Anchor & Braille’s “Sweet Jesus Knows” Is What It Sounds Like to Survive and Still Believe

Some records feel like postcards. Others feel like full-on pilgrimages. With the release of “Sweet Jesus Knows,” the first single from Anchor & Braille’s upcoming album NEW MEXICO, Stephen Christian has given us a preview of something much bigger than just a collection of songs, this is a love letter to place, to memory, and to the parts of ourselves we only find when we get a little lost.

The former Anberlin frontman has never been a stranger to emotional depth or existential honesty. But NEW MEXICO, due July 25 via Equal Vision Records, takes that inner dialogue to new terrain. Inspired by the time Christian spent living in a small town in New Mexico after leaving Florida, the album is a sonic journey through the high desert of human thought. Fourteen tracks long, it’s as much about geography as it is about soul-searching. There’s something sacred about how it all comes together. And it starts with “Sweet Jesus Knows.”

Driven by raw electric textures, haunting melodies, and lyrics that beg more questions than they answer, the track captures the adrenaline of living on the edge, the kind of high-stakes emotional territory where love, danger, and clarity all blur into one. “We only kill when we need / We only eat what we kill,” Christian sings, a line that sounds like it could’ve been pulled from a journal found buried in the desert. It’s survival. It’s instinct. It’s a glimpse into the chaos of living for the thrill while still desperately searching for something real to hold onto. But this isn’t nihilism. It’s a reckoning, with faith, with fear, with the thin line between meaning and mayhem.

What makes “Sweet Jesus Knows” hit so hard isn’t just the lyrical grit or the pulsing production—it’s the deep tenderness woven throughout. Christian isn’t writing from above the storm. He’s in it with us. Every word feels like a prayer muttered under breath while trying to make sense of the noise. And somehow, in the middle of all that tension, there’s a kind of peace.

Anchor & Braille has always been the quieter, more introspective outlet for Stephen Christian. But if NEW MEXICO is any indication, this record won’t just speak in whispers, it will howl, tremble, and shake loose something honest in everyone who listens. It’s a record meant to live with, to grow into. And “Sweet Jesus Knows” is the perfect invitation into that journey.

As Christian puts it, “I want people to explore this place and help them feel at home, no matter where they are.” That’s what this music is for. It’s not about answers. It’s about companionship in the questions.

NEW MEXICO feels deeply personal. What is it about your time there that made you want to dedicate an entire album to that chapter of your life?

NEW MEXICO represents one of those seasons in life where everything feels raw, like the scenery, the emotions, even the silence. I was living there during a time of deep transition, personally and spiritually. You have to remember that when I first moved there, I had just left Anberlin professionally in 2015. When you are in a band, especially for all those years, your identity is so entwined with who you are, what you are made of. It was a divorce in my life, though amicable, it was still a divorce. I was trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted to become in this new phase of life.

The desert has a way of stripping you down to your essentials. That kind of solitude and stillness either drives you mad or refines you. For me, it did a bit of both. This album is my way of remembering who I was, what I lost, and what I found while wandering through that wilderness.

“Sweet Jesus Knows” explores this intense mix of survival and spirituality. Where did that specific lyrical imagery come from?

That song was born out of the tension between desperation and trust. When I wrote it, I was hanging on by a thread in some areas of my life—but even in that, I felt this faint undercurrent of grace. “Sweet Jesus Knows” came from nights where I was both praying and doubting, hoping and breaking. The imagery is raw because the emotions were raw. It’s the acknowledgment that even when you’re barely holding on, you’re still somehow being held.

I have found that the greatest wealth in my life comes from those I surround myself with, which is why I say, 'You know I'm rich in relationships.' When the dust settles (when you are out of the limelight on a major label band traveling the world, making that kind of money), who is still there by your side?

You’ve said this was the most fun you’ve ever had making a record. What made the creative process behind NEW MEXICO feel so different?

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t creating with the weight of expectation. No label pressures. No touring agenda. Just art for the sake of expression. Working with my producer Chad Carouthers in this more relaxed environment felt like rediscovering why I fell in love with music in the first place. We’d experiment, laugh, chase whatever sound felt true in the moment. It wasn’t about genre—it was about honesty. That freedom made the entire process feel like a homecoming.

Some of those trumpets are me just making the noise with my mouth (which is hysterical), adding punk rock gang vocals, and I even wanted a part where I could whistle like Axl Rose. We just did what we thought was going to be the most fun and fit the ambience the best.

Anchor & Braille has always been your more introspective outlet. How did this project evolve emotionally and sonically during the making of this album?

Anchor & Braille has always allowed me to write from the inside out. But NEW MEXICO took that vulnerability to a new level. I wasn’t hiding behind metaphor as much. Sonically, we pushed into this blend of ambient textures, acoustic tones, and even a little southwestern grit. It felt like the music had to match the landscape of the story—dry, vast, yet oddly warm. Emotionally, I let go of needing to “resolve” every song. Some feelings just sit in the tension, and that’s okay.

What do you hope someone going through their own storm hears or feels when they press play on NEW MEXICO?

I hope they hear that they’re not alone. That broken isn’t the end. I didn’t write New Mexico with neat resolutions—it’s more like a journal scrawled on the side of a canyon wall. But if someone hears their own struggle in mine, if they can fully feel to it, heal to it, or just breathe for a minute—that’s everything. I want this album to be a companion in the quiet. A reminder that even in the driest deserts, perhaps they can still find a lesson in the pain, and that is beautiful all in itself. And maybe, just maybe, hope.