Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit (Night 1)

A Jason Isbell record always lands like a decoder ring in the ears and hearts of his audience—a soundtrack to his world and, magically, to theirs as well. Weathervanes carries the same revelatory power. This is a storyteller at the peak of his craft, observing his fellow wanderers, looking inward, and trying to understand, reducing a universe to four minutes. He shrinks life small enough to name the fear and then strip it away, helping his listeners make sense of how two plus two stops equaling four once you carry a certain amount of scars.

“There is something about boundaries on this record,” Isbell says. “As you mature, you still attempt to keep the ability to love somebody fully and completely while you’re growing into an adult and learning how to love yourself.”

Weathervanes is a collection of grown-up songs: songs about adult love, change, the danger of nostalgia, and interrogating myths; songs about cruelty, regret, and redemption. These are life-and-death songs played for and by grown-ass people. Some will make you cry alone in your car, while others will make you sing along with thousands of strangers in a big summer pavilion, united in the great miracle of being alive. The record features the rolling thunder of Isbell’s fearsome 400 Unit, a band that has earned its place in the rock ‘n’ roll cosmos alongside legendary backing ensembles like The E Street Band and The Wailers.

The 400 Unit makes a big noise, as Isbell puts it, and he feels so comfortable letting them be a main prism through which much of the world hears his art. With them behind him, he transforms, becoming a version of himself that can only exist in their presence. Solo, Isbell commands the entire performance; with the 400 Unit, he can choose to be a guitar hero, a conductor, or a fan of his own bandmates, marveling at their sound.

The roots of this record go back to the isolation of the pandemic and Isbell’s time on the set of Martin Scorsese’s Killers of the Flower Moon. There were guitars in his trailer and a lot of time to sit and think. The melancholy yet soaring track “King of Oklahoma” was written during this time. Watching Scorsese work, Isbell observed the interplay of clear vision and collaboration—how even someone as decorated as Scorsese sought out and valued his co-workers’ input.

“It definitely helped when I got into the studio,” Isbell says. “I had this reinvigorated sense of collaboration. You can have an idea and execute it without compromise—and still listen to the other people in the room.”