April Ha Ha

The title's doubled vowel sounds like a private joke or a flinch — something said under the breath rather than announced — and the song carries that same quality of muted revelation. Spring is implied but not celebrated; the seasonal reference arrives weighted, folded in on itself, suggesting anniversaries of loss rather than renewal. The guitar work here leans melodic, cleaner than Nothing's heaviest moments, with individual notes occasionally surfacing through the wash before the distortion reasserts itself. There's a cyclical quality to the structure, verses returning to the same emotional territory as if the narrator can't quite escape the loop they're in. Palermo's voice is soft to the point of fragility, each phrase trailing off just slightly before completion. The song exists somewhere between memory and present tense — it could be happening now or it could be ten years gone, and the production deliberately refuses to resolve that ambiguity. Sonically, it's warm and cold at once, the guitars thick but not crushing, with enough space in the mix that the silence between phrases registers. For the kind of person who marks certain dates on the calendar without quite knowing why, this song names something they haven't been able to articulate.