There are days when you're shocked that your hands aren't shaking. They should be wracked with nerves, with the jangles. They should be exhibiting the shudders that are spilling through your insides, working out of your body like a dog just out of the creek convulses the muddy water out of its soggy hide. They should be nearly unable to hold a drink, the liquid sloshing violently up and over the glass walls of the cup. They should be unable to stroke a cheek, to pull dry a wet tear from under an eye with anything resembling the touch of a leading man.
The songs that Jack Garratt writes are sweeping and swelling gushes of the kinds of radiant emotions that one contracts when there's a cloudiness about, when visibility is something of a problem. The characters that he sings about are stricken by the powers that be, by the paralysis that be. It's in thinking about love's treatment, of life's chilling howls when you can just freeze in one place, when you can turn yourself terrified. We're the only animals who are aware that there is death out there -- that there's a finite amount of time that we get to splash around in and then...and then... It can terrorize a body. Garratt sings about the common chaos of a soul, but it's a universal feeling, if there ever was one. The real job is to keep it mostly under wraps, to contain it in a jar with holes jabbed into its lid with the pointy end of a bottle opener to give it some air, at least.