Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Mike Gentry
There's always that other side of the pillow. No matter how long you've laid that head of yours on the one side, heating it up, on the other side of the cotton fluff or the feathers, there exists a coolness of linen that almost defies logic. But there it is, when you flip the mother over, giving you the conditions that you'd worn well enough out on the other side. Once flipped, the hot side of the pillow goes about returning itself to the state of the cool side it used to be, returning to its roots, only to be flipped again and have it all ruined.
The cool and the warm sides of the pillow get brought into the head tonight, as we listen to Whitehorse. We could just be thinking about the before and the after, but it works out however you cut it. The cool is the before and the warm is the afterthought of a love that's existed, of a night that's pulled itself through the sluggish hours of the night, bellying up to a morning.
Luke Doucet and Melissa McClelland, the husband and wife duo that makes up this Canadian outfit, tend to write songs that burn up as much of a night's energy as possible. These are people who sing about wanting "the heat" and wanting" "the roller coaster." They'd love to side-step to the level of intimacy that starts to make a person a little anxious. They cook with gasoline and the shoot the sky out, speeding out of town like conspirators. The lovers in these songs feel meant for one another, ready to take on the authorities, swimming in the boiling waters of whatever the other one wants to get into. They're up for secrets and they're up for electrified touching. They'd rather not keep things tame. They're going to juice it all up with a buzzing burn, something that warms everything going down and everything in that resting belly. They're going to slaughter the night with passionate thump, glaring at it. They might never find the cool side of any pillows from here on out. They'll smell like fires as they slump there in the room, as Doucet and McClelland sing, "We go when guitars are hung over and the songs are fast asleep/I feel the flesh wounds in my heart but they are mine for me to keep/In your pocket or your fist or in your mind but they come to you by your ears/They are the ears that I will sing to," considering it all, as the moon gets chased.