Howling

This is a song built around weather as metaphor and mood simultaneously. The acoustic foundation is darker here, minor-key progressions that move with the unsteady rhythm of something being carried uphill. Drums arrive like distant thunder, understated but persistent, and there's an electric undercurrent — subtle, almost subliminal — that gives the track a restless, almost feverish quality. Kahan's voice leans into its grittier register, less melodic crooning than it is something closer to an urgent declaration, the kind of singing that feels like it costs something. The imagery at the heart of the song lives in the natural world — storms, wind, wild things — but the emotional content is profoundly interpersonal: the way another person can destabilize you, pull something loose in your chest that you didn't know was only loosely attached. There's a Vermont winters quality to it, the specific isolation of living somewhere beautiful and remote and sometimes unforgiving. The song builds and releases in waves, matching its subject matter formally. It belongs to the landscape of late-night drives through rural roads, or the hour just before a real storm arrives, when the air pressure drops and everything feels both clarified and endangered.