Dusty Townsend has always been a storyteller, but Mentors feels different. It’s less about the stories themselves and more about the hands that pass them down—the quiet figures shaping us, the voices that linger in our memories long after their speakers are gone. It’s a record full of reverence, not just for the people who taught him, but for the art of teaching itself. And yet, for all its wisdom, Mentors never comes across as preachy or self-important. Instead, it’s vibrant, full of life, and as emotionally raw as anything Townsend has ever done.
For Townsend, music has never been confined to a stage or a studio. He comes from Calgary, Alberta—a city where the wild, open prairies crash up against the steel and glass of modern urban life. It’s a place that embodies contrasts, something you can hear in Mentors—the quiet, introspective moments colliding with grand, sweeping orchestration. This is where Townsend cut his teeth as a musician, busking on Stephen Avenue, hauling a cello, a guitar, and a belt of harmonicas through the streets. At night, he’d climb rooftops just to play under the stars, writing songs for whoever was listening—even if it was just the wind and the waterfowl at Bower Ponds. That restless energy, that need to create in spite of the setting, is at the heart of Fish in a Birdcage and this album in particular.
The Ongoing Book of Rules
But Mentors isn’t just an album—it’s the latest volume in something much larger. Every song Townsend has ever written is a Rule. From the earliest Fish in a Birdcage releases to this latest offering, each track has been another entry in an ever-growing guidebook—less like a rigid manual and more like the scribbled-down lessons of a traveler who’s spent years learning, falling, getting back up, and trying again. The numbering continues across albums, as if every song is a checkpoint, a new understanding added to the ones that came before.
There’s something profound about that. It means Mentors isn’t just a collection of songs—it’s part of a lifelong unfolding of wisdom. Every album is a chapter, every track a new realization. Townsend isn’t handing down laws; he’s offering insight, sharing the things that have shaped him and inviting listeners to take what resonates. Maybe the lessons he’s learned won’t apply to everyone in the same way—but the invitation is there, open-ended and evolving, just like life itself.
Rule #35 (Microphone) asks: If you had the chance to say something to the world, what would you say? Rule #40 (Brave) suggests that courage isn’t the absence of fear, but the willingness to step forward anyway. Rule #46 (Poet) urges us to take the stories we’ve heard and make something of them. Each song is a reflection, a marker on the path toward understanding—not rules to obey, but reminders of what matters.
Rule #36 – Long Way From Home: A Groove That Feels Familiar Yet New
One of the album’s standout tracks, Rule #36 – Long Way From Home, carries an unmistakable pulse—its bassline and groove nod toward U2’s grand, atmospheric rock, but instead of leaning fully into that arena-ready sound, Townsend keeps it rooted in something more intimate. There’s space in the instrumentation, a restraint that feels intentional, allowing the song’s message to unfold with weight rather than urgency.
And then there’s Townsend’s voice—throughout Mentors, his vocal delivery shifts between impassioned, tender, and raw, but here, there’s a tone and pacing reminiscent of Maynard James Keenan (Tool, A Perfect Circle). It’s not an obvious similarity—Townsend doesn’t channel Keenan’s manic intensity or complex vocal layering—but there’s a quiet control in his delivery, a weight in the way he stretches certain syllables, pacing his words in a way that feels deliberate. It’s an interesting contrast—the soaring, heartbeat-like instrumental beneath a voice that stays grounded, measured, reflective.
Lyrically, Long Way From Home is one of the album’s most poignant moments, reflecting on how our sense of home is shaped by the world around us. Townsend has spoken about how the song asks a fundamental question: If our priorities as a society were different, how would our idea of “home” change? The song feels like both a lament and a dream—a recognition of what’s broken, but also a glimpse at what could be.
A Sonic Journey Through Wisdom and Wildness
Townsend’s ability to weave intricate folk-pop melodies with cinematic orchestration has always been one of his strongest suits, and Mentors elevates that even further. There’s an expansiveness to this album, a sense of movement—like a traveler reflecting on where they’ve been while still aching for the road ahead. The arrangements feel both meticulously crafted and deeply human, with swelling strings, percussive bursts, and Townsend’s unmistakable voice—sometimes tender, sometimes urgent—leading the charge.
But Mentors isn’t just about reflection; it’s about resilience. Badger (Rule #44) thrums with restless energy, its jagged rhythms and fiery instrumentation mirroring the song’s theme of perseverance. Townsend has spoken about how he sees himself in the image of a fish in a birdcage—an artist confined, but still striving to soar. That idea pulses through the heart of the album, but nowhere more than on Badger, a song that refuses to sit still, pushing forward with grit and defiance.
A Call to Action, A Conversation Still Unfolding
The album’s final stretch is its most hopeful. Rooftop Jam (Rule #45) captures the magic of those late-night moments when music becomes something bigger than sound—when it feels like a message to the universe. And Poet (Rule #46), the album’s closer, serves as a call to action. “I’ve said some of the life lessons that I’ve wanted to say,” Townsend explains, “and now it’s your turn.” It’s a rare kind of closing track, the kind that doesn’t feel like an ending, but an invitation.
And that’s exactly what this album is doing—sparking conversation, leaving an imprint. One of the most striking things about Mentors is the way Townsend himself is engaging with these discussions. A great example is Audrey’s recent review on Medium, which Townsend personally responded to. Her piece was a great read, and Townsend’s interaction with it is proof that he isn’t just throwing his ideas into the world—he’s listening, too. That kind of dialogue between artist and audience gives hope that Mentors will feel even more alive, like a record that will keep growing and evolving as more people bring their own experiences to it.
At its core, Mentors is a love letter to those who have shaped us. But more than that, it’s a continuation of a philosophy Townsend has been writing for years—one Rule at a time. It’s an album that doesn’t just ask us to listen but to remember—to honor the wisdom we’ve been given and to share it while we still can. And in a world that often moves too fast to pause for reflection, that feels like a lesson worth holding onto.
