The first thing I think of to describe “Where Did Summer Go,” Bre Kennedy’s latest single, is tender. The mixing here is absolutely gorgeous; her vocals are a perfect mix of strength and dreamy breath, expertly lifted by a soft, lilting instrumental bed of guitars, subtle piano and stripped down drums. She goes on to lament that summer has passed her by with “nothing to show,” and I don’t know anyone who would hear this in the depths of fall 2020 and not feel a deep heartstring mercilessly pulled for the year that’s almost gone (and did it ever really begin?). Psychology tells us we feel comforted by music because it triggers our feelings of being empathized with; “Where Did Summer Go” is the soft, thoughtful hug we all need right now to feel not so left behind, and to make peace with time’s relentless passage in a year when it seems to have stood still. “Where Did Summer Go” is a welcome emotional gut punch reminiscent of Taylor Swift’s recent creative partnership with The National, and I’ll be listening on repeat for some warmth ‘til spring peeks its head out once again. Photo by Lindsey Patkos.

With budding instrumentation and feathery vocals comes Iska Dhaaf’s “Unheard Choir,” the final track on the Brooklyn-based duo’s latest EP, Up. “Unheard Choir” traces the everlasting remnants of loved ones that have either been lost or separated from: “Even when our bodies disconnect / There’s always something left.” Opening with cradling strings of guitar and weaving piano notes, the track flows into a cascade of reverb and percussion. As the luminescent vocals ensure that “There’s never nothing left,” the track falls into an arrangement of strings sweeping high altitudes. It is an intricate and riveting expression of longing conveyed in a balance of softness and swift cadence.

In the science-fiction universe of Reptaliens’ “Taking,” a compendium of synths orbits complex themes of perception and existence. “Taking” is the nebulous matter on our cosmic route, mystifying our notion of self to later inquire, “Are we existing?” And how can we tell? The answer may lie within the lyrics’ own contemplation of life, broken down in its simplest, most absolute forms: “Making / Eating / Loving and / Hating.” It is these characteristics, along with others, that we can tether ourselves to on the tumultuous planes of existence — the textures of life. The synth-pop track is an otherworldly experience of whirling, euphoric sounds and beaming spaceship lights that coax us into a dance — the best way to be present in our bodies and with ourselves. Photo by Dan Hanson.

Captured Tracks group Reptaliens hail from Portland, Oregon. Their dreamy new EP, Wrestling, was released on November 6.

With “Last of Us”, Oslo’s Simen Mitlid takes a soft, lush cloth to the foggy windows of our Zoom burned-out minds. Soaking up its delicate, meticulous production, I’m reminded of Sigur Rós’ ethereal style; Mitlid’s vocals float across the track, expertly layered over a rhythmic backdrop of rain-tapping-on-the-window-esque plucking and smooth, sinewy strings. Lyrically, he reminisces on childhood, on returning to “the ordinary normal,” with an earthy authenticity. The track stays right at home in its even-keeled dreaminess for its duration, evolving to deeper emotionality in tandem with the string lines lowering in key; by the time the chorus sings, “Honey, we’re out of this world,” Mitlid has brought us to back in time right along with him. Fans of José González will love this one; it’s a beautifully evocative work of art, perfectly at home to be put on repeat in the crispy winter days on the horizon.

Simen Mitlid's third full-length album, Birds; or, Stories From Charlie B’s Travels From Grønland to the Sun, and Back Again, was released on October 30.

Hopeful pessimism is something I’ve become very familiar with recently. Feeling as though the world might be ending, but still choosing to hope for the best, has become common practice for many. While the lyrics of Derek Ted’s new song, “out there,” appeal to the pessimist within me, the melody and instrumentation of the song make for a more joyous three minutes and forty five seconds. Ted makes his feelings known in the first verse as he sings, “There’s poison out there just waiting for you / Don’t you forget what you’re made of / When everything taught just waltzed out the door / That look in her eyes won’t tame you.” While this seems to be pulled from a specific experience, it also feels like Ted is generally warning his audience about what the world has to offer and how to proceed accordingly. Each chorus differs slightly, but they all focus on a sensory experience in Ted’s environment, varying from water dripping from a faucet in the kitchen to the rising of dark smoke on the horizon. Though each differs, the repetition in the lines, “There’s no way to save the world we live in / Hide out alone, let the silence sink in,” furthers the doomsday narrative Ted propagates in the song. With all of this being said, I wouldn’t classify “out there” as sorrowful. The fast-paced finger-picked guitar and light percussion lightens the seriousness of the lyrics, creating a contrast that allows for listeners to bop their head along to the narration of the end of the world. Photo by Jason Lin.

Juan Wauters' track “Pasarla Bien” is a lighthearted and carefree ode to friendship and life at its best. The track comes off of Wauters’ recent EP, Más Canciones de La Onda, a collection of songs from his travels through South America. With each track comes a different country and a different feel, yet they all still carry Wauters’ signature croon. The song finds the native Uruguayan plucking along on his guitar as a wandering bass line and serene vibraphone guide the track along through short but sweet verses in Wauters’ native Spanish. From the airy instrumentals to the untroubled lyrics, the short but sweet song feels like a portal to another world where all we do is follow Wauters' mantra: “pasarla bien.” Photo by Audrey Del Piccolo.

“I Guess This is Life” opens with a floating piano melody and percussion, with a light swagger as casual as strolling through falling autumn leaves on your way to somewhere mundane; and Jordana's innate ability to capture the power of that mundane is what lends the track its warm glow. The light instrumentation allows her voice to serve as the focal point of the song, and her lyrics are as conversational and candid as you’d expect from a close friend you haven’t seen in a while. In a montage of mental scenes, we see Jordana walk past the same house party twice in one night, stare at the ceiling, visit her mom at home in Maryland and take a boat ride with an old friend (to whom she says, “it was so nice to see ya”). It captures the essence of the routine so many of us have felt after leaving home, leaving childhood friends and some old dreams behind, and being jolted into adulthood; we wake up, work, take a walk, sit at home and eat dinner alone, occasionally visit our parents, eat, sleep, repeat — to which Jordana echoes our thoughts by singing, “I guess this is life.” Although the piano carries a sunny disposition, the wistfulness of this sentiment and the aching loneliness of feeling disconnected from our own life — although it continues to speed past us — can be felt throughout the song. It reminds us that even once we feel settled into our adult life years later, it takes no time at all to quickly recall that once-biting feeling of its disjointed beginning, when we first wondered, “is this all there is?” But, it also urges us to remember that there’s so much more to come, even if we haven’t arrived at it yet. [Recommended listening method: staring at the ceiling from your childhood bedroom over the holidays.] Photo by Jacob Clark.