Wait for the high notes. Seriously. If you’ve spent any time with the Indiana-born soul powerhouse Durand Jones, you probably know him as the frontman of The Indications. That group is a tight, retro-soul machine. They do the 1970s better than most people who actually lived through them. But then 2023 happened. Jones stepped away from the group dynamic to drop Wait Til I Get Over, and suddenly, the question wasn't just about his voice. It was about his life. People started asking, is it any wonder Durand Jones felt the need to tell a story this raw, this southern, and this deeply personal?
Most lead singers go solo because of ego. Or money. Sometimes both. With Durand, it feels like it was a matter of survival—or at least, a matter of finally introducing himself to the world as a whole human being rather than just a "soul singer" in a vintage suit.
The Bayou, the Church, and the Weight of Hillaryville
To understand the music, you have to look at where he came from. Hillaryville, Louisiana. It’s a place that isn't even on most maps. It’s a "land-grant" town, settled by formerly enslaved people. That history doesn't just sit in books; it lives in the soil. Jones grew up there, and you can hear the humidity and the hauntings of the deep south in every track of his solo work.
He wasn't always the cool guy at the front of the stage. He was a sax player. He was a church kid. He was a young man wrestling with being queer in a space that didn't always have a seat at the table for him.
When you listen to the interlude "The Place You Wanna Be," you aren't just hearing a song. You’re hearing his grandmother. He recorded her. It’s scratchy, it’s real, and it’s a direct tether to a world that feels lightyears away from the indie-soul circuit in Brooklyn or Bloomington. This album isn't trying to be a "throwback" record. It’s trying to be a memoir.
Why "Wait Til I Get Over" Changed the Narrative
There is a specific kind of polish on a Durand Jones & The Indications record. It’s beautiful. It’s "Cruisin' After Dark" vibes. But is it any wonder Durand Jones wanted to get a little messy? On his solo debut, the production is grit-heavy. It’s got rock edges. It’s got gospel foundations that feel heavy, like a Sunday morning where you’re still a little hungover from Saturday night’s sins.
Take the track "Lord Have Mercy." It’s a frantic, driving piece of music. It sounds like someone running. It’s a far cry from the silky-smooth ballads like "Is It Any Wonder" (the song that arguably put him on the map with the Indications).
The irony isn't lost on fans. The song "Is It Any Wonder" from 2016 was a massive hit. It’s the quintessential "lowrider soul" track. It’s got that falsetto that makes you want to forgive your ex. But as great as that song is, it’s a character. It’s a style. The solo work is the man behind the curtain. It’s the difference between a photograph and a conversation.
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Breaking the "Retro" Mold
The industry loves to pigeonhole artists. If you wear a suit and sing soul, you’re "retro." If you use a certain drum sound, you’re "vintage." Jones seemed to be itching to break those shackles.
- He moved away from the democratic songwriting process of a band.
- He embraced his Southern roots explicitly—not just as an aesthetic, but as a biography.
- He stopped hiding his sexuality behind vague lyrics, particularly in the music video for "That’ll Be the Day," which is a stunning, intimate look at Black queer love in the rural South.
It’s bold. Honestly, it’s risky. You have a winning formula with the band, why mess with it? Because art isn't a formula.
The Evolution of a Voice
If you’ve seen him live, you know the power. I remember watching a set where he seemed to physically vibrate with the energy of the room. But in his solo era, the voice has changed. It’s not just about the "money note" anymore. It’s about the cracks.
In the title track "Wait Til I Get Over," there’s a vulnerability that feels almost uncomfortable. It’s a spiritual. It’s a nod to the old-school tradition of "getting over" or finding salvation. But he’s not just talking about heaven. He’s talking about getting over his own past, his own hang-ups, and the expectations placed on him by an audience that just wanted him to keep singing 60s-style love songs forever.
The transition from a saxophonist at Indiana University to a soul icon wasn't overnight. It was a slow burn. And this solo project? It’s the explosion at the end of that fuse.
Comparing the Band vs. The Solo Flight
It’s worth looking at the texture of the music. With The Indications, Aaron Frazer provides that high, sweet falsetto that balances Durand’s grit. They are the yin and yang of modern soul.
On the solo side, Durand has to be both. He has to provide the rhythm, the melody, and the emotional anchor all on his own. It’s heavier. There are moments of rock-and-roll fuzz that would feel out of place on a band record. There are folk influences.
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People often ask if the band is breaking up. They aren't. They’ve been clear about that. But this solo excursion was necessary for Durand to find his own "home" in the music. You can't tell a story about Hillaryville, Louisiana, while trying to fit into the specific "sweet soul" brand that the band has spent a decade building.
Real Talk: Is the Solo Stuff Better?
Better is a weird word. It’s different.
If you want to dance at a wedding, you play "You and Me" by the Indications. If you want to sit on your porch with a drink and think about every mistake you’ve made since 2005, you play Wait Til I Get Over.
It’s "grown folks" music. It’s complicated.
What Most People Miss About the "Is It Any Wonder" Connection
The phrase "Is It Any Wonder" is so synonymous with Durand because of that early hit. It’s a song about disbelief—about how incredible love can be.
But looking at his career now, the phrase takes on a new meaning. Is it any wonder he’s successful? No. The work ethic is there. Is it any wonder he’s a critic’s darling? No. The talent is undeniable. But the real "wonder" is how he managed to keep this much of his internal world private for so long while being one of the most visible faces in the soul revival movement.
He’s finally letting us in.
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The Impact on the Modern Soul Scene
Durand Jones isn't operating in a vacuum. He’s part of a movement that includes artists like Leon Bridges, Black Pumas, and Thee Sacred Souls. But while some of those artists are content to stay in a specific "vibe," Durand is pushing the boundaries of what "soul" can mean in 2024 and beyond.
He’s proving that you can be deeply rooted in the past without being a tribute act. He’s showing that soul music can be a vehicle for modern identity politics, for personal exorcism, and for raw, unvarnished truth.
He isn't just singing songs; he’s documenting a life.
Actionable Steps for New Listeners
If you’re just getting into the world of Durand Jones, don't just hit "shuffle" on Spotify. You’ll get whiplash. Do this instead:
- Listen to "Is It Any Wonder" first. It’s the gateway drug. It’s the song that defined an era of indie soul and shows off his ability to channel the greats like Jackie Wilson or Otis Redding.
- Watch the "That’ll Be the Day" music video. You need the visual context. Seeing the Louisiana landscape helps the music make sense. It’s not just audio; it’s atmospheric.
- Read the lyrics to "Gerri Marie." It’s one of the most heartbreakingly honest songs on the solo record. It’s about a real person, a real relationship, and real regret.
- Catch a live show. Seriously. Soul music is a communal experience. Durand is a performer who feeds off the energy of a room, and his solo tour arrangements are much more expansive and experimental than the band sets.
- Explore the "Hillaryville" interludes. Don't skip them. They are the glue that holds the solo album together. They provide the "why" behind the "what."
The evolution of an artist is rarely a straight line. It’s usually a series of circles, coming back to the beginning to see it with new eyes. Durand Jones went back to Louisiana to find the person he was before the fame, before the suits, and before the "Indications" label. The result is a body of work that feels like a homecoming. It’s loud, it’s quiet, it’s painful, and it’s beautiful.
Stop looking for the "next" Otis Redding. We already have the first Durand Jones. And honestly? That’s more than enough.