{remembering a montana night}

Years ago, I snapped out of a trance and noticed I was on a Greyhound bus, moving in slow motion through Montana - on my way to have my heart broken and put together again.

I slipped headphones over my ears, trying to drown out how quiet a bus full of strangers sounds, and pushed play on an album a friend had loaned me. The band was called Over the Rhine and it took about three notes for that album to take control of me – overwhelming even the weight of a Montana night. I rested the side of my forehead on the glass, listened to those songs on repeat, and quietly slid deeper and deeper into the lonely heart of the only state I’ve lost myself in.
And I listened.
Over and over.
All night long.
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I had nearly let that night fade out of my memory, until recently, when the same hands that played those haunting notes in my headphones opened the door to an abandoned church, in a tired corner of Cincinnati, and welcomed us in.

We spent weeks in that church, watching summer turn to fall through broken stained glass, trying to understand the image of Christ on a cross, and recording the collection of songs you’re holding in your hands.

Whatever has happened that led you to our music, we’re grateful. Our biggest hope is that you’ll let us fill your headphones – while you rest your head on the glass, while you ride in slow motion – on your way to have your heart broken and put together again.

Yours,
David