The Wake, the seventh album from Foy Vance, closes a circle that began more than two decades ago. In January 1999 on the Spanish island of Lanzarote, a transcendent night onstage was followed the next morning by the news that his father had died of a heart attack. In the shock of that loss, Vance made a private vow to create seven albums shaped by his father’s memory. With The Wake, that promise is fulfilled.

The significance of seven traces back to something his father, a traveling preacher who moved the family to the American South when Vance was a baby, often repeated: give me the boy to the age of seven, and I will give you the man. Vance took that idea to heart. Each record would mark a stage of growth, each one inching him closer to understanding who he was as a songwriter and as a son. He has spent 26 years living inside that commitment.

Produced by Ethan Johns and backed by players including drummer Jeremy Stacey and pianist Neil Cowley, Vance leaned into spontaneity. Songs were shaped in real time, guided by feel rather than formula. The result blends folk, soul, and Southern blues into something restless and alive.

The album opens with “a.i.,” a sprawling nine-minute outcry that wrestles with the anxiety surrounding artificial intelligence. What begins as a dystopian thought experiment turns into something defiantly human. Gospel-tinged harmonies and wiry guitar lines frame a simple idea: imperfection is our strength. If machines strive for perfection, Vance counters with mess, humor, and heart.

Elsewhere, the album turns inward. “Hi, I’m The Preacher’s Son” traces his lineage with a clear-eyed tenderness, acknowledging that who we are is often decided long before we understand it. “I Think I Preferred The Question” pushes back against rigid certainty in matters of faith, favoring mystery over dogma. On “I Ain’t Sold On Time,” he locks into a groove-heavy meditation on how slippery time really is, embracing the freedom that comes with admitting we do not have the answers. 

Meanwhile, “We Almost Made It” is among the album’s most exposed moments. Written in Tennessee, it captures that familiar ache of relationships that nearly worked, driven by luminous guitar and a voice that carries equal parts regret and hope. And on “Call Me Anytime,” Vance reflects on fatherhood with a mix of nostalgia and awe, bridging generations in a way that feels quietly profound.

Completed 26 years to the day after his father’s passing, The Wake carries the weight of grief but no longer feels trapped inside it. The lament has run its course. In its place is clarity and a renewed sense of purpose. With the seven-album arc complete, Vance sounds unburdened, energized, and ready for whatever comes next.