The Forest for the Trees: Dermot Kennedy’s The Weight of the Woods and the Dilemma of Artistic Identity
Dermot Kennedy’s latest album, The Weight of the Woods, is a curious beast. On the surface, it’s an ode to nature, with trees as its central metaphor. But beneath the foliage lies a deeper struggle—one that many artists face: the tension between staying true to one’s roots and branching out (pun very much intended). Personally, I think this album is less about trees and more about Kennedy’s own artistic identity. What makes this particularly fascinating is how he grapples with this tension so openly, even if the result isn’t always graceful.
The Tree-Laden Trap
Let’s start with the obvious: the album’s obsession with trees. From the cover art to the lyrics, Kennedy leans hard into this motif. One thing that immediately stands out is how literal it all feels. A song called Sycamore? Lyrics that read like a nature documentary script? It’s as if he’s trying to prove his love for the natural world, but the effort feels forced. What many people don’t realize is that symbolism works best when it’s subtle. Here, it’s more like a sledgehammer—effective, perhaps, but not exactly elegant.
This brings me to a broader point: the line between authenticity and cliché. Kennedy’s husky voice and melodic talent are undeniable, but his reliance on tried-and-true formulas—the power ballads, the faux sincerity—starts to feel like a crutch. If you take a step back and think about it, this album could be a case study in the dangers of playing it safe. Yes, it’s radio-friendly, but at what cost?
The Mumford & Sons Conundrum
Kennedy’s voice is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s rich and distinctive; on the other, it often veers into Mumford & Sons territory—that overly earnest, almost performative style that can feel more manufactured than genuine. This raises a deeper question: Can an artist be both commercially successful and artistically daring? Kennedy seems to want it both ways, but the result is a bit like trying to blend a redwood with a bonsai—it doesn’t quite fit.
What this really suggests is that Kennedy is caught between two worlds. He’s clearly capable of experimentation (hints of Bon Iver and Sigur Rós peek through), but he keeps pulling back, as if afraid to alienate his fanbase. From my perspective, this is where the album falters most. Tracks like Refuge and Funeral are polished but predictable, leaving me wondering what could have been if he’d taken more risks.
The Glimmers of What Could Be
That’s not to say the album is a write-off. There are moments—glorious moments—where Kennedy breaks free from his self-imposed constraints. Endless, a piano ballad, is a standout for its restraint and emotional depth. And Turnstile? It’s a revelation. With its indie rock energy, it’s the album’s high point and a tantalizing glimpse of what Kennedy could achieve if he fully embraced experimentation.
This contrast between the safe and the daring is what makes The Weight of the Woods so frustratingly interesting. It’s like watching a tightrope walker who occasionally decides to dance—thrilling when it works, but you can’t shake the feeling they’re holding back.
The Irish Music Industry: A Sure Thing
Kennedy’s dominance on Irish radio is another layer to this story. He’s the poster boy for the Irish music industry’s love of a sure thing. A guy with a guitar, a gravelly voice, and a knack for melodies? It’s a formula that works, and the industry isn’t about to rock the boat. But this raises a broader issue: Where does innovation fit into this landscape? Artists like CMAT, who push boundaries, often have to look abroad for recognition.
This isn’t Kennedy’s fault, of course. But it does highlight a systemic problem. The industry’s reluctance to take risks means that artists like Kennedy are often boxed into a certain mold, leaving little room for growth. It’s a shame, because Kennedy clearly has the talent to do more—if only he (and the industry) were willing to let him.
The Chainsaw Conclusion
The album ends on a glum note with the title track, where Kennedy lies on the ground, staring at the sky, trying to remember who he is. It’s a fitting metaphor for the album as a whole: introspective but ultimately unsatisfying. For all its love of nature, The Weight of the Woods lacks the subtlety and nuance of the natural world it tries to evoke.
In the end, this album feels like a missed opportunity. Kennedy has the tools to create something truly remarkable, but he’s too often held back by his own—and the industry’s—fear of the unknown. Personally, I think this is the real weight he’s carrying: the weight of expectations, both his own and those of his audience.
If there’s one takeaway, it’s this: Artistic growth requires risk. Kennedy has the talent; now he just needs the courage to use it. Until then, we’re left with an album that’s more chainsaw than symphony—loud, impactful, but lacking the grace of what it could have been.
