Sometimes, often actually, I think that I dreamed the existence of this band. Feathers. Not the band from Australia. This was the one from Vermont. The one that sprang from Devendra Banhart’s arm tattoos and facial hair. In the woods. On an autumn afternoon. Without ceremony. A spotted owl was the only witness to the parthenogenesis, and he was not surprised.
Feathers existed, I think. Some of the members have gone on to form 100 bands with names like Happy Birthday (maybe) and King Tuff (sure). They were ahead of their time. Artisans of the song. All their melodies: organic. All their instruments: handmade. All their voices: powered by air (not fission-generated steam, like some singers).
This is such a pretty song.