Grief, healing and the desert’s quiet wisdom lie at the heart of Canadian-American indie folk singer-songwriter Tara Beier’s new album, Mourning Doves of Joshua Tree. With a gorgeously blended melange of folk, americana and cinematic soundscapes, this record walks the line between personal intimacy and expansive universality. Written after the passing of her grandmother and the birth of her twins, the record transforms loss into resilience, drawing on symbols like mourning doves and desert horizons as messengers of connection. Around these cosmic images, Beier builds a shimmering sonic world that contains the spiritual tones of ’60s and ’70s folk and the grounded rhythms of modern indie-rock. Drawing on this artist’s background as a filmmaker, this atmosphere is undoubtedly brings a striking visual sensibility to the record with each song unfolding as though they were scenes in a movie. For On The Record, we spoke with Tara Beier about themes of grief and spirituality, as well as how the desert played a central role in her songwriting and how music helped her to process the pain of loss in a time she needed it the most.
Here you go! Welcome to Unrecorded! For those who aren’t already familiar with Tara Beier, can you introduce yourself?
Thank you so much for having me. My name is Tara Beier. I was born in Canada and now live in Laguna Beach/Los Angeles, and Joshua Tree. I’m a Canadian-American indie folk singer-songwriter, and my music blends folk, alternative, and Americana—always with a cinematic edge.
Your new album was born from grief after losing your grandmother. How did the mourning doves and the desert become central symbols of healing for you?
When I moved full-time to the desert, mourning doves began appearing around me in the spring. They built their nests, raising only two babies at a time—a sign that mirrored my own life as a new mother of twins, writing this record in a very vulnerable postpartum season.
I was grieving deeply. My grandmother, who was my anchor, had just passed away. Mourning doves felt like messengers from her, reminding me she was still near. Birds are often seen as carriers between this world and the next, and in my solitude, they became symbols of resilience and connection.
Most recently, I have lost my beloved dog “Bronski” husky collie of thirteen and a half years. Loss comes to all of us, again and again. But what I realized is this album isn’t a sad one—it became a vessel to move through sadness, a way of alchemizing grief into something beautiful. The desert itself—its vast skies, its silence—became both canvas and collaborator.
Did creating this record bring you closer to your spiritual side?
Yes, absolutely. Grief gives us a choice: we can close down or we can open up. I chose to open, to deepen my connection to the spiritual world.
I’ve always been drawn to the mystery of the other side, not through religion but through spirit. Writing this album became a way of reaching upward—towards God and nature, towards something greater than myself. Singing, for me, is prayer. It lifts you into a higher vibration, into communion with something divine.
In the darkest moments, that’s what carried me. This sense that my loved ones are still with me, that I could still touch their presence through music. That is the faith this album gave me.
And did it also help you navigate grief?
It did. Music has always been my medicine. Creating this record was my way of staying alive in the sadness, of turning it into light.
The desert gave me silence, and in silence, I could listen more closely to life. The songs carry that same quiet strength. They’re built to be cinematic yet gentle—songs you can put on in the car or at dusk, when you need something to steady you. The lyrics came after; the first thing I wanted was the feeling, the atmosphere.
I leaned into the sounds I’ve always loved—60s and 70s folk, Americana, indie rock. These influences became a bridge between past and present, between loss and renewal. In the end, the making of this album healed me. My hope is that it offers listeners the same kind of shelter.
As a biracial Canadian-American artist, how do your cultural roots shape the stories you tell in music?
My mixed-race identity means I’ve never fit neatly into one category, and that has given me a kind of freedom. It’s opened me up, pushed me to blend influences, and led me to create something uniquely my own.
As a female artist, I’ve carried that same spirit of defiance—resisting labels, thriving in the “other,” and challenging what society expects. I believe that’s the true role of an artist: to take risks, to question, and to push boundaries—both personal and cultural.
How does your background in filmmaking influence the way you shape songs?
Film and music are inseparable for me. I don’t just write songs—I see them. When I wrote Desert Soul, I was driving through the endless roads of the desert, reading “The Alchemist”. Every lyric was born from an image: scorched palm trees, roadside crosses, wide blue skies. “You are the water that moves through this dry land, you are strong”
I’ve always admired directors like Tarantino and David Lynch, who understood how music transforms an image. My own approach is similar—lyrics as metaphors, soundscapes as visual landscapes. I want each song to unfold like a scene, to build a world for my listener.
How does ‘Desert Soul’ capture the physical reality and spiritual mystery of desert landscapes?
Every morning, I would drive my twins to preschool through the vast expanse of Joshua Tree. The desert revealed itself in fragments: burnt palms from the summer heat, a lone cross by the roadside, the endless horizon.
From those images, the chorus emerged: Don’t give up. Listen to your heart. Listen to your soul. The desert has this gift—it gives you space to hear yourself. Without the noise of the world, you begin to discern your own voice, your own truth.
That was also the message of The Alchemist, the book I was reading at the time. To follow your own path, your own voice. Desert Soul became both a mantra and a mirror for that journey. And I think that’s why it’s resonated—it’s now my most-streamed track, with over half a million listens on Instagram and growing on Spotify.
What inspired the nostalgic indie-rock atmosphere in ‘Rainbow’?
Rainbow was born from my love of bands—Big Thief, Wilco—groups that create soundscapes as cinematic as they are raw. Though I’m rooted in folk, I’ve always been drawn to the energy of a band, to that collective spirit of sound.
The song itself came from heartbreak—a painful disappointment with a family member, the ache of not being seen. Around that time, I had learned a tool in my recovery work called Rainbow Boundaries. It’s a way of placing people on different parts of your personal rainbow, depending on how safe you feel with them. You don’t have to exile them, but you can move them closer or farther, protecting your heart.
“Rainbow” became my way of holding that lesson. Protecting the inner child, knowing where others belong in your rainbow, keeping integrity for yourself. That practice, paired with the nostalgia of indie-rock textures, gave the song its emotional pulse.
If listeners walk away from this album with one feeling, what do you hope it is?
Hope. Pure and simple. That God is always around you, and your loved ones remain close—loving and protecting you from the other side. To stay open to the signs, to see the world as a magical place. And to remember that listening to your own voice, your own soul, is the truest path forward.
What’s next on the horizon for you?
Next is bringing these songs fully to life on stage. I just wrapped a show at Pappy & Harriet’s in Pioneertown and am now preparing to perform at the legendary Whisky A Go Go on the Sunset Strip—where my biggest inspirations, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin, once played. After that, I’ll return to the desert for the Morongo Valley Music Festival in Joshua Tree this October.
Alongside the performances, I’m continuing press for the album—TV appearances, interviews, and features—to keep sharing its story. I’ve also submitted Mourning Doves of Joshua Tree for Grammy consideration and look forward to joining Recording Academy events, becoming more involved in that community, and connecting with fellow artists.
At its core, though, what’s next remains simple: performing, connecting, and carrying this music out into the world.
You can listen to lead single ‘Desert Soul’ in our Folk This Way playlist.
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