Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
Savannah Smith has this way of reminding you about places that you've never been before. They are homes that you've never called home before. They are places that are so familiar to you that you'd swear that you knew them, that you could still smell them, that you could still recall all that laughter and all those sobs that you poured out within those walls - all still trapped there, absorbed into the wallpaper. There was that leaky faucet that no one could ever get to stop leaking. There was that draft that tore through the living room for three months every winter. There was that creaky step - the fourth one from the top - that you remember hitting every single fucking time you were trying to sneak into bed quietly. You know these places, almost feeling that you built them yourself, but there were people who lived in them before you did, even if you never lived in them. They are hauntingly reminiscent of something that's tough to grasp, but you're not afraid of what it makes you feel.
You find comfort in the way that Smith and her ukulele work on your emotions, in measured amounts, though it feels like it hits you all at once. These are the stories that she could keep to herself, but she's unable to hold them back. They're personal and they're relatable - so much so that you start to wonder if you might have caused any of them. Were you the reason? Of course you weren't the reason, but you're feeling the loneliness, those lost feelings just as much as she is. You're unsure where you stand. She sings, "You lose yourself and the blood thickens," and this is where you feel that she's working through some serious questions. She sings to you as if there's a bottomless pot of coffee and a vat of chicken noodle soup in the kitchen. You and her, forever intertwined, will work through this.