The Hours’ Miss Emerald Green is at first shy – electing for her entire first minute to bubble under a placid top of self-effacing ephemera. Before even her first word she instead takes up a guitar and plucks out a lone few lines of spaghetti – once, and then twice for surer footing. Finally she clears her throat over the rising chromatic motif you’ll soon learn to love like a sign post in dense wood, and introduces herself. Your heart breaks immediately.
Hers is a sorry, languid yarn. A super 8 reel of lazy pain unspooling along the length of a wasted Sunday, cell by cell of hurtful recollections exposed and gone.
The band, here on only their third song available to anyone outside a Winnipeg bar, has only grown stronger. They ebb and swell in sympathy, unafraid to lean into one another for steadiness as they together paint a vista equally stark, equally inviting – one that all or any justice will see them commended and widely recognized for as they continue to introduce us to the wan characters who people it – characters like Miss Emerald Green who will devastate you but whom you won’t soon forget.