Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Patrick Stolley
The first thing that needs to be done is you need to grab your coat, something that you can bundle with. You'll need a scarf, something with the little tangles of yarn waving off of each side. Then it's necessary to secure a hat, something that covers the entire head or is equipped with the firm flaps to snug the ear against the side of the head to trap all of that precious warmth. And lastly, there needs to be a conscious effort to get some heavy duty gloves, the kind that those in the meat lockers use, where no coldness is going to get past them.
Get all of those garments and accessories aligned and placed in their respective designations and then its okay to begin listening to the Audrye Sessions, trapping all of the loose heat and reintroducing back to its original beds. The songs are bathed in the kinds of sentiments that feel as if they're still attached to the person, but are getting their walking papers, taking on the outside air like a foot slowly getting colder and colder until it's damn near icy and uncomfortable. They are songs that are made of down feathers and home-cooked meals. They are blessed with earnestness and emptiness - the latter usually coming from events that have been overcooked and not are tough and tired, full of memories that need to be shredded or at least refiled into a different subfolder, far out of the way of present recollection.
There are things that are done to us, some maliciously and some not so much, but they don't feel much different when they've had time to set in and thrive a little. They are actions that people force upon other people to make things different for themselves. All in all, most things that happen happen with the intent of remedying something that's growing crooked or out of the light's path. It takes on a selfish tact even if done in the most unselfish way. A weed is pulled to let the planted vegetables and fruits grow strong and get all of the nutrients needed and a branch is hedged so that it doesn't continue to scratch up against the stucco and the screeching windowpanes.
Lead singer Ryan Karazija sings, "The crows came in to watch us die," on one of the band's older songs and it's at this moment when he realizes that the crows aren't his friends anymore and that's the sign of something willing to think the best about everything - even the crows, the ones from Dumbo who laugh at the poor gray guy and his magical feather, are friendly creatures. There's optimism throughout his songs, but they regularly seem to change course and catch a chill. There's a need to be positive, but people give up the ship - give up a lot of ships. People change and they start to look out for No. 1 more prominently, even if they'd been doing a similar thing all along the way. It gets cold. It gets depressing, but it stays so believable and relatable. These are lives and loves, wilted and browned. These are yards yellowed to their winter states. These are passions hibernating. These are songs with bass in your face pulses and they give bear hugs.