Screaming Trees
– Dust
Dust is where Screaming Trees finally stopped apologizing for being the weird kid in the Seattle scene. While their grunge contemporaries drowned in murk and flannel, this record lit a fire somewhere out in the desert and stared at the stars. It’s not quite psychedelic, not fully grunge, and not polite enough to be classic rock. It’s what happens when you mix a little cowboy doom, some acid-spiked introspection, and one of the most criminally underrated voices of the ‘90s.
Best of…
Mark Lanegan sings like he’s been swallowed by the earth and spat back out with gravel in his throat. He’s not trying to seduce you. He’s telling ghost stories that might be about you, if you’ve ever wandered too far from home or stared at the ceiling wondering what went wrong. The band, meanwhile, tightens up without sanding down. Gary Lee Conner’s guitar lurches and spirals, swirling around Lanegan’s voice like vultures circling roadkill. Barrett Martin’s drumming is thunderous without being flashy—he’s not showing off, he’s dragging you down the canyon wall beat by beat.
Dust isn’t trying to reinvent anything. It just sounds like a band finally comfortable being on their own island. There’s no irony, no posture. Just grit, pain, and a slow-burning intensity that gets into your lungs like dry heat. If the Trees were always out of step with their peers, this album proves that was their greatest strength.
Choice Tracks
Halo of Ashes
Right out the gate, you get a sitar. Not for flavor, but for fury. The song churns like a stormfront, and Lanegan rides the chaos like he’s staring down the Four Horsemen.
All I Know
Their closest thing to a hit. It punches with the urgency of classic rock radio, but Lanegan’s growl adds just enough menace to make it feel unsafe. Like a handshake with a knife in the other hand.
Sworn and Broken
Lanegan sounds exhausted here, and that’s the point. This one’s a slow tumble down a dusty hill, cracked wide open with weariness and resignation. One of their most haunted ballads.
Dying Days
Pearl Jam’s Mike McCready lends a blistering solo, but it’s still all Screaming Trees. That bluesy ache in the riff, the resignation in the lyrics—it’s the end of something, and everyone knows it.
Look at You
The album’s emotional wrecking ball. Melancholy piano, understated drums, and Lanegan barely holding it together. It’s not a song—it’s a sigh that never ends.