Genre(s): Indie folk, chamber folk, Southern Gothic
Location: Raleigh, NC
Released: September 11, 2026
Heavy times call for lightness and gentleness, so I’m becoming a fan of pedal steel used in non-country music contexts. We want softer sounds and low-key yet meaningful activities. Perhaps it’s too much to ask of an album to fulfill that. Yet, Never Learned The Tide is firmly planted in gentleness, and it’s the no-pressure activity I want to participate in.
The second full-length album from Twilark, the indie folk-pop project of Raleigh-based songwriter Canon Pence, is gracefully evocative, delivering subtle human stories with layered meanings that keep the listener guessing.
I’ll argue that there’s maybe a lick of country, but this plaintive music is far more folk, pop, and Americana-tinged. Even Americana isn’t quite right, except for the use of roots instruments. And it has the pop instinct of making songs immediately engaging. The album’s lightness comes from melodic songs, rich instrumentation, and attentive and sensitive playing.
But this isn’t easy listening. Canon’s high-pitched voice is the voice of heartbreak. These literate songs ask for the listener’s attention and introspection. The lyrics lean somber at times, and the cover by Laura Ladendorf speaks for itself. In “Oranore,” Canon sings, “I’ll need a driver / Because I never learned the tide.” That’s where we find the album’s title, tucked away at the end. Leading up to it, he asks for a “boatman or an oar.”
“I’ve been walking around, but I wish I was falling / Into something new / I’m just so tired of being me without you,” Canon states in the opener, “Tired To Sleep.” And later, “I never wanted to need anyone or anything / Maybe I didn’t know the cost.” The pain isn’t just losing someone; it’s confronting the realization that self-sufficiency has limits.
In “Deeper I Fall,” he sings that the “night has got too much to say,” and he can’t “sing these memories away.” At the end comes the realization that “our scars shape the way we grow” and become part of us. In a typical twist, Canon flips falling to indicate insight rather than decline — “The stars grow ever more beautiful / The deeper I fall.” Perhaps surrender isn’t such a bad thing.
The cowboy mythology of the open road, whiskey, Gibson guitar, and loneliness permeates “No Cowboy Song”. Yet once again, Canon undercuts tropes by singing, “We both know that I wouldn’t last out there for long.” There’s humor but also vulnerability. His heart is “full of scars,” and staying home is a choice where “Life goes slowly, but still moving on.”
Rather than resolving emotional conflict, these songs linger in the uncertain space that follows it. Canon is less interested in answers than in learning how to inhabit uncertainty.
A remarkable aspect of the recording is that it was captured live over the course of only six days at the Bomb Shelter in Nashville. This is even more striking because of the varied and unique instrumentation under Canon’s vocals and acoustic guitar. The collaborative ensemble includes Maya de Vitry (banjo and fiddle), Spencer Cullum (pedal steel), Erin Rae (harmony vocals), and producer Dominic Billet (also drums, a host of instruments, and background vocals). Magic happens with the addition of Sparrow Smith on accordion, Hannah Wyatt (backing vocals), and Paul Defiglia on upright bass (Billet plays electric bass, too).
The result is a finely crafted sonic palette of quietude and intuitive studio arrangements. Pedal steel cries throughout, wonderfully blending with accordion, fiddle, and vocal harmonies. The banjo and drums — mostly skins, hardly any cymbals — are muted. Canon’s guitar brings structure and rhythm, holding it all together.
Already a feat to record with the group playing live, the ensemble’s execution of the delicate arrangements, along with the engineering and production values, elevates Never Learned The Tide to luminous chamber folk.
Chamber music usually calls for strings, woodwinds, and harps, but orchestral grandeur isn’t necessary to achieve rich intimacy. And there’s plenty here: Billet adds piano, electric guitar, bowed vibraphone, and mellotron; there’s de Vitry’s understated fiddle and banjo; Canon’s often fingerpicked acoustic guitar; and the vocal harmonies are often string-like. Smith’s accordion has a timeless sound, recalling its European origins, rather than various global permutations.
Every instrument feels deliberately placed to create textures so each song’s narrative breathes. In other words, Never Learned The Tide is bespoke. So is the album art, which was created using a printing press and real book cloth.
Canon finds self-reflection in vulnerability, recognizing that scars, uncertainty, and the need for others are all part of being human. There’s an admission that life requires companionship, guidance, and trust, but none of these confessional songs are about settling scores. They acknowledge absence, longing, memory, and regret without the tit-for-tat, which is hugely refreshing when we consider many of today’s popular hits.
Now, find a comfy spot and listen to this warm music.
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