How Alison Krauss Found the Song That Rekindled Her Distinctive Band

Alison Krauss never stops searching for songs. But she only records them when she’s ready.

“She does it 24/7/365,” said Barry Bales, the bassist in her band Union Station since 1990. “She’s on the lookout for songs, and she’s a song hoarder. She’ll hear a song she likes, and it may never see the light of day for 15, 20 years. But she’ll remember it.”

A decade after Krauss’s last tour with Union Station, and 14 years after the band’s previous studio album, the singer and fiddler has reconvened the group for “Arcadia,” an album due Friday. “I’ve been gathering tunes for this since the last time we recorded,” Krauss, 53, said in a video interview from the Doghouse, a Nashville studio where she has recorded for decades. “I’m just waiting for the first song to show up, until ‘Ah, here it is — it’s time to record.’ It’s always been that way.”

That first song was Jeremy Lister’s “Looks Like the End of the Road,” a bitterly mournful waltz about disillusionment and despair: “The lines that were drawn a long time ago / Are buried and gone in lies and ego,” she sings. It sets the dark tone for “Arcadia,” an album of 10 tracks, all but two of them in minor keys, with lyrics full of bleak tidings. At the end, the album offers a glimpse of redemption in another Lister song: “There’s a Light Up Ahead.”

When Krauss heard “Looks Like the End of the Road,” during the peak of the Covid pandemic, her intuition told her it was the starting point of that long-awaited album. “It just has to be the right timing, for things to be the most truthful representation,” she said. “Had I not found that song when I did, who knows when we would have gone in?”

“Arcadia” reconvenes and reconfigures a band that has transformed the sound of modern bluegrass by constantly drawing new subtleties from old-time roots. Union Station can easily muster the quick-fingered virtuosity required for upbeat, foot-stomping bluegrass tunes that punctuate its albums and live sets. But what makes the band so distinctive is its quietly incandescent restraint: the hushed concentration it summons behind Krauss’s pristinely melancholy soprano, which can sound haunted even when she sings about true love.