Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
Baltimore, Maryland band HUME makes us feel like we've been looking at the sun for too long, but we've made it. We're happy we did it. The blind spots are receding and everything's getting back to taking on the appropriate colors and tint. That isn't all. They make us feel or think of the following things too - the truncated and the illogical:
Hear something. Anything.
Feel like we're being tailed.
We're jitterier today than we've been in a long time.
We want to, or need to, buy a pipe organ by this time next year.
A helium-filled balloon that drifts out of sight, to a death in the atmospheric pressure that will never be witnessed, just felt.
It's shivering. It's standing out in a brisk night with too little clothing on, trying not to appear cold, trying to talk ourselves out of feeling it.
It's a little feedback, ringing in the air.
It's a little harvest moon
It's when you're in the middle of a lake when nothing's biting, when there are no other sounds besides the unraveling of the fishing line, when the silence is golden and deafening and then a huge mother of a fish jumps straight out of the water for a somersault, just on the other side of your boat. You turn to look and all you see are the ripples, but you know it was a fish and it was an affront to your solitude and to your angling luck.
It's a plunge.
It's a rinse.