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Adorable! I love this for him.
And relatable because this is the standard reaction I get from anyone I make listen to The Decemberists.
Hi, hello.
All this recent talk about Shane coded songs made me think about Harvey a bit. I’m of the opinion that he’d be a fan of the Decemberists, and from that thought came what has got to be the most self-indulgent little thing I’ve ever written.
Look below the cut for some SFW fluff.
Contains: domesticity and conversations best suited for those of us whose musical tastes crystallized in the 2006 indie folk scene.
Harvey had a vinyl collection. It was endearing, his dedication to physical media. Mostly jazz albums, smooth and smoky, all warm and rich through his speakers.
You weren’t much for jazz. He had some other options too, but you weren’t sure those were for you either.
“Why do you listen to music about dead babies?”
You’d asked it while washing the dishes. Harvey nearly dropped the plate in his hands. “What!?”
You shrugged. “I put on one of your records and the guy was singing about a dead baby.”
“You… what album?” Harvey’s eyes were crinkled in bemusement.
“It had a boat on it?”
Harvey thought for a second, then his face lit in recognition. “The Decemberists! They’re wonderful!”
You laughed. “Didn’t know your taste was so… edgy?”
“Oh no no no.” Harvey was blushing. “That track… not a good representation. Here.” He dried his hands, grabbed yours, pulled you into his hobby room. You leaned against the door, trying to control your smile as he rifled through his albums. He made a small “ah” sound as he pulled one out. “This is a better starting point.”
Strings filled the room, and you settled in on the floor to listen. You liked this one a little better, but…
“Is this a song about a couple jumping off a cliff together?”
“…yes?” Harvey ducked his head, an embarrassed smile playing on his lips.
“I mean, I like it better than the dead baby one…”
“Hmmm…” Harvey fiddled with the player again. “They’re known for this one. Might want to sit down, it’s long.”
You appeased him, doing your best not to knock into the model that was drying on the table next to you. Harvey joined, picking up a bit of sandpaper. He worked away at a few small pieces of wood as you spent the next nine minutes trying to follow the action of a rambling nautical tale.
“So let me get this straight,” you said as an accordion reeled through its outro. “This dude bankrupted the kids mom and gave her an std or something, so the singer took to sea to kill him, but then they both got swallowed by a whale, but he’s still gonna kill him?”
Harvey nodded, keeping his eyes on his project. “Yup. That’s… that’s about it.”
“Huh.” You sat and watched him for a moment as he smoothed away at a rough edge. The track transitioned, a gentle guitar picking, the lead singer’s lowing tenor sliding through a simple melody.
You recognized it.
“I think I know this one?” You tried to place it. It sounded a little different in your head. Softer. Hummed.
Harvey was blushing again. “I get it stuck in my head sometimes. It’s one of my favorites. ‘Of Angels and Angles.’ Makes me think of you.”
“Awww…” You couldn’t help the slow smile. That was exactly it. Harvey would hum it sometimes around the house, or, now that you were thinking a little harder, when you were in bed, head on his chest, the melody rumbling beneath you as you grew up warm and tired and relaxed.
Harvey’s lips were moving, singing without singing as he brushed away a bit of dust from the wing he held.
There’s a swallow
There’s a calm
Here’s a hand to lay on your open palm today
You stood, wrapped your arms around his shoulder, buried your face in his hair as the song wound its way to its end. “Alright,” you said. “That was a lot better than the first one I heard. What else you got?”
Harvey tilted his head up at you. “Ever heard the story of the crane wife?”
You hadn’t, but now you couldn’t wait to hear all about it.