Noah Kahan – Stick Season
Just to be clear, this post was *not* sponsored by the Vermont Tourism Board…
[Video]
[5.10]
[5]
Jacob Satter: Back when they were riding the wave of stardom for the first time, I bought tickets to see Counting Crows and a pre-dreadlocked Adam Duritz was going through it. He spent most of the show baffling the audience by lying flat on his back at center stage, talk-singing his way through August and Everything After, genuinely unable to look success in the eye. I take this trip down memory lane to clarify that when I say that every generation gets the self-actualizing folk dorkery it deserves, I’m not exculpating X while side-eying any COVID-worn millennials who embrace Mr. More-Mumford-Than-Mumford here for their mental balm.
[3]
Dave Moore: I can google “is Noah Kahan related to Marcus Mumford” (no) but I can’t google “do I hate Mumford and Sons” because despite remembering making fun of and claiming I hated Mumford and Sons at the time, I never wrote anything about them. Now that nothing else really sounds like this, I don’t mind it so much.
[6]
Leah Isobel: At least Mumford & Sons had the showmanship to drop an f-bomb in the midst of their self-regarding self-flagellation. What does Noah have? The word al-co-hol, leaden and imprecise and sung like it’s an unbelievable blasphemy? Grow some balls, dude.
[3]
Alfred Soto: He’s so earnest that he acknowledges a drinkin’ problem and the existence of COVID-19 and must sing as if he wants Mike Posner to sell him a pill to take in Vermont.
[3]
Thomas Inskeep: His voice just oozes earnestness, and no, that’s not a good thing. But strummy guitar guys never entirely go out of style, do they? If his success makes a Lumineers comeback happen, I swear to God…
[3]
Lauren Gilbert: Yes, I could write a snarky review that this is a song for girls who haven’t yet left their Folklore era. And that’s true enough; it’s a pretty standard folk pop, with too many words pressed into too few lines, the murmurings of someone who spends entirely too much time in their head. But it’s also a pretty good instance of the form. It has more of a hook than Bridgers, and it’s less likely to put me to sleep than Clairo. And it does feel like the season of the sticks — like driving my parents’ car through the hills of Virginia, dark, leafless trees silhouetted against a grey, featureless sky, thinking only of the person not sitting in the passenger seat.
[7]
Mark Sinker: What if “season of the sticks” but it’s good not bad? (It’s such a gorgeous phrase to attempt to use as a negative… ) Plus Noah’s breath control seems kind of terrible — the snatch at air plus his kinda squeaky voice makes him seem way younger than he even is (which is already way young), and sorry teens but that really dilutes the resigned agony he’s going for here.
[6]
Taylor Alatorre: “I’ve been called the Jewish Ed Sheeran,” says Noah Kahan on stage, with apparent regularity. Cheap heat, sure, but it’s also self-deprecation as brand-building, aimed at propping up a certain persona by playfully prodding at the weaker and more exposed parts of it — and suddenly I’m not just describing the stage banter but also the music itself. Kahan spent much of the last year collecting enough guest artist remixes for an unplugged No.6 Collaborations Project, but one of the few Stick Season songs to remain untouched by this process was the title track, which says something about it. It says that this is the anthem, the legacy definer; this is his own private Vermont, and no one but him (and a sold-out arena crowd, inshallah) can ever do it justice. With some reservations, it’s deserving of this pedestal. And no, those reservations have not the slightest to do with Mumford & Sons, who are overdue to be treated as a normal, middling rock band and not a portentous class enemy. When teenage Mumford fans were listening to “Hopeless Wanderer” back in 2012, I imagine many of them were playing in their heads the kind of diaristic scenarios that Kahan sings about here, replacing grandiose Biblical allusions with only slightly less grandiose relationship angst. That was always the correct reading, and one can’t fault Kahan for opting to cut out the middleman between his and his audience’s experiences. “COVID on the planes” is the line that most loudly announces this isn’t your father’s indie folk, and it’s the kind of lyric whose currency will only grow with time, like the transistor radio in “Brown Eyed Girl” or the satellite radio in “Sequestered in Memphis.” At the other end of the realist-romantic spectrum, there’s “might not have but I did not lose,” a waist-deep k?an that’s perfectly befitting of a future dorm room staple. Also fitting the dorm room vibe, less fortunately, is the way the phrasing in the chorus is awkwardly chopped up so as to min-max its drunk singalong value, with the line about alcohol of course being the worst offender. It’s a testament to Kahan’s affability that I want to forgive his more sophomoric tics — I mean, who wants to be the one to interrupt a drunk singalong?
[7]
Nortey Dowuona: When did Noah Kahan develop talent and why wasn’t it with Joel Little?
[9]
Joshua Lu: “Stick Season” starts off as a earnestly mopey torch song, with a steady stream of metaphors and rhymes about his post-breakup blues. The causes and effects of this despair are presented straightforwardly, earning an almost comical feeling: the mom forgetting about him entirely, the excessive drug and alcohol use, his victim complex. It’s in the second verse, though, that the song takes an interesting turn into self-reflection: “So I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad / That I could cancel out the darkness I inherited from Dad.” That same chorus rings differently in this new light, creating an image of a once-fixed man who has returned to his broken default nature, and whose internal sadness was only buried, not cured, by being with the one he loved. There’s something quietly devastating about how resigned he is to his fate — how he knows that he can’t heal his pain, only dampen it with the memory of a time when he couldn’t feel it.
[8]
Wayne Weizhen Zhang: A [2] or an [8] depending on how much this alerts your anti-Mumford and Sons or anti-Lewis Capaldi radar, and whether or not you have a soft spot for self-deprecating white men telling jokes and making confessions at their own expense. We’ll skew higher since this has aged surprisingly well.
[7]
Joshua Minsoo Kim: I’ve heard this around seven times and I’m not exactly sure what he’s singing about, but I like the texture of his words as they spill out of his mouth. Kahan will let a syllable last just a bit longer or shorter than I expect, all while singing fast enough that he feels like he’s uninterested in easy signifiers of the contemplative. The banjo feels like a cheap way to keep the song interesting; he doesn’t need it when every guitar strum is so propulsive.
[5]
Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Loses me after that banjo riff comes in two thirds of the way through. Everything before that is charmingly middling, everything after makes me want to place the entirety of New England under cordon sanitaire.
[2]
Will Rivitz: I also love Vermont, having grown up just outside of Boston, and have to admit Kahan’s bitter and self-deprecating narcissism quite poignantly encapsulates the sense of drifting listlessly and peevishly through New England’s dreary December, mired in one’s own solitude and the inexorably self-centered trappings that accompany it. His lyrical acumen is, however, not quite sharp enough to justify exhuming the stomp clap hey brouhaha previously left to rot alongside the word “hipster” a decade ago. If he thinks it appropriate to hire a mandolinist, maybe you were right to break up with him.
[4]
Rachel Saywitz: “Stick Season” is a haunting masterpiece, and a triumph for Noah Kahan — with just a folkloric guitar, illuminating banjo, and a steady kick drum, he traces a love lost with a traveler’s bent and a timeless seasonal metaphor. Wait, this song takes place in Vermont? Wait, he’s American? I can feel the spell breaking, the cloudy haze over my eyes that always appears when I’m listening to mediocre folk-pop by European singers is dissipating. Okay, sorry. Back to normal now. Going to review this again. “Stick Season” is some Lumineers-ass sounding shit. Grow up, stop being a whiny lovesick boy, and pick up an English accent!
[4]
Ian Mathers: I’m so pissed that 1. “stick season” is not a reference to hockey which part of my brain irrationally insisted it was; 2. this tweet no longer applies to me. I gave that up for something that’s just deeply mediocre, not even entertainingly bad. That the Olivia Rodrigo cover is… fine indicates my problem is less with the song (not bad, kinda standard) and more with Kahan’s excruciating indie folk dude presentation.
[4]
Will Adams: Outside of a terribly dull EDM feature, I had not heard a single note of Noah Kahan’s music until now, so every time I saw his name I would think, “Oh, he does that one song, like ‘lady, running down to the riptide, da-da-da'” before correcting myself. Listening to “Stick Season,” I wasn’t far off: anodyne stomp-clap folk complete with banjo. Instead of a rousing singalong, however, we get a winter doldrum mope-fest where the more a clever line is repeated, the less clever it seems.
[4]
Katherine St. Asaph: Big junior-year busker energy. I hope the quad found “once you called me forever, now you still can’t call me back” as clever as he does.
[4]
Isabel Cole: Mumford-lite, nasal whine, uninspired lyrics: sure. And I, who tend towards particular indifference in the face of men with their guitars, should of all people be somewhere between immune and repelled. But this one fucking got me, I don’t know. There’s something about the unrelenting quickness of the verses, the way it slips heedlessly along axes of register and mood and scope: from the mannered poetry of “all the miles combined” to the indignantly conversational “like halfway through the drive,” from self-pity to self-recrimination, from daddy issues to drinking the pain away. It plunges into melodrama — “I’m terrified of weather” — and pivots to a gag, funny enough and also true, about air travel in the era of COVID. He says he’s stuck, and I believe him not because of that line but precisely because the song refuses to alight on any particular complaint for long. That’s what it’s like sometimes, when you’re in the long process of reconfiguring your life around an absence you never planned for. You scrabble for purchase amidst the concrete and specific, saying all the useless sayable things because the whole truth defies articulation. Your petty irritations and psychological fault lines alike draw you right back into the vortex. You do see him in the weather, which is a way of saying you see him everywhere, and also that you never realized your block had a particular smell in spring until one April morning you found yourself thinking of him and realized it had been a year. You dream a version of him and wake up unnerved and you don’t know if what disturbed you was what the dream got wrong or what the dream got right. You can’t believe you can’t talk to him when your uncle dies and when #FreeBritney goes mainstream and every time Marvel puts out a new terrible movie, and in the peculiar gravity of loss these things feel somehow equally consequential. You wash the dishes and listen to a song that rattles off all these different ways to miss someone and you wonder how long he’ll be the person this type of song makes you think of, and you think about how much he would hate it, how mean he would be about Noah Kahan’s hair, how you have to look up every time if it’s Noah or Noel but you’re still crying at the kitchen sink, how much of your taste was his taste first, how you lost two people, really, because he took with him the person you were when he was here. I am no longer funny, ‘cause I miss the way you laugh. Your head says this is a generous [5], that it’s neither special nor smart enough to quit while it’s ahead, that while the line about being half a heart is trite but serviceable, the clarification of “the other half was you” is unforgivable, truly, taking you out of the song every time. Your heart thinks that so many of the funniest things you’ve ever said were things you only said because he was listening. Noah, not Noel, drops the strumming to sing that line about Vermont one more time and in the emptiness around him you can almost hear the whistling northern wind, the sound of a world turned brittle and cold. Stupid. These fucking songs always do that. It’ll be four years come April. You put the dish in the rack and wipe your eyes with your wrist and before you pick up another dirty plate you hit play one more time.
[8]
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