Miki P & The Swallowtails - "Right Where We Are"
MIKI P & THE SWALLOWTAILS - “RIGHT WHERE WE ARE”
“You’ve gotta tend to your spot, you’ve gotta acknowledge your roots, and sometimes, you’ve gotta dig your heels in deep if you’re inclined to grow. Kansas City locals “Miki P” and “The Swallowtails,” remind us well through the indie-folk sensibilities of their silken new album, Right Where We Are.
With lively instrumentals, yet powerful self-control, the batch of songs keep you company in a promise of tenderness. The accompaniment of Miki P’s voice is kind enough to squeeze your trembling hand, and strong enough to teach you to stand on your own. Altogether, the music flourishes right alongside you, growing into itself like a series of spring perennials. It teems with reasons to be, and in doing so, lends to mellow contemplation, meditating on the past for what it was and how precisely we got to life at present.
Consider the moments that feel like a well-planned hike. These days, it’s hard to keep it jaunty through the strain of a rucksack thrown over shoulder. “Not Mine” calls to mind the potency in being who you are—whoever you are—with due homage to the tumultuous times it took to get there. Empowered by cello fit to rest your neck on, it’s easier to admit where the going’s been tough. You’ve got the dirt under your fingernails to prove it, and the edge to bite back. People can hurt, even the most well-intentioned, but at the end of the day, you can only choose to change yourself, and decide what to take with you.
But it takes some reminiscing. Through blooming bassoon, take where you are now, and recall the times that, all too suddenly, life became just days and days on days. Where you realized that you hadn’t had a moment to yourself in a while. Between a troubled world and the self that lives within it, that occasional slip is human. But there’s beauty amidst that great flaw. You’ve just got to let the negative space be part of your whole picture. It’s “Imperfect,” but it is whole. And in that, it’s honest, priming you to take on those drudgeries before they can turn things stagnant again.
From there, it’s “Easy Sailing.” Bolstered by calm and steady acoustic guitar, you can follow the gentle breeze into a kinder way of being. Onwards, there’s your own sacred profligacy to be had. A happiness, as determined by your capacity to throw worries to the wind. Days become lighter than they were once you let yourself be. They still pass quickly—enough so that you may wish to freeze the moment—but now they flow: a sweet, cool, crisp water to compliment your glowing skin. Therein, it’s the simple joy of feeling complete, so with re-ownership of your own heart, you’re fit as a fiddle to lend it wherever you choose.
When life’s a pleasure, we earn the right to be a little audacious. Situated between the ebb and the flow, you can keep steady pace in a storm. It’s proof of your endurance, and can turn out a real treat. Let your hair down for the downpour, and before you know it, you just may find yourself moseying in a “Rose Garden.” Marshy earth underfoot teaches you to tell sweetness from sting, and while tracing the curve of those velvet-soft petals, you don’t have to labour to understand: for splendor like that, it’s worth braving some rain—and some pricked fingers.
Of course, that kind of wisdom can’t always come easy, and rarely is it found by your lonesome. Plenty of us would like to forget our first storm, back when we lay huddled, knees to our chests, bitter cold and bitterly alone. “Sarah” reminds you that there’s more to all this than the enduring. Someday, you’ve got to open the door. Meet the people you want to stand firm for, who’ll point you toward what’s beyond the discord—this song’s chilly end, or the eye of the storm, perhaps—on the promise of golden sunsets. There is more to life than this, even if it’s been forever since you believed it. You’ve just got to do some growing first.
Being humbled by the elements, one can’t help but remember their roots. That prior huddling. Your first broken trust. Sorrow on the face of a sibling, maybe. The earliest realization that you were getting older, or that your parents are not such untouchable forces of nature as you once thought. We’re all susceptible to the feeling. “Define Me” is the other half of maturity’s mantra: though family brought us into this world, we are the skin we choose to grow into, not the one prescribed from birth.
Stopping to scrub mud from your shoes, you’re finally alone where it’s both hard to be and hard not to be. You see your face in the very pond you used to skip rocks as a child, now that the ripples have faded, and realize that you don’t quite recognize who’s staring back up at you. “I” is a moment’s peace following an era gone soggy. Miki P’s voice blossoms into bushels fit for sharing, and in you, there emerges the newfound gumption to try again. Who was by your side, back when you used to skip rocks? Have they felt this way? Where did they go? Climb a hill. Look back on the trail that lies behind you. There is not so much to fear after all.
With a yawn, you realize you haven’t slept in a while. It’s exhausting, learning courage, and your new reflection gives it away. Eyelids gone heavy, there’s only so much one can do in a day, but upon resting your head, you find yourself nodding along when you should be nodding off. It’s been a while, alright. But how could you ever forget? That cool, crisp flow of old stream over your sun-stained hands. There is a hum in your throat, calling to mind the “Music” of those moments. It’s been with you this whole time, cradling you when those who should have could not. Were you really so alone? Your own sweet music begs to differ.
In a world of abundance, it’s hard to bid the quiet goodbye, especially when that chance for rest goes right with it. But the time comes when you have to face facts: we just may live within a convoluted mess. Words and weeds get in the way. Getting breathing room can be a hard-won battle of boundary setting. Yet with that fresh space comes a sense of shelter, and with shelter, you can find a way to “Cope With This.” Learning what’s real, and learning how to be real right with it—that’s the kicker. Though rest assured, the music’s not leaving your side, and with companionship like that, there comes ripe chances to make change.
And now that “being alive” and “feeling alive” are once again distinguishable, you find yourself walking on silk. Take it from that fable, about the spider who tried, failed, tried, failed, etc. to spin a web. When it comes to silk, it’s difficult to find purchase. How badly you’ll want to clear the gap. How you may sulk on the porch, watching that spider, and watching the thread collapse each time. But “Like the Spider,” you’ve got a voice, so you’ve got a choice. Until your last waking moment, you can always, always give it another go. And when there is so much in life worth striving for, what can one do but keep trying for their web?
It’s a messy process, coming into one’s own. Sometimes, you’re not certain where to aim, yet you’ve got to shoot your shot for the tenth, twentieth, or even hundredth time. It’s a struggle, making it happen Right Where We Are. So, learn well the merits of your hometown, and pay tribute to those who’ll make you happy you did. That way, it is all the sweeter when the silk finally sticks where it ought.
Feather-soft to the touch, yet stronger than steeliest cold, Right Where We Are feels like a safe place to land. It is a hearty, bioluminescent hum, backlit by unconventional instrumentals you’ll want to whistle along to. Take a listen. Think back on where you’ve been. On who you’ve been. After all, everything feels nicer, now with the opportunity to wonder and wander within your very own web.”
LISTEN NOW.
Review by ::
Emma Ottinger
Guest Writer
Manor Records gives 100% of article author rights to Emma Ottinger.