Devon Welsh’s voice is a little miracle, a consoling gift akin to dawn light streaming through a lover’s window or the smell of rain on hot concrete. It’s hard to describe how a voice like this echoes inside of the listener. It is a presence, not a force. And thank god. There is too much force in the world and not enough presence. There are too few subtle sharpenings of time and space, too few voices like Welsh’s, which seems more poured than pushed, something purified and released back into the world from which it came, where it will dirty itself once again. It is the sound of being alive inside a self that is inside something too huge to comprehend.

by Chris Stamm