Review- Bones Owens: Best Western
What a difference a year makes. Just over twelve months since Love Out of Lemons, Bones Owens still dares to dream—sharper, steadier, and stronger than ever. He hasn’t wasted a single second, pushing forward and shoving the envelope clean off the edge. What follows is an eruption of anthemic, blues-driven soul—genre-bending fire that lingers long after the last note fades.
Photo by Daniel Chaney
This Friday, Bones Owens drops Best Western like a match in tall, dry grass—his highly anticipated, self-produced third full-length album via Thirty Tigers. It holds fifteen ferociously delicious tracks, each unleashing wave after wave of triumphant soundscapes—sublime in their reach, stirring the soul, and, in my opinion, best played loud. Best Western is built to burn white-hot and smolder like a phoenix, daring you to hit play again and again. It’s made for nights too good to end. Hidden, ever so slightly, behind his formidable axe-wielding prowess, Owens lays his soul bare for all who give this record a spin. What emerges is a wonderfully delicate, achingly intimate dimension of himself—ordinarily reserved for a select few, yet here unveiled with unguarded poise to anyone willing to listen.
What often begins as brooding confidence laced with doubt swells into a pipeline wave that encapsulates Owens’ vulnerability—and without fail, crashes into a fiercely damn good time. This is music that does more than entertain; it compels reflection, urging the listener to lift their gaze from the everyday and confront their fragile, fleeting place in the vastness of the universe.
The album opens with “Before I’m in the Grave” a filthy, pulsating rhythm—the kind that burrows beneath the skin and sets your head bobbing before your mind can resist. Sprinkled in to remind you that you are still breathing is a wailing guitar that cuts through the haze like a spectral reminder that tomorrow is never promised. In its union of raw grit and ghostly beauty, the track does more than just set the stage—it beckons with urgency and abandon, calling us to cast off hesitation and live as though the grave was already whispering our name.
“Don’t Nobody Wanna Be Alone” staggers in with a dark, seedy dive-bar vibe—smoky, dank, and raw. Then, with about 1:11 left, the guitar solo tears the ceiling open, howling and haunting like it could wake the dead. Just as suddenly, it slips back into the shadows—gone as quickly as a dream, or a ghost you’re not sure you really saw.
The title track, “Best Western,” doesn’t just sit at the center of the record—it kicks the saloon doors wide open. It’s an outlaw story for modern times: myths of the old West tangled up with the grit of a war vet turned drifter, set ablaze halfway through by Yelawolf’s spitfire verse. The whole thing roars like a GTO down a desert highway at midnight—loud, reckless, and impossible to ignore. Owens wears the narrative like a second skin, because in truth, life on the fringe isn’t just a story—it’s the reality for musicians who bleed themselves out night after night on the road. This isn’t nostalgia; it’s a Western dragged into the now, dust-covered and electric.
“Here Is Not My Home” offers a rare chance to catch your breath, easing in gently before blossoming into a sweeping epic that pangs the heart. It’s a masterclass in contrasts—quiet vulnerability giving way to a surging wall of sound that feels both intimate and immense. The song captures the cascading roller coaster of emotions Owens delivers note to note, leaving you on the edge of your seat, heart aching without quite knowing why.
“Sunday Fix” strips away the jagged, rocky edges and draws you tantalizingly close to Bones Owens’ soul. This track is deliberate, tender, and unhurried—its phrasing, pacing, and vocals transform simple lyrics into a standout moment on the album. It’s the kind of song that will have you swaying like a leaf in the breeze. I agree with Bones, “This is a contender for personal favorite song on the record.” Nearing exhaustion from the daily grind of chasing his dreams, Owens remains steadfast in his commitment to stay the course, following his own compass without losing himself along the way. While on the surface the song may balance life on the road with love left behind, another thought emerges: perhaps the true “fix” he’s pining for is the affection of us, the listeners.
The record wraps with “Time Bomb,” a final parting gift for your ears before you inevitably hit play and set off on the whole journey again. This irresistible, bouncy earworm springs loose, and it’s nearly impossible—nearly criminal—not to sing along when those mouth-watering “Time Bomb bomp-a-bomp, Time Bomb bomp-a-bomps” drop midway through the track. Consider yourself warned: It’s as catchy and unforgettable as all get out. Think old school Tom T. Hall, “That Song Is Driving Me Crazy” but with electricity.
Again, this album is best played loud. Not polite, background loud—but window-rattling, body-shaking loud. The genius here isn’t in flashy solos or gratuitous licks; it’s in the way these soundscapes bloom—raw, unpretentious, and undeniably huge. And while Derek Trucks remains one of my favorite guitarists, Owens cuts a different path. He plays only what the song demands, not a note more. That restraint becomes its own kind of power—until, of course, he lets loose with those anthemic, wailing riffs that grab you by the collar and won’t let go.
If you haven’t snagged tickets to The Shed Smokehouse & Juke Joint in Maryville, Tennessee on Halloween night to catch Them Dirty Roses and Bones Owens, you might already be too late. “Candle in the Dark” by Them Dirty Roses was on repeat for me this time last year—and I’d pay just about anything to see Bones Owens jump in on the guitar solo. If you can’t make it, don’t worry—Owens is also hitting the road with Whiskey Myers.
Best Western is about the cost of staying true—never mailing it in, no matter the toll. It reminds us the ride is short, so live loud, live fully, and chase whatever sets your soul on fire. Like the best nights and the best bottles of bourbon, it doesn’t ask for moderation—it dares you to pour another round.
