Somewhere between self-awareness and self-destruction lies The Sunmills’ debut album “The Art of Burning Bridges”—a breakneck 24-minute confession booth disguised as a rock record. This Highland, Utah trio hasn’t just made an album; they’ve created evidence that could be submitted in relationship court, simultaneously serving as both prosecution and defense.
From the moment “Take Me Away” kicks the door open with its jittery guitar riff and propulsive drums, it’s clear these aren’t musicians interested in gentle introductions. The track functions as a statement of intent—escape as default setting, movement as remedy for emotional stagnation. Lead vocalist shifts between confessional verses and an anthemic chorus that disguises its desperation beneath infectious melody. When he pleads for salvation through geographic relocation, you can practically smell the gasoline being poured on the metaphorical bridges mentioned in the album title.
The Sunmills’ sonic blueprint draws liberally from alt-rock’s golden era while avoiding pastiche through sheer conviction. There’s DNA from Hendrix in the guitar heroics, Red Hot Chili Peppers in the funk-adjacent rhythm section, and early Kings of Leon in the raw emotionality, yet it coheres into something distinctly their own—primarily because these influences have been filtered through the unique prism of Utah’s isolation and the band’s unfiltered emotional landscape.
Second single “Not Going Home” delivers the album’s most immediate hook, a deceptively simple chorus that reveals the band’s knack for hiding emotional complexity within seemingly straightforward structures. This track showcases their dynamic range, building from sparse verses into explosive choruses with the precision of demolition experts. The rhythm section deserves particular praise here—the bass providing melodic counterpoint rather than mere foundation, while the drums navigate tempo shifts that mirror the emotional volatility of someone actively avoiding accountability.
By track three, “Rock and Roll,” the album’s thematic framework solidifies. Far from a mere genre exercise, the song examines music itself as both refuge and enabler—the thing that simultaneously allows escape from emotional consequences while facilitating the very behavior patterns that necessitate escape. It’s meta without being pretentious, self-referential without disappearing up its own narrative.
The title track and flagship single “Burning Bridges” arrives at the album’s midpoint like a confession that’s also somehow a boast. With its wah-pedal guitar flourishes and stuttering drum pattern, it’s sonically the most adventurous offering—creating musical tension that mirrors the lyrical exploration of relationship arson as both regrettable habit and perverse accomplishment. The chorus (“Yeah I keep burning bridges, burn ’em down to the ground. Yeah it must be a sickness, wish I could come around”) encapsulates the album’s central tension: acknowledging self-destructive patterns while simultaneously recognizing them as a pathology.
“Sucks To Be You” initially seems like mere breakup spite but reveals unexpected depths through production choices—vocal doubling that creates shadow-self conversation, guitar tones that shift from aggressive to vulnerable between verses and chorus. It’s emotional projection disguised as accusation, and all the more compelling for this unacknowledged reversal.
Whispering Words” provides necessary contrast with its more restrained arrangement, proving The Sunmills aren’t just power and volume merchants. The song’s dynamics—particularly its deliberately paced build toward emotional release—create resonance beyond anything else in the collection. The intimate lyrics “Whispering words that could get us in trouble / Is what got us here” and “Gently breath into my ear / Rub your hands through my hair / Nowhere I’d rather be than here” reveal a vulnerability and tenderness beneath the band’s typically brash exterior, making it one of the album’s most authentically affecting moments.
Penultimate track “Hey Now Cindy” offers the album’s most mellow and introspective moment, providing essential breathing room before the finale. The subdued instrumentation and contemplative pacing create an unexpected moment of quiet reflection, showcasing the band’s range and ability to convey emotion without relying on volume or intensity. This softer approach reveals another dimension to The Sunmills’ songwriting capabilities and provides perfect contrast to the album’s more energetic tracks.
Throughout these eight tracks, The Sunmills manage to be simultaneously in your face and emotionally vulnerable—a difficult balance that speaks to their songwriting sophistication despite the deliberately rough-edged production. The record sounds like it was captured live rather than constructed piecemeal, preserving the raw energy that presumably makes their stage show so compelling.
“The Art of Burning Bridges” succeeds primarily because it never pretends to have answers. Instead, it documents questions asked in real-time by people still figuring things out—sometimes through poor choices consciously made. The album finds these three musicians from Utah mining emotional wreckage for musical gold and emerging with nuggets that gleam despite (or perhaps because of) the dirt still clinging to them.
At just under 25 minutes, the album leaves you wanting more rather than overstaying its welcome—appropriately mirroring the relationships it documents, which end before their true potential is realized. This Highland trio has created a debut that functions both as relationship post-mortem and musical mission statement. The bridges may be burning, but The Sunmills are just getting started.
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