It might only be a smudge, a snapshot, a brief moment in the sun, you can love it now. And respect it in the morning.
It’s not different at all, of course. It’s the same as it ever was. Find love. Get lost in it. Lose love. Find alcohol and guitars. Gradually rediscover enough hope to press two minutes and 21 seconds of luminous emotional overspill onto vinyl. And that’s pretty much it. It’s the greatest story ever told, and it loses nothing for being told once again by two brothers from Connecticut and their gentle metaphorical flow: [I]”It’s different now, the ice is off the roads”[/I], they slur as chorus, [I]”it’s easy driving round, even when the traffic’s slow…”.[/I] The thaw starts here.
It’s rumoured that Daniel and Jeffrey Greene are very tall indeed, which might explain the sense of vertigo that shakes beneath ‘It’s Different Now’, the blurry tumble of sound that makes this music sound like it’s slipping off the edges of the vinyl.
More probable, though, it’s the drink: The Butterflies Of Love come on like they spend a lot of time getting messy and confessional in bars, Dirty Three violin reeling in the corner, guitar and drums that sound like they haven’t slept in a month, intimate muttering you lean forward to catch. It might all be so much more bleakness, were it not for hope springing, or at least stumbling, eternal.
[I]”I never had a vision of everything/But now I go to speak and I start to sing”[/I], Daniel sings, encapsulating the ridiculous, precarious joy of this record. It’s hard to make a case for this slight fragment as part of a new chapter of American songwriting (see Those Bastard Souls and Wheat) but although it might only be a smudge, a snapshot, a brief moment in the sun, you can love it now. And respect it in the morning.