its most muscular, a reminder that Dickert knows how to deliver sheer sonic impact when he wants to. Then comes “Dissolution,” which flips everything on its head. Gentle piano, soft percussion, and an almost weightless atmosphere bring the album to a quiet, reflective close. It feels less like an ending and more like a deep exhale.
By the time Endless wraps up, it’s clear that this isn’t just another entry in Tyson Dickert’s growing catalog; it’s a statement of artistic direction. He’s no longer content to let texture do all the talking. He’s stepping forward as a songwriter, a vocalist, and a storyteller, without abandoning the immersive qualities that made his earlier work compelling.
In an era where a lot of rock artists feel pressured to either chase trends or retreat into nostalgia, Dickert is doing something more interesting: he’s evolving patiently, thoughtfully, and in public. Endless isn’t flashy. It doesn’t beg for attention. Instead, it earns it through emotional honesty, careful craft, and a willingness to sit with uncomfortable feelings until they turn into something beautiful. That quiet confidence might be its greatest strength.
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About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for various publications around the world, the former lead writer of review blogspace Atop The Treehouse and content creator for Manila Bulletin.
