What does “almanac” mean? It sounds old-fashioned, almost archaic, like a dusty book on the shelf of an ancient library. But in the case of Almanac: Volume 1 by Spencer Sanders, this term comes to life, taking on a new form, a new voice.

Almanac: Volume 1 consists of eight tracks, each a separate chapter, a separate story. Spencer Sanders skillfully blends acoustic pop, country, and rock, creating a compelling sound rich in textures and nuances.

photo by Whitney Ashby

Behind the polished sound are producers Dean Miller and Landon Alley, who added that spark that transforms good songs into unforgettable ones. This is exactly the case where production perfectly complements the original material and brings it to the forefront. You realize this when you hear the tremor in Sanders’ voice on certain tracks. A trap for your attention, your guilt, your longing. And, damn, it works.

What makes Spencer Sanders special is his ability to be so vulnerable that you start to feel uncomfortable. And the strangest part? You don’t want to leave. You want to stay, even if it’s painful, even if it makes you uneasy. You want to know his story, and Almanac: Volume 1 delivers on this task 100 percent.

The emotional palette of the album is vast. It’s an album about love, but not the sugary-sentimental kind we’re used to hearing on the radio. Here, love is real: it smells like fresh earth, creaks like the floors of an old house, and is felt in the heat of the setting sun. And then, as if from nowhere, a wave of regret washes over you. And all of this is conveyed not through words, but through music that literally seeps under your skin.

I was deeply moved by the first track, Rust — it acts as the spark: it sets the mood and sends you on a journey where comfort and unease intertwine. The guitars are warm, the strings feel like invisible hands lightly brushing against you. And the vocals? There’s such ease in them, as if Sanders is singing just for you.

But then comes Wishing Wells, and everything turns upside down. The ease remains, but now it’s swept up by speed. And I love this track for its unpredictability. In this track, Sanders’ voice nearly breaks, and that moment—it’s pure gold. It’s that raw moment of vulnerability that makes everything real, the kind of moment that won’t let you forget the song.

And then Paradise Found comes in. Soft and enveloping, almost comforting. In its lyrics and Sanders’ voice, there’s this sense of “everything will be okay,” even if you don’t quite believe it. The guitars, drums, and backing vocals—it’s like they’re holding your hand while you sort through your own thoughts.

photo by Whitney Ashby

There are also surprises, like the track Maybe…. Pop, commercial shine, but not in a bad way. You hear those bright guitars, the soft rhythm, and immediately a scene forms in your mind: a sunset, a car with the windows down, warm summer air. It’s flawless, yet not polished to the point of losing its soul. This balance between radio-friendly and sincere is a rarity.

War & Peace is a heartfelt ballad, and with Iced Moonshine, you realize how diverse this album can be. It’s a track that smells of a country house, slightly burnt bread, and the soft smile of someone telling an old story. It’s country that feels like a conversation with yourself.

And then, finally, Golden Age. It’s like the last sip of wine at the end of a long day. It’s not about words or chords. It’s about that feeling that stays with you when the song ends. It’s a mix of melancholy and warmth all at once. You can’t quite understand why you feel cozy and sad at the same time, but it happens, and it stays.

But here’s what really struck me: this album feels unfinished, and that’s not a criticism. This “unfinished” effect makes you want to wait, to build theories. How will Volume 2 sound? What story will be told next? I find it hard to categorize the album into genres—and that’s a good thing. Pop? It’s too smart for pop. Country? But it’s country that isn’t afraid to look strange. Rock? Maybe, but there’s none of the aggression you’d typically expect. It’s more like your own inner unease, cloaked in guitar chords and simple, almost domestic words.

I’d like to call this album something like a modern musical antidote. An antidote to what surrounds us: to noisy music, to fast consumption, to this constant pressure to be “successful.” It’s an album that refuses to rush. And if you spend time with it, it will give you back a hundred times more. 5/5.

*This review was made possible by SubmitHub