Mike Berman isn’t here to chase trends — he’s here to tell stories. With the release of his latest album Ghosts on April 1st, 2025, the Los Angeles-based singer-songwriter delivers a poignant and deeply human exploration of memory, loss, and the quiet strength it takes to keep moving forward. Across eight delicately crafted tracks, Berman leans into the ghosts that haunt us all — personal, historical, emotional — and offers them not just a voice, but a stage.
What makes Ghosts stand out in today’s sonic landscape isn’t its flashiness or production trickery — it’s the sincerity. From the first strum of acoustic guitar on the opening track “There Were People Here,” you know you’re in the hands of a songwriter who means every word he sings. It’s a gentle, reverent opener that honors the history beneath our feet — specifically the Indigenous people of California, whose presence lingers in silence and scar tissue. It’s rare for a folk song to feel this rooted, this aware of time and place, and Berman pulls it off with striking grace.
The album’s second track, “No Luck at All,” the lone co-write on the album, penned with deb Ewing. Maness’s unmistakable touch adds a mournful shimmer to Berman’s wearied reflections. It’s the kind of song that feels like it was written after midnight with the lights low, when regrets echo loudest and nothing but the truth will do.
What’s striking throughout Ghosts is how much space the album gives its emotions to breathe. “Blanket of Light (Oh Mercy)” is a lullaby for adults — fragile, forgiving, and full of soft ache. It’s the kind of song you might imagine Leonard Cohen or early Paul Simon penning if they were wandering Griffith Park at dusk. The instrumentation here is spare but lush, thanks in no small part to the stellar team behind the scenes: Ed Tree’s tasteful electric guitar lines, Marty Axelrod’s understated keys, and Scott Babcock’s delicate percussion all play like they’re listening more than performing.
One of the album’s most emotionally direct moments arrives with “I Just Don’t Have What It Takes.” It’s a song that stares failure in the eye without flinching. Not in a dramatic or self-pitying way, but with a quiet kind of surrender that’s almost holy. You can hear the years behind Berman’s voice, the weight of trying and trying again. It’s not hopeless — in fact, it’s oddly comforting — but it doesn’t sugarcoat anything either. In a culture obsessed with winning, this song is a quiet rebellion.
Then there’s “Wonderland,” the lone co-write on the album, penned with deb Ewing. It adds a slightly dreamier texture to the record, weaving lyrical whimsy into the fabric of Berman’s grounded tone. It’s a reminder that even amidst sorrow, there’s room for wonder. “Tryin’ to Go Home” follows — a slow burn that unfolds like a road trip through emotional geography. There’s something universal in that longing to return, whether to a place, a person, or a former version of ourselves.
The album closes with “In the Clear Morning,” a gentle, hopeful song that feels like stepping outside after a long night and realizing the sun is still rising. It doesn’t offer grand solutions or tidy resolutions. But it does offer clarity — the kind that comes only after you’ve looked your ghosts in the eye and chosen to keep walking anyway.
Ghosts is not an album trying to be everything to everyone — and that’s exactly why it works. It’s intimate, thoughtful, and unafraid to wade into emotional waters that most artists only skim. Mike Berman’s voice, both literal and lyrical, is the thread that ties it all together: warm, worn, and full of the kind of wisdom that only comes from living through the verses you write.
For fans of folk, Americana, or simply beautiful songwriting that lingers long after the last note fades, Ghosts is a quiet triumph. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It just speaks — and if you’re listening, it’ll stay with you.
