Bang it, Bite it, Bruise It: Quarantine albums from Fiona Apple, Laura Marling, Sam Hunt

fiona apple fetch the bolt cutters

It’s time for a change.

At least for a season, I’m suspending weekly, in-depth album reviews in favor of what I’m calling a monthly digest. Basically, these longer but less frequent posts will list and loosely rank some of the records I’ve been enjoying lately, and provide a dash of commentary for each.

I’ll be upfront in saying that this change is partially a response to how the pandemic has disrupted my daily schedule and compromised some of my mental bandwidth, but I also think this new format offers some benefits to my readers. I’ll ultimately be covering more albums. I’ll be writing about albums I probably would have avoided in the past, including older albums, re-issues, albums I’m not as keen on, and albums I like but simply don’t warrant longer reviews. Additionally, by ranking and categorizing these albums, I hope to add some more analytical/quantitative thinking to this blog (though I still won’t be offering scores or ratings).

Here’s how it will work. Each digest will highlight my pick for Album of the Month, followed by commentary on some albums deemed Must Hears and/or Worth Listening. I’ll also feature some rotating categories like Re-Issue of the Month, as appropriate, and end each post with some curated, seasonal selections.

One more note is that these posts won’t be too rigid in covering the contents of the previous month; for instance, some albums released in the final week of April won’t get covered until May, allowing me some time to really listen carefully.

I hope you’ll find these posts useful resources, and that they’ll inspire you in guided listening. Now: Let’s dive in.

Album of the Month

Fetch the Bolt Cutters | Fiona Apple

In the movie Hustlers, Jennifer Lopez repeats a familiar aphorism about the cyclical nature of abuse: “Hurt people hurt people.” Maybe Fiona Apple is getting at something similar on her fifth album, Fetch the Bolt Cutters, when she sings: “Evil is a relay sport/ where the one who’s burned turns to pass the torch.” The difference, of course, is that Hustlers is content sticking to the language of therapy, while Apple cuts to the cosmological quick, rooting whatever fracture or trauma or sickness people deal with in the soil of human depravity, the dark domain of sin and death. It’s one of countless quotable and complacency-shattering lines on an unerringly bullshit-proof album, one that chronicles cruelty, oppression, abuse, and the persistent dehumanization of women. It’s a work of sustained and righteous outrage, weighing the wretched testimonies of survivors from Christine Blasey Ford to Apple herself, but it’s not just a catalog of grievances; it’s more like a howling psalm of lament for a world where evil is institutionalized, emblazoned on the family crest, feted at every stockholder’s meeting, handed a black robe and entrusted with the launch codes; a world in which abusers climb the ranks of power and privilege, and their victims choke down their own trauma until they metabolize it, and all become perpetrators in the end. Sound bleak? It’s actually pretty good for a laugh. Bolt Cutters is song-for-song one of the heaviest albums you’ll ever hear and joke-for-joke one of the funniest; among all the finely-wrought punchlines here the most hysterical moment might be Apple incanting the word “ladies” 18 times in a row, a shit-eating grin perceptible in her voice as she parrots a smooth-talker’s reassurances that lose their meaning to vain repetition. (Second funniest line: “Check out that rack of his,” delivered in an award-worthy deadpan; she’s talking about a man with a guitar collection, not that it really matters.) Apple’s humor is withering and often shocking, and if it seems like flimsy resistance against a culture of cruelty, her laughter must at the very least constitute some semblance of freedom. Truth be told, you may never hear a singer-songwriter record that sounds freer than this one, even with all the weight that it carries, the scars it proudly displays. Recorded largely in Apple’s home, Bolt Cutters seethes with restless energy, bursting through all formal constraints: You can hear raucous blues, high-stepping cabaret, and bristing punk, and that’s just in one song. The record is saturated with the sounds of Apple’s life, whether that be barking dogs or unpolished Greek choirs that materialize to offer riotous commentary. (“I would beg to dis-a-gree, but begging dis-a-grees with me!”) Bolt Cutters never takes on a clear shape, never settles where you think it will; it’s scuffed-up and smashed-in and bleeding at the edges. It’s also a percussion lover’s dream, and not just from the holy racket of drummer Amy Aileen Woods; you’ll also hear Apple herself banging away on whatever she can lay a hand to. (The liner notes credit her with beating on a chair.) Rough-hewn though it may be, Bolt Cutters is not primitive, amelodic, or anything less than hypnotic: It’s harmonically and rhythmically sophisticated, enough so that NPR’s Ann Powers invokes the rich traditions of the African diaspora while Jenn Pelly compares it to a symphony. Bolt Cutters is unmoored from expectation, not just in its sound but in its compositions; “For Her,” written for sexual abuse survivors who’ve had their testimonies disbelieved, skips from perkiness (“look at how feathered his cocks are! see how seamless his frocks are!”) to confrontation (“you raped me in the same bed your daughter was born in”) with a nimbleness that Hannah Gadsby must admire. It’s astonishing that any song released in 2020 could feel transgressive or unpermitted in its subject matter, but “Newspaper” does, unspooling a perverse bond formed between two women who were abused by the same man; it has the feel of someone breaching decorum and spilling all the family secrets, and Apple is unflinching. “On I Go” ends the album on a jaunt even as it holds on for mere survival; Apple announces that she keeps moving just to move, but doesn’t for a second expect to find anything like peace or relief. If she experiences any serenity on this album, it’s in the opening song “I Want You to Love Me,” where a moment of stillness is shattered by desire: “And while I’m in this body/ I want somebody to want.” On an album rich in guileless moments, this stark craving for love is particularly resonant. Could it be that these love-starved songs ultimately testify to love’s magnitude? Do the shadows prove the sun? Would Fiona Apple bullshit you?

Must Hears

Song for Our Daughter | Laura Marling

Laura Marling conceived her seventh album as an epistle to an imagined audience; she hopes any future children she has will find in Song for Our Daughter “a sense of confidence in their own autonomy, decisions, and their experience of how their life can be led.” Perhaps this isn’t so different from any of the six albums that preceded it; Marling has always written about characters, usually women, who aspire to lives of courage even in the wake of trauma and grief. Besides, any folksinger’s offspring will know better than to parse these songs for scrupulously polished memoir, or to expect anything like the sage recitation of maternal advice— though there’s some of that in the title song, which wisely counsels against compromising conscience or integrity to impress men in expensive suits. It may be better to think of Marling’s epistle as a series of parables, which is not to say they lack autobiographical detail. “Fortune” starts with a germ of family history (Marling’s mother long kept a “bolt in the night” fund in case she ever needed to flee home, though she never used it), but builds into a larger meditation on non-rhetorical questions: Is it wiser to commit everything to love and family, or to leave yourself an exit plan? Meanwhile, there is something of a protective instinct in “The End of the Affair,” which takes its name from a Graham Greene novel but skips past the lurid details, lingering instead on the quiet strength required to walk away from a love you know will bring another person to ruin. You’ll notice that several of these songs are set against a backdrop of catastrophe: In “Blow By Blow,” immediately one of the most devastating Laura Marling break-up tunes, the narrator plucks wisdom from sorrow (“sometimes the hardest thing to learn/ is what you get from what you lose”), then curses herself for venturing hope (“I feel a fool, so do you/ for believing it could work out/ like some things do”). Another important throughline is Marling’s refusal to consider her female characters solely in relation to men; “Alexandra” rejoins a Leonard Cohen deep cut by pressing for a richer, more empathetic backstory (“what kind of woman gets to love you?”), and “Only the Strong” offers free songwriting advice (“I won’t write a woman with a man on my mind”). God shows up as a supporting character in two songs: In “Hope We Meet Again” he’s the truth seeker’s terminal destination, and in “For You” the kindness he shows through love and family draws doxology from a disbeliever. These songs are all gems, performed with casualness and warmth by Marling and an unnamed partner; the focus is on her guitar and piano, with the occasional swell of strings supplied by producer Ethan Johns. The one time Song for Our Daughter works up a full head of steam is “Strange Girl,” which splices the deadpan snarl of Blonde on Blonde to the elastic groove of Hejira. “Oh, young girl, please don’t bullshit me,” Marling chides, a reproof offered with insuppressible affection. Will any future Marling children recognize themselves in this song? Or is it just as well for them to assume it’s a song about their mother?

Southside | Sam Hunt

The second Sam Hunt album opens with little more than voice, guitar, and desolation. It’s a song called “2016,” named for a date that Hunt finds triggering— though perhaps for a different reason than the rest of us do. “I’d drive a thousand miles to Nashville/ walk in like I walked out/ put the tears back in your eyes,” Hunt pledges, a pithy summation of romantic regrets that he knows can’t be erased. The song’s rock-bottom remorse makes it a perfect prologue for a song cycle that’s all about losing love and then gaining it back, while its structural traditionalism makes it a bit of a head fake for an album that deepens Hunt’s casual inventiveness, the soft touch with which he conjoins past and present. Most of the rest of Southside underpins fiddles, banjos, and weepy pedal steels with stuttering, syncopated beats; it’s an aesthetic that Jon Caramanica christens Yo! Brother, Where Art Thou? Hunt didn’t necessarily create this fluid marriage of country, hip-hop, and R&B, but he is its most graceful and eloquent practitioner. If anything, Southside feels more comfortable in its craft than Montevallo did. Only on “Hard to Forget,” which sits a creaky Webb Pierce sample atop a lurching beat, does Hunt’s music approach “Old Town Road”-style novelty; he’s less interested in gimmicks than in finding a natural center of gravity between seemingly opposite poles. The specter of “Old Town Road” does suggest just how much has changed in the six years Hunt spent crafting this album, how his hip-hop-conversant style has become internalized by the country music industry even if nobody else makes it seem as unforced as Hunt does. The album’s long gestation is also suggestive of complications in Hunt’s personal life. In the wake of Montevallo he forsook his long-time sweetheart to chase country stardom; the two ultimately reunited and are now married. The songs on Southside don’t necessarily play as autobiography, but they do outline a trajectory of reconciliation and second chances, something most notable in the comparative severity of the heartbreak songs: “2016” is legitimately brutal, but back-album highlight “Breaking Up Was Easy in the 90s,” about the difficulties in cutting ties with someone who still pops up in your Instagram feed, can be appreciated as droll tragicomedy. All the aesthetic and thematic threads of Hunt’s music come together in “Body Like a Back Road,” an impossibly frictionless R&B jam that any aspiring loverman would be lucky to emulate; its sensuality comes not from the flush of first attraction but from the knowing intimacy of two long-time partners who’ve seen their share of hills and valleys. Hunt’s gift is making innovation sound comforting and familiar, but this song flips the script by making familiarity sound exciting and new. 

Heaven to a Tortured Mind | Yves Tumor

Another permutation from a master shapeshifter. If Safe in the Hands of Love was sprawling and ambitious, Heaven to a Tortured Mind is raunchy, punchy, and direct. It’s rock and roll as only Yves Tumor could imagine it, built from buzzsaw guitars, piercing horns, stabbing drums, and acid-wash synths abrasions that somehow coalesce into something majestic. Check out the artist’s preening performance at the mic, and the flop-sweat lyrics about the hazards of love. But mostly keep your ear on the fluid bass lines, which slither and slink and vouch for rock as a kind of dance music. Sounds simple enough— so how does Yves Tumor make it sound so transgressive?

Future Nostalgia | Dua Lipa

Eleven unerring disco bangers, released into a plague. “Physical,” about moving your body as though your life depends on it, takes on a bittersweetness in the quarantine era; how many socially-distanced living room dance parties has it soundtracked? Perfect single “Don’t Start Now” conjures post-breakup defiance through precision-honed ultimatums: “If you don’t wanna see me dancing with somebody/ If you wanna believe that anything could stop me/ Don’t show up.” Never a diva but always a great singer, Lipa skips power moves in favor of coy swagger; she draws you in by playing cool, and always sounds like she’s having fun.

We Are Sent Here by History | Shabaka & the Ancestors
Rejoice | Tony Allen & Hugh Masekela 

A couple of recent albums marry African rhythms to kinetic jazz. Shabaka & the Ancestors is a rambunctious pan-cultural octet, led by the eschatology-obsessed Shabaka Hutchings (The Comet is Coming) and a squad of South African sidemen. Their album We Are Sent Here by History plays out like a bible of human experience: Spoken word pieces spin dystopian prophecies of cultural decay and economic collapse, while raging horns and rapturous voices raise psalms of lament, ascent, and supplication. But mostly, the framework is apocalyptic: Hutchings’ music hopes for a new world to be born once this one finally reaches its breaking point. Meanwhile, an album called Rejoice— from Afrobeat innovator Tony Allen and the late South African trumpeter Hugh Masekela— leans into low-key blues, grooves, and chants, reveling in simple pleasures: Allen’s rumbling polyrhythms, Masekela’s clean, clear phrasing. It makes a persuasive case that the world as we know it is hardly without its charms.

Welcome Surprise

Gigaton | Pearl Jam

Who would have imagined that calendar year 2020 would bless us with a new Pearl Jam song called “Superblood Wolfmoon”? That it would be… almost funky? That it would be… unexpectedly fun? If these are not the words you’d normally associate with Pearl Jam, send your respects to producer Josh Evan, who was brought in to loosen up a perennially straight-laced band, and frequently succeeds. Behold Eddie Vedder growling and cracking jokes (“I love clairvoyants cuz they’re out of this world”) amidst the disco pulse of “Dance of the Clairvoyants.” Check out Mike McCready churning out trashy riffs on “Take the Long Way,” one of the band’s best forays into power pop delirium. Of course, Vedder & Co. are famously set in their ways: They still rage against circumscribed freedoms, plead for better environmental stewardship, and fill the back half of the album with ballads. Pearl Jam will be Pearl Jam, but if Gigaton is any indication, that may mean more than you’d think.

Seasonal Selections

Motion | Lee Konitz (1961)

RIP to a legend. In a daunting discography, Motion is the one. Ethan Iverson says, “After Charlie Parker, any list of the most studied and transcribed alto solos must include the original five tracks on Motion.”

Out of the Afternoon | Roy Haynes Quarter (1962)

Listen for the snap, crackle, and pop of Haynes’ drum kit; for the strange flutter of flutes, kazoos, and bird calls from Roland Kirk. And listen for the supple swing from bass man Henry Grimes, an unsung hero of jazz and another cruel casualty of COVID-19.

John Prine | John Prine (1971)
Sweet Revenge | John Prine (1973)
In Spite of Ourselves | John Prine (1999)
The Tree of Forgiveness | John Prine (2018)

Start at the beginning. The self-titled debut plays like a greatest hits album, emanates empathy (“there’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes”), and sparkles with dad jokes (“I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve”). From there, sample the scruffy charm of Sweet Revenge, which prompts Alfred Soto to observe: “I love John Prine because he treated the ditties and goofball tunes on Bob Dylan’s country experiment Nashville Skyline and country-tinged New Morning like other performers did ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ and ‘Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.’” In Spite of Ourselves finds one of America’s greatest songwriters in interpretive mode, enlisting A-list support for boy-girl duets and proving that he loves country music for all the right reasons. (Come for the heartache, stay for the jokes!) The Tree of Forgiveness probably wasn’t intended as a final manifesto, but plays like one now— which is to say, wry, scrappy, cynical, hopeful, rural, Midwestern, full of wonder, endlessly lovable. Tell me: Who else is like John Prine?

Birds of My Neighborhood | The Innocence Mission (1999)

I heard someone remark that this year’s Lent was “the Lentiest Lent ever.” Through a season of pandemic-induced suffering and sorrow, no album has fortified me like this masterpiece from Don and Kerin Peris. They wrote these hushed, wintery ruminations in the midst of their own season of disappointment, frustration, and divine discontent; surely there is no other album that speaks as achingly about miscarriage and infertility. These songs are beset by lament, but lament never overcomes them. Hear the Gospel according to The Innocence Mission: “The world at night has seen the greatest Light/ too much Light to deny.”

Felis Catus & Silence | Leo Takami (2020)

File under: Quarantine Essentials. Sanity Savers. Pace Stabilizers. Mind Relaxers. Joy Machines. It’ll all seem so simple the first time you play it, but don’t let that fool you.

To Love the Mystery: The Innocence Mission’s bigger things unseen

See You Tomorrow

See You Tomorrow, the twelfth album from The Innocence Mission, opens with a song called “The Brothers Williams Said,” which captures one of the ultimate introvert dilemas: When your nature is to be shy and reserved, how do you convey your love and affection to the people around you? The song’s protagonist moves quietly through life offering small gestures of warmth and charity; a smile on the streets, a friendly wave to passersby. Such grace notes are lost on the fellows who give the song its title (“The Brothers Williams said/ you don’t ever talk”), but they are not lost on the narrator, who speaks words of encouragement and gratitude: “The kindness of your face/ does not go unrecognized/ has not refused to shine/ in this most difficult time.”

This is about as Innocence Mission-y as a song can get. They have arguably never written anything more on-brand, except perhaps for deep cut “When Mac Was Swimming,” about a little boy lost at play, unaware of the loved ones scurrying about to make his birthday celebration special. Songs like these speak to what makes The Innocence Mission one of the most irreplaceable of bands: There are few songwriters who would be as sensitive in capturing the shy person’s plight. And there are none who have amassed such a treasure trove of songs that find holy wonder and simple beauty in everyday acts of connection. If The Innocence Mission was special for no other reason, they would be special for their recurring subject matter: Kindness. Humility. Mercy. Compassion. Our shared need to be seen. To show others that we see them.

There is a reasonable criticism to be made that the band returns to the same well over and over, not just in content but in sound. It’s true that their albums since We Walked in Song have all felt of a piece. They are all lovingly crafted basement recordings made by the Peris family— Karen and Don, occasionally joined by their string-playing children or bassist pal Mike Bitts. Karen fills each album with delicate singing and carefully-stanzaed lyrics that draw deeply from poets like Gerard Manley Hopkins. Don provides the gentle rustle of acoustic guitar strings, as clarion as cathedral bells, and the occasional smudge of shoegaze atmospherics. These recordings are simple but sound lush; you can often hear the crack and hiss of the tape rolling, romantic swells of pump organ, accordion, and creaking piano. They are quiet, too, except when they are loud: When a drum kit enters toward the end of “We Don’t Know How to Say Why,” a highlight of the new album, it sounds like thunder. See You Tomorrow is enchanting for all of the same reasons that Sun on the Square was enchanting, but there’s a difference between a band that’s directionless and a band that’s faithful to a very particular muse. The Perises stand alone in their attentiveness to this niche of beauty, this reservoir of quiet, this oasis of kindness and vulnerability.

Their masterpiece of storytelling remains Birds of My Neighborhood, which aches with lamentation and hope during a difficult season. But since then, Karen’s writing has become even more impressively succinct and incisive. On song after song she imbues the mundane with meaning, and a lot of See You Tomorrow is spent gently kneading the wordless and ineffable into beautiful, precise language. Listen to the sensitivity with which she sketches a character in “We Don’t Know How to Say Why,” who only wants “to be loved as much as anyone,” then bursts into tears from an undefinable longing. “At Lake Maureen” uses an afternoon hiking and sailing to meditate on the mysteries of time’s passage (“I feel something new about you/ every day of the world”). In “St. Francis and the Future,” the narrator wants only to stay where she is with her loved ones, and to keep change and uncertainty as far-off as possible (“Oh, make the future small”). And who can’t relate to the voice at the center of “The Brothers Williams Said,” who wishes she could “love the mystery/ and have no tears that there can be no better understanding.” These songs live in the peculiar glow of all the things we can never fully understand or articulate, but are caught up in nevertheless; what Joe Henry calls the “bigger things unseen.”

At first blush, the albums of The Innocence Mission can sometimes sound like they belong to another world entirely, one where beauty is savored and where people are more decent. But there is no Thomas Kinkade-style idyll, no denial of this world’s hardship. You certainly hear it in Birds of My Neighborhood, an album that attests to disappointment, barrenness, and sorrow. As for See You Tomorrow, perhaps it’s a noteworthy coincidence that the album was released around the same time as the Drive-by Truckers record The Unraveling, which chronicles contemporary malaise with diaristic precision (song titles include “Babies in Cages” and “21st Century USA”) and basically amounts to a nihilistic howl. It’s a lament from a slipstream far beyond our control; See You Tomorrow, with its songs about time and uncertainty and fickle emotion, is not entirely dissimilar. But into the wild and the uncontainable, the Peris family offers a tender gift of grace, peace, and kindness; proof that these, too, are among the bigger things unseen.

Let There Be More Kindness: The mundane, the momentous, and The Innocence Mission

sun on the square

Every album by The Innocence Mission is filled with characters who channel the mundane into the momentous; characters who turn the tide and save the day through simple acts of kindness.

There’s “When Mac Was Swimming,” in which a little boy enjoys a day at the pool, blissfully unaware of loved ones scurrying around town, making plans and preparations for his birthday party. (“You’ll never know, darling/ You’ll never know how you are loved,” is the song’s simple and seismic conclusion.)

There’s the friend in “July,” showing up with sparklers in her hands at the end of an arduous day; she delivers light and joy, and has no idea how badly both are needed.

There’s even Fred Rogers, iconic for his empathy and compassion, invoked as both patron saint and kindred spirit on an album called Hello I Feel the Same. In the song, our narrator dreams that she can drive for miles just to see him; for him to smile at her, and tell her how she “could make things better.”

Such humility is befitting for this, the gentlest and most tender-hearted of bands—though they may be selling themselves short. For years they have been making things better for their small yet fervent following. Like the girl in “July,” they always seem to arrive with a gesture of kindness and encouragement just when such things are in shortest supply; and it is possible that they, too, have no idea how badly their joyful witness is needed.

Their elegant new album Sun on the Square is the latest in a long line of records that feel like refuges and oases—records that favor serenity over agitation, sincerity over irony, modesty over ostentation. These albums celebrate friendship, domesticity, and God’s grace—always seen through the prism of the tiniest gestures of love and charity. One of the new song titles, “An Idea of Canoeing”—like “When Mac Was Swimming” before it—conveys something of their flair for turning idle afternoons into mile-markers; this is a band unparalleled at documenting the little moments of grace revealed by hindsight to be formative.

There was a time when The Innocence Mission followed their instincts pop-ward, even feinting toward mainstream success on bubbly, up-tempo albums like Glow. They’ve pared down from a working four-piece to a central husband-wife alchemy—Don and Karen Peris, often but not always joined by longtime collaborator Mike Bitts on upright bass, and now by their string-playing children on select songs—and since 2007’s We Walked in Song they’ve quietly released a series of albums that feel of a piece: modest bedroom recordings that champion simplicity, savoring the warm thrum of acoustic guitar strings; the diaphanous tremor in Karen’s voice; songs that move at an unhurried, autumnal pace; words that glisten with elegance and precision. Sun on the Square both continues and subtly progresses that series, offering another collection of unassuming songs that find new wrinkles within a signature sound.

It’s their most distinguished album since 2003’s Befriended, largely because it’s their most sonically adventurous and casually exploratory. The Perises still write quiet folk songs, but here there’s pure sound bleeding through the edges, making even some of the slowest and softest numbers sound humming and atmospheric. Don’s acoustic guitar remains at the forefront—and his gossamer notes still ring like church bells—but many songs are given a summery ambiance by Karen’s pump and field organs, which hang a kind of hazy mystique over the proceedings, as if suggesting a pervading and enveloping mystery so thick it’s almost tangible.

This is an Innocence Mission record that feels visceral, sensual: Karen has professed inspiration from bossa nova singers like Astrud Gilberto, and maybe that explains “Sun on the Square,” a warm breeze that you can practically feel on your skin. It’s masterful in how it assembles simple components—the acoustic guitar’s hum, a sprinkling of piano, a brisk ride cymbal groove—into something irreducible and breezy. Other songs feel like they hide entire worlds within them, each one a tiny diorama of immaculate detail: “Buildings in Flower” is lo-fi folk, a scratchy basement tape decorated by dancing bells and the jovial swell of a melodica. The dreamy “Shadow of the Pines” surrenders to opulence, losing itself in an oceanic wave of piano, accordion, and harmonica. “An Idea of Canoeing” builds into a cosmic swirl of voice and guitar, closer to shoegaze than to folk austerity.

While the group’s sound has seldom been so expansive, Karen’s lyrics are more economical than ever; in tight, uncluttered stanzas, she expresses the openness and vulnerability of characters who choose generosity over insularity. In “Records from Your Room,” the sound of old vinyl wafts through the windows and out into the street, a reminder to passersby of common grace, “the depths of belief, the kindness of strangers.” The genial waltz “Look out from Your Window” celebrates connection amidst separation and noise: “Look out from your window now/ Can you see me cheering for you, up and down?” Meanwhile, the hymn-like “Star of Land and Sea”—the only song here sung by Don—is a benediction into peace-making and neighborly love: “Be a light to all/ You shine/ Into darker lands/ You shine.” Maybe it’s an answer to the title song, a prayer lifted up in troubled times: “Let it ring into the air/ Let there be more kindness in the world.”

To pray for more kindness, of course, is to acknowledge the indecency of the world we live in; how often it feels bent toward cruelty. Dark edges aren’t totally foreign to this good-natured group, yet even on 1999’s Birds of My Neighborhood—their Sufjan Stevens-endorsed landmark, about a prolonged season of sorrow and doubt—there’s a sense of looming mercy and unseen hope: “The world at night has seen the greatest light,” one song says, maybe or maybe not referencing the Nativity. They’ve been reflecting that light ever since, on one album after another that proves its own point just by existing—delicate and brave, ringing with mundane and momentous kindness.