By the time you get to Songs for the Drunk and Brokenhearted, Mike Rosenberg—better known as Passenger—has written so many songs about heartbreak, he’s basically the Wes Anderson of acoustic misery. “This must be like the sixth breakup record as well, unfortunately,” he says with a self-deprecating grin that suggests even he’s aware this might be turning into a pattern. The only difference this time? He’s planting a forest with it.
We’re not speaking metaphorically. For every album sold through his website, a literal tree gets planted. “It’s not going to save the planet single-handedly,” he says. “But I think if you’re making physical products in 2021, you’ve got a responsibility.” Welcome to sad-boy sustainability, where vinyl is pressed with guilt-free shrink wrap and the artist still sings like he’s nursing a warm pint in an empty bar at last call.
The album—his 13th, if you’re counting, which he is—was supposed to come out pre-pandemic. Then the world shut down, the sadness got sadder, and Rosenberg did what he always does: kept writing. “It was a real sort of melting pot creatively,” he says, referencing the double whammy of a breakup followed by global collapse. The result is a few post-lockdown additions, including the lead single “Sword from the Stone,” which may or may not be about surviving loneliness with medieval metaphors.
There’s something very British about how he downplays the devastation—almost like he’s too polite to wallow. Even the record’s most cinematic cut, “Sandstorm,” which starts as a whisper and explodes into a mariachi-adjacent catharsis, gets shrugged off with a bashful “we were kind of pushing our comfort zone.” Never mind that it sounds like the soundtrack to a mid-2000s indie film where two emotionally stunted people fall in love in a haunted desert.
“I love the concept,” he says of that one. “It’s like, I am the sandstorm, and you are the sand.” It’s a lyric that sounds devastating until you think about the physics of that for more than three seconds.
Speaking of metaphors, “The Way That I Love You” veers dangerously close to Gordon Lightfoot cosplay, with Rosenberg admitting, “It’s probably a bit too close to Jim Croce at times.” But don’t call it theft. “Music creeps into your subconscious,” he says. “It’s not intentional—it’s just osmosis.”
There’s also “Suzanne,” which yes, is a deliberate nod to Leonard Cohen, even if the song’s titular woman is less a poetic muse and more that permanently-stationed figure at your neighborhood dive, staring into the jukebox like it owes her money. “Everyone’s met a Suzanne,” he says. “She’s on her stool, drinking the same drink, smoking the same cigarette.” It’s one of the few moments on the record where the romance feels earned and not embalmed.
But maybe the most revealing song never made the album. It’s a lullaby he wrote for his cat Rosie, who promptly ignored it. “Didn’t care at all,” he laughs. “Typical cat.” And yet, he still plays it.
As for the ever-looming threat of cringe, he embraces it. “It’s like going back and reading a diary from high school,” he admits, having just re-learned eight of his past records to play live online during lockdown. “Some of the lyrics are Yuck. But it’s part of the creative journey.”
And somehow, despite the subject matter, despite the minor chords, despite the fact that his album title sounds like a lost Bukowski poem, Songs for the Drunk and Brokenhearted never feels heavy. Maybe it’s the production. Maybe it’s the Beatles chord changes. Or maybe it’s just Rosenberg, quietly churning out tear-streaked, wine-soaked indie folk that somehow makes you feel better, not worse.
Then again, maybe it’s just the trees.
Watch the interview above and then give these videos a spin.
