The Great Divide
no one ever talks about my thoughts on the last of the bugs
I hate it when I have to give my brother credit for something. It’s even worse that I have to credit him for my favorite artist.
Ever since that fateful fall morning, driving to school in our beat-up Volvo mom car, and he played Northern Attitude, I haven’t gone a day without listening to Noah Kahan. I know Stick Season front to back—every version, every feature, even the live recordings.
I’ve seen him live. And he’s a talented man. A man who can sing, and sing well. His songs aren’t ultra-pop allusions about a juicy celebrity relationship. They’re not big declarations about the human experience. They’re catchy, but not overly so.
They’re vignettes. They’re stories that live and breathe in solidarity, but when combined with others, create a mosaic.
One of love, loathing, loss, liquor, and loyalty.
It’s his specificity that draws listeners to him. His imagery calls crowds toward the stage. Honesty, driven by heartbreaking, gutwrenching truth, takes someone with such a locational identity—a persona that should pigeonhole him to the confines of New England—and makes him an orator of the masses.
Idiosyncrasies and ad-libs and voice cracks and the sunflower seed saga™ and Instagram stories taken in one shot and falling on stage and going live despite management’s advisement and gas station ratings and the season of the sticks.
I feel it all in my bones. The songs are an account of Noah’s life and yet an uncanny reflection of my own. Going from sticks to bugs, it’s like I’ve found myself right back in the passenger seat of that Volvo, discovering music so real it feels like a tight, tight hug.
I know the traffic light you can speed right by
‘Cause the camera’s down
-The End of August
An obvious nod to two of my favorite songs of Noah’s: Everywhere, Everything and Maine. Nothing makes me happier than when musicians make space for instrumentation—that being said, despite the gut-wrenching lyrics, this song makes me really happy.
You’re puttin’ money on red, I’m a sure bet at a losin’ streak
-Doors
Something about his wordsmithing, the way it flows, is perfect.
Headlights, your plates, 4CB3A
-American Cars
Immediately reminding me of Noah’s notorious dox in She Calls Me Back—822993167.
There's somethin' 'bout the window seats got you feeling like a poet
-Downfall
I think airplanes are among the top three places to listen to Noah, along with Fenway Park and a rainy fall evening. Oh, and in a beat-up Volvo. Obviously.
They're turning your house into a parking lot
-Lighthouse
There’s no more offensive act of erasure than paving over something that used to be.
I got the car, you got the bag, a handwritten note left for Mom and Dad
-Paid Time Off
It feels like Sleep On The Floor’s little brother.
But I hope that Logan crumbles and gets hit by a tornado
-Staying Still
🤗
But the world is scared of hesitating things
-The Great Divide
Hesitation is really the only outward display of consideration humans have. So, of course, the world can’t handle it, terrified by anyone who dares to pause.
Help me if it helps you sleep
Help me if it helps you write
-Haircut
I will literally do anything to help myself write.
If you've got a bone to pick with me
If you've got a flag, plant it in the ground
-Willing and Able
Tell me exactly where I stand and what you think of me. Please.
You're an asshole after all
-Dashboard
…Yep.
'Cause if I never see you again
You could be anything I want
-23
Figments of my imagination are always so redeeming, often unjustifiably so.
And you'll slip into some eloquently ramblin' mixed-messaging
I should shut you down
-Porchlight
I’m always slipping into some not-so eloquently rambling mixed messaging. It’s kind of my thing.
Conversation within the conversation
-Deny Deny Deny
Reading between the lines; reading the room; reading the subtext. A superpower within itself.
Like we wouldn't raise an eyebrow at the sudden lack of bullshit
-Headed North
All I can think about is Heading South…but, personally, I would always much rather be headed north.
I've never seen the rain fall so hard, honey, we're north of nowhere now
-We Go Way Back
I can imagine the distant thunder at my grandfather’s house, or the reliable afternoon deluge in Florida, or the rain trapping us inside while we could still see the sun-bleached beach. It always felt like the droplets would wash away the rest of the world.
I'm fillin' every pause
I'm speakin' when I know somethin'
-Spoiled
Unfortunately, I’m also speaking even when I don’t know something.
See the rivers meet and spread like veins
-All Them Horses
My favorite line from the album. The imagery is so visceral, looking down from an airplane, cloud-like fog obstructing half of the view, but what you can see is a lattice, a woven pattern into the dirt of the Earth. Perspective makes the biggest things on the globe seem small, something that could be contained within our own bodies.
Oh my, my, what a time to be alive
Young and dumb on the edge of the world
-A Few of Your Own
Young Dumb & Broke’s older brother.
This ain't Watertown, I'm on alien ground
I'm a college kid with my windows down
-Orbiter
An anthem for the alienated, finding their anchor. And as a college kid with my windows down, very, very far from Watertown, I’m definitely on alien ground.
Before the moment tries to disappear
Don't the sky look pretty up here?
-Dan
Pinnacles are the prettiest. The view is nice. But even though it feels like they may never arise again, they are never truly gone. From tectonic movement, or sudden terrestrial shifting, peaks emerge, high points get higher, and low points dip lower. But a low point could climb, the view shifting from a daunted upward gaze to a clear, cloud-dusted sky.
Bugs exist in the lows of the world. Beneath rocks and below sticks and under decks, haunting porches and adolescent backyard excavation operations. They buzz in our ears until they’re unceremoniously shooed away. A nuisance that is ever-present, a constant that should be digested by now but will never be accepted.
Yet bugs are free to fly. They can hover high over heads, float over water. They could hurdle hills and linger in the fog. They chirp at dusk, filling the humid air with a heavy presence carried by their incessant humming. Their existence supersedes humans—what is often read as irritating pervasion is actually astounding longevity.
They’re in suspension. Either hanging from the sky or bound to the ground. They’re under tension. All at once forgotten and inescapable. They’re the ultimate dissension.
Bugs’ nuances are missed because of their size, the infinitesimal span of their wings. They live and breathe in solidarity, but together they create a mosaic.
It’s a testament to something lasting: the way that, when they’re all together in a warm summer twilight, they can sing a song.
