Every now and then an album finds you, a stark reflection of the heart with each track pulsing in that actin mix downstream. The same might be said of Icarus Phoenix's most recent release, entitled I Should Have Known the Things You Never Said — a warm and existential Indie Pop record wrapped in an Americana blanket with just a hint of Soft Rock also nodding at Country. It's an album that doesn’t just play; it confides, ponders, and bleeds with raw honesty, mapping the lines of pain, loss, and everything unsaid.

The album's opener, "The Things You Never Told Me," is indicative of the rest. It is a brooding indie pop track that quivers with jilted blood and whispered gall. Its laid-back production doesn't really reflect the emotions of its lyrics, in which a singer speaks to the ghosts that original silences leave behind. The line "Should I have known things you never told me?" hangs there in the air, unanswered—a question asking not to be left behind. It's almost tangible with regret. An emotional rawness crossed with a poignant, powerful vocal that will leave you reeling—and unable to skip the track without feeling as if there is some sort of lingering unresolved emotion inside yourself.

Then comes “Live. Give. Lose. Grow,” a melodious offering that fuses Indie Pop and Americana with a touch of grit from the band's own roots in indie rock. The way words dance in and out of different tension angles can give the sense that they are wavering around, like a river current dancing back-and-forth. Given the Venn diagram qualities, this is less a lesson about history or science and more just philosophy—in essence, an almost existential look at what it means to be human: When we adapt (which is frequently a must-do), there are consequences. The melody mirrors that sense of discovery, shifting between delicate introspection and flashes of rebellious spirit.

Needless to say, similarly to tracks like “High Tide,” you will hear a silky dynamic at first glance but have hints of Country that give the tune an original taste. This is a song about navigating self-worth and societal expectations; it discusses subjects like what should make you feel important that isn't dictated by common, material standards of success. Lyrically, it acts almost as a rallying cry for those who have never felt they were seen or heard before, with the singer repeating their own self-worth in front of delicate guitars and understated percussion. It's one of those tracks that forces you to be patient and then, if the music feels like it likes you enough, will slowly unroll more layers of meaning with every listen.

“Feeling like I failed, feeling like an orphan after losing what was mine”—a subterranean root-rock realness gives way to the dreamy ballad “In The Blood,” where the ambiance is slowed down and allows us all to float atop its delicate surf of soft-pop rock. The lyrical subject that the song captures is an artful and somber story of love lost in trying times, a journey into the shadowy river of human emotion where both hope and chance linger on precarious footing. Their imagery is amazing, “By the time they raised us we were already dead” These lines are so striking because they capture that some endings feel inevitable. The vocals here sound almost like a haunting memory and help create this otherworldly vibe for the track.

“Doctor! Doctor!” changes the mood to a cozy, gentle pop sound reminiscent of an Alec Benjamin song. It is effectively a dialogue where the singer responds to their therapist, and one in which philosophical reflections are stripped back. The words contain a grim glee, an accepting nod to the cold function of the world … but even in their faceless drift and clinical purity—so immediate if only through translation by needful healer-fingers—there is what we see as humanity. The song teeters right on the line of despair and hope, with the vocal delivery keeping that balance.

The 2000s-era Pop-inspired “Hatillo 2” offers a brighter pace, but is anything but uplifting. The song narrates the tale of death and lamentation, and it talks about a distinctive emphasis that at this instant drove grief. This is an emotionally charged track by its very nature and, as the catchy hooks pull no punches in waking you up to the somberness of Butcher's tale, it creates a tension that engagingly winds itself around your interest. The chorus, based on these very repeated sentences, offers the listener a form of abstract pain that can be experienced in contrast to the real-life stories in all verses.

“Painting” is another slow track, this one a tearjerker about Sarah—the mother who turns to art as therapy following her children's death. The way it paints a picture of adversity tempered with resilience is almost as if each line were a brushstroke on canvas. The song is a slow build, with the melody patiently showcasing its progression and gives you time to process what story those lyrics are telling. Released halfway through the album, it serves as a moment of somber reflection; an interlude with which to mentally arrive at some sort of resolution for how we deal with the inconceivable.

“When it’s Time to Go (I don't know if it is)” kicks the energy back up a notch, sounding like Pop Rock going harder driven by personal accountability and unresolved emotions. The lyrics are a push-pull of partnerships, where there is no match in the grace extended: empathy is hard to come by. Broadly covering the idea of one person carrying a relationship and eventually becoming too heavy to uphold — it details an all-too-relatable cycle where self-awareness is gutted over time. It is a song that speaks to all who have been in such relationships, which after so long becomes hard to leave.

The second-to-last track, “The Sword and the Harp,” might actually be the most personally reflective song on this album. The accompanying lyrics reference both battle and rebirth, with themes of self-destruction and redemption swirled through the metaphors. It feels final in a lot of ways, leaving the singer only to come to understand what they have chosen and the swords they are going to lose with harps left behind. The music mirrors this ambivalence, veering from crisp and almost abrasive to meditative.

The album ends on the quiet and cozy ballad “Kanashimi,” a meditation on sorrowful feelings of melancholy through healing. The soft whisper-like lyrics tell us that it's okay to feel the painful moments in life because it is how we grow. The instrumental breaks provide pauses for air, letting the message really set in. A wonderful, calm end to an album that navigates the peaks and troughs of what it is like to be human.

Icarus Phoenix has created a work that talks to things unsaid, the crypts of our hearts which we find difficult to describe in words with I Should Have Known The Things You Never Said. Painstakingly woven together, every track is another chapter in an overarching narrative of love and loss and finding oneself—all conveyed through perhaps the most honest voice you've ever heard. It's an album that requires your attention, not just for listening to the music, but hearing—he is offering up a piece of his soul as varied and complex as any one human can be.

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