"The singer in the song would be a bit of an unreliable narrator. I was fascinated by the imagery of this bird-the shrike-and the relationship it has with the thornbush, which it lives in and relies upon for everything." I probably write more folk songs than I'll ever end up releasing. "I was kind of leaning into some Irish folk influences.
There's a sense of foreboding to it as well." It's about reassuring somebody upon your returning, comparing all the wonderful things you've experienced, and being able to only compare how marvelous it was to this person you're talking to. "This nods back to ‘Nobody' as a road song. It's just a very lovely poem, which was a big part of me wanting to write that song." There's a poem by Seamus Heaney called 'At the Wellhead.' He just writes about this singer, basically. It's best summed up in the line 'You don't have to sing it right/But who could call you wrong/To put your emptiness to melody/Your awful heart to song.' At the end of the day, if you find some comfort in it, it's still a worthwhile act. "It's just trying to take stock of what singing about anything can give us. It's just taking into account how flawed this person is and saying, 'Look, it's the best we have at the moment.' It's one of the closest things to a road song that I've written." "This is about the limitations of love between flawed people. This song is a squeeze of the hand, saying, ‘Whatever your neuroses and your problems are, don't even worry about it.
As things move away from each other, they just get colder and colder, to the point where there will be no light or heat left. “I came across this lecture about the end of the universe through heat death-where all the stars just burn out.
There's references to Jonah and the whale-a person inside of a much larger thing that is moving.” Then just inquiring into movement and playing around with the language of comparing them to something enormous. Rather than write a dance song, I wanted to write a song about dancing, and on the surface about somebody watching their lover dancing. “I was really enjoying stuff like LCD Soundsystem, and the idea of dancing as a human form of expression-obviously from a distance you'd be very hard-pressed to find me on a dance floor. It seemed appropriate to refer to this song as something that was almost sweet music." It's just kind of fun to do a self-deprecating joke in the title, because it references so many sweet songs and wonderful classics. "I think the song is kind of summed up in that line, 'I'm almost me again, she's almost you.' Then the chorus hook is obviously about hearing sweet music. Mavis Staples is somebody who embodies that in a very real way." I wanted to write something that spoke to that spirit of action in music. The intention was to be a thank-you note to that-and something that was decidedly uncynical. "The artists I'm singing about managed to define the zeitgeist in which they lived by just writing about the times and how they experienced the world, and then, as a result, provided us with a document and a legacy that lives forever. “It's held at a distance,” he says, “but so too is hopefulness.” Hozier puts that balance into perspective while talking us through each of the album’s songs. Hozier’s cynicism, when it’s present at all, can’t help but be subtle, tongue-in-cheek, maybe even a little sweet-and, more often than not, couched in endlessly hummable melodies and bluesy, folky guitar lines. So it’s surprising when, taking stock of his second album, Andrew Hozier-Byrne tells Apple Music, “There was either language that seemed to focus upon drowning or the burning of things, or the ending of things.” Fear not: This is hardly a gloom-and-doom record, despite the subject matter occasionally veering toward end times. “Destruction” isn’t usually the word most people associate with Irish singer-songwriter Hozier’s music.
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