Album Review: Sister. - Two Birds

You’re a house I’ll come back to, with the lights all turned on

And I am always thinking about friendship. And the kind of intimacy that comes with that. Or closeness. The different ways we connect with one another. The varying levels of intensity and trust.

The ways, for myriad reasons, despite our best efforts, we can become untethered from somebody. 

I am always thinking about friendship. The ways that you, over time, grow, or change. Often together. You can challenge one another. Push one another in a constructive way. You continue to work towards meeting each other. The trick is always making it, from both sides, seem effortless even though you both know, and sometimes acknowledge, that it isn’t. It’s tough to keep up with one another some of the time, but it is worth it. The intimacy and the closeness that comes with that. 

It doesn’t work, really, if you aren’t growing, or changing. If there is no challenge. If you aren’t pushing one another, at all, towards anything. If you stop meeting one another where the other is. One of you waits. The other never arrives.

I am always thinking about friendship and the kind of closeness and intimacy that comes with it.

Two stories—two birds in the wall

*

And I am often lamenting about how quickly things move. The internet, specifically, Or at least the way we receive information. And this, of course, makes me sound, I think, much, much older than I am. Or less savvy. 

I don’t believe that to be the case, though. Well. Not entirely the case. I think, more than anything, I am often preoccupied with the idea of memory, even within seemingly unimportant or trivial things. The minutiae that many would not give a second thought to are things, within specific circumstances, that I am clinging to. 

I am often lamenting about how quickly things move. The internet, specifically. And I guess what I am really getting at is that I am having a harder time remembering with clarity how I am introduced, or how I hear about new artists. There were times, in the past, when information was delivered differently, or at a slower pace, and it was easier, when an artist, or an album, made an impact, to remember the moment you made the discovery. The review, or article you read. The song you caught a bit of on the radio. The friend imploring you to listen to something. The blind buy in the record store based on the cover art. These happen, still, but I think with less frequency. 

I read a lot, as perhaps you do, as well, about new music, or new albums, from various pockets of the internet. But the internet moves quickly. And it is hard to, at least for me, return to how I was introduced to something. An Instagram story, or someone’s tweet that you happen to see, are how we consume information now, yes, but they are not as impactful as a CD-R slid your way from someone who wants to share something with you, or the song you hear while sitting in your car, at a stoplight, that knocks the wind out of you.

I tell you all of that to tell you this. And I have, of course, said this before. But I am, now nearly three years later, unable to remember how I first heard of Hannah Pruzinsky—specifically their sparse, moody, introspective solo project, H. Pruz. But I did—around the time Pruzinsky was releasing their EP, Again, There, at the end of 2022. 

I spent a lot of time in 2024 with Pruzinsky’s full-length debut as H. Pruz, No Glory—shortly after the album’s release, I learned Pruzinsky was a member of a trio, Sister., stylized like that with the period at the end. 

And there is, of course, the distinction I am always struggling to make, or searching for the best way to describe, when contrasting the work of a group and the solo outings of one of its members. How does Pruzinsky’s work, on their own, differ from the sound of the group they’re in. And there are similarities, of course, as there often are—that, I think, is inevitable. But even in briefly finding points of comparison between No Glory, and Sister.’s debut, Abundance, I understood that Sister. as as a whole, is a lot heavier, or noisier. Or that the songs have a little bit more of an edge, or a robustness to them, while Pruzinsky’s solo recordings are inherently much more fragile. 

And there are moments on Sister.’s second full-length, Two Birds, that are fragile, or hushed. But those are often juxtaposed with shadows, and with a weight. 

And I am always thinking about friendship. And the kind of intimacy that comes with that. Or closeness. The different ways we connect with one another. The varying levels of intensity and trust.

And I am, of course, drawn to Two Birds and to Sister. for a number of reasons—the record is, from beginning to end, simply incredible. It’s stirring, thoughtful, meticulous. But I am specifically fascinated with, and charmed by Sister.’s origins as a friendship project between its co-founders, Pruzinsky and Cici Sturman. 

Roommates in college, the two, per the press materials regarding Two Birds, connected originally over poetry—sharing their own work, then writing collaboratively. Sturman and Pruzinsky grew closer through living together, and working creatively together, for nearly a decade, with an early iteration of Sister. becoming their focus, often writing about their relationship—“songs exploring the rare beauty of profound and close friendships as well as its pitfalls.”

And we do grow, or evolve, in our art, over time. We become more confident. More thoughtful or articulate. We find our voice. 

Retroactively, it is fascinating to hear the growth, or change in how Sturman and Pruzinsky work together—and the way Sister., as a project has expanded, both literally and figuratively. The group became a trio in 2020 through the inclusion of guitarist and producer James Chrisman, with the three members all writing together as they continued to issue singles and EPs, working towards their debut full-length, released in 2023. 

I often worry, the longer that I have been analytically listening and writing about music, about the phrases or descriptions I use, and potentially overuse. Regardless, as a whole, Two Birds is a collection of songs that is representative of the culmination of gradual and enormous growth within the band, and how they work together. A collision of personalities. A huge, bold, and wildly human and thoughtful statement that occurs in the convergence of ferocity and fragility. 

*

Have you ever been pleased, babe? ‘Cause I don’t think we’re all that aligned

I think the thing that is most noticeable, certainly during the first listen through of Two Birds, and something that remains resonant and palpable through subsequent time spent with the record, is just how heavy it is. 

That is to say, it is not, like, weighed down by itself. It does not trudge. It is not slowly paced.

Rather, it is a collection of songs that are often enormous in sound and scope—songs that are, in some way, snarling. Or claustrophobic. It isn’t a “dark” record. I mean, yes, there are moments where it is somber, but it is not directly dark, or heavy, in its lyricism. But there is a shadow—sometimes almost a menacing one, that hangs just on the edge, slowly creeping towards the center, as it is able to. 

Perhaps one of Two Birds’ heaviest songs, or icier, eerie moments, arrives in the form of its second track, and one of the advance singles issued prior to release—the nervy, swirling “Honey.” 

“Honey” is dark, and brooding, from the moment it begins—wasting no time as an unsettling echo of a seemingly disembodied, distorted voice comes rolling in, prior to the sound of the song quickly taking shape through the throbs of the bass, provided by Chrisman, the low chugs from Sturman’s electric guitar, and the snappy, crisp percussion from Sister.’s drummer, Felix Walworth, who also plays drums in the indie-folk outfit Florist. 

And there is a tightness, or a tension, that the band never really lets go of as the band finds its way—and even in the darkness, or kind of ominous feeling that is cast over “Honey,” there is like, a real groove they easily slide into, and a weird kind of sensuality to it—a kind of disorienting haze that pulses through you, with the band allowing the tension to release, or rather, explode, albeit in short, noisy bursts, through the instrumental breaks in-between verses.

Sister., as the song continues to spiral out, keep tightening, and then loosening, their grip on the cacophony—allowing it to travel further out at times, or become more dissonant, with a subtle lead guitar, and a the low rumble of a buzzy synthesizer cutting through as elements added within the second verse, and as “Honey” careens towards its taut, haunting conclusion.

“Honey” is, of course, one of the moments on Two Birds that is more brooding, or menacing in how it sounds—it is one of the darker, and more ambiguous songs lyrically as well. And for all the tension within the arrangement of the song, there is just as much, and perhaps even more, tension depicted in the writing—a vague, though incredibly vivid kind of contention unfolding between two people.

“Honey’s in the kitchen asking all these questions like ‘Are we gonna be freezing tonight?’” Sturman begins, singing through gritted teeth. “‘Is it okay if I change my mind,’” they continue, with the delivery of the lyrics not growing in intensity, but coming with a kind of surprising, unrelentingness that creates yet another layer of tension, or unease, within the song. “‘Have you ever been pleased, babe? ‘Cause I don’t think we’re all that aligned,” Sturman sings quietly, with a hint of angst, their voice blending in a beautiful but ghostly way with Pruzinsky’s, as the song skids into its first instrumental build-up and recession.

“Honey, please define hasty,” the two continue, in the second half of the song, after the tumultuous nature of the song has subsided briefly. “I’m not sure what it means in this context—are you in love? Are you just cold?”

I stop short of saying “Honey” is a mean-spirited song, because I don’t think it is, though in its ambiguity, and how that is used in the writing, there is a kind of directness, and an exasperation that does rise to the surface, especially as it heads into the finale. “Something big and then nothing,” Sturman and Pruzinsky explain. “I realize you’re not just disappointing me—you’re disappointing all of us.”

And there is of course, in the contemporary popular music I am most often drawn to, a poetic, or very literate, quality to the lyricism—the use of fragmented imagery, strung together in stunning phrase turns was one of the things that made Pruzinsky’s debut full-length as H. Pruz as impactful and as lingering of an album as it was. And when there is a song written very poetically, or that it is very literate in nature—that the use of imagery, and phrasings, are very fragmented, but vivid and haunting, there often isn’t a resolution at the end of the song. Maybe you, as a listener, are not looking for one. 

The ending of “Honey” hangs like a specter—intentional, and extremely effective in continuing to stretch the creeping, eerie feeling all the way through to the very end. As the instruments all stumble into their respective stopping points, we’re left in the chill of the long, stark shadow the song casts. 

“Honey,” Sturman asks. “Weren’t you moving towards eternity?”

*

And it always doesn’t have to be like this. Or, rather, it doesn’t have to be entirely like this.

I am still learning, of course. Learning to appreciate, or enjoy. Or understand. 

I am, more often than not, attracted to music, both in listening just for myself, and for listening analytically, or critically, that lends itself to this kind of thoughtful consideration. Lyrics that practically beg to be taken apart and then put back together after they have been scoured and combed through. Or arranging that wishes to be explored by its textures, or elements. About the meticulous nature of how an instrument sounds, or the production of the song, as a whole.

And it doesn’t have to be like that. Not entirely.

One way my best friend and I differ is that when we listen to music—regardless of if it is an artist where our tastes overlap, or if one of us is more drawn to it than the other—she is a vibe based listener, often focusing on the feeling the song has overall, as opposed to how I spend os much time and give so much of my attention to the lyrics, and the possibilities of what they mean—for me, as the listener, but what they might say about the artist or songwriter. I hesitate to say that music takes a backseat, because in many cases, it doesn’t. And the way it all comes together is, of course, important. But it is the words. How they hang. What they say. How they say it. How personally I can take them.

I tell you all of that to tell you this—there are many places throughout Two Birds that do warrant themselves to a much deeper and more precise analysis of both music, but mostly lyrics, and how it all folds together. But there are places where Sister. does craft something that is inherently more structured around a vibe, or a feeling. I would contend that even a song like “Honey,” just in how arresting of a tone it strikes and maintains, is vibe-based, and certainly both the somber, inward “Two Moons” and the snappy, unrelenting, and western-tinged “Power” are as well.

In how gentle it is—amongst the quietest tracks on Two Birds, “Two Moons,” in tone, is reminiscent of Pruzinsky’s solo work—the kind of sparse looseness they built a number of the songs on No Glory around. There is a sleepy, somber kind of whimsy to it—and an intimacy in it that feels like a hushed, late-night conversation between two friends, and one of you is on the cusp of revealing a secret. 

Penned by both Sturman and Pruzinsky, “Two Moons,” in just how whispered it is, comparatively to other moments on the album, also opens itself up to the appreciation, or analysis of its layers, and how those layers sound. Whereas the acoustic guitar is recorded in a very “in the room” kind of way in a song like the one immediately before it, “Patient Guy,” here, there is much more of a tightness to how it sounds. It doesn’t create tension, exactly, but the sound is not as expansive, with Walworth’s work at the drum kit also very tight—the rhythm shuffling along with the slightest crispness and crunch to it underneath both the chintzy twinkling of a the keyboard, and the off-kilter lead guitar noodling that flourishes throughout. 

The tone that “Two Moons” strikes isn’t nearly as ominous, or ferocious, as the band is capable of being elsewhere on the record—but there is a kind of dissonant undercurrent that ripples subtly and surges up through the song, the further along it drifts and swirls, creating a kind of gentle yet ever undulating bed for Pruzinsky’s fragile vocals to rest atop of.

The lyrics to “Two Moons” follow the evocative, shadowy kind of writing that Sister. uses throughout Two Birds—evocative images, and phrases turns that do linger well after the song is over, but there is never really clarity about who the song’s intentions are directed at. 

And maybe we, as listeners, do not need to know, as Pruzinsky walks a line between sentiments, and affection, and something that is borderline confrontational, or at least accusatory in nature. 

“There are two moons tonight,” they begin in the second verse. “I swear we’re the only two awake seeing them rise,” they continue tenderly, before the tone shifts in the final few lines, and in the implications, and delivery, of the short chorus. “I had to start believing in god again,” Pruzinsky concedes, before adding. “You said there are other ways that I could keep a friend.”

“Cause you always change,” they sing as the music oscillates slightly into a little bit of dissonance, or edge, during the short, woozy chorus. “You always change shape.”

And like “Honey,” and like so many other moments in the world that Sister. constructs on Two Birds, there are no answers, or resolution—as “Two Moons” squiggles and shuffles itself into a gradual conclusion.

In the second half of the album, “Power” is similar in the way it doesn’t pit the importance of lyrics or music against one another, and does work towards a vibe overall—though here, there are more elements at work. 

Even in the heavier moments across Two Birds, and perhaps it is from their beginnings as a duo that relied heavily on acoustic arrangements, or perhaps it is from Pruzinsky’s tastes for sparser, folksier instrumentation on their solo outings—even with those heavier moments, I would still lean, or at least consider, Sister., overall, to fall into that space where “indie” and “folk” converge. And with leaning into a folksier aesthetic, “Power,” musically, is a place where the band indulges in a kind of twangy, western-tinged aesthetic.

The drumming here, from Walworth is at its snappiest and sharpest sounding, holding things together as a dissonant melody plucked out on the acoustic guitar, swirling around, and a bass line surging through it all—punctuated by mournful pulls from the lead electric guitar melody, giving the same effect as a pedal steel. 

The vibe power creates has a kind of delicacy to it, because it never rises above a certain level of intensity, but there is also something surprisingly hypnotic about how it unfolds—it pulls you in, both musically, and with the kind of relentless way Sturman and Pruzinsky sing. There isn’t a breathlessness to it, and the song itself isn’t fast-paced by any means, but they do not give the lyrics a lot of time, once they land, before they are onto the next thought. It’s a kind of deliberateness that makes you, at times, feel like you are behind, or perhaps trying to keep up with them, and there is one place in particular that I did a double-take to make sure I did truly hear what I thought I did.

There’s a visceral, confessional nature to the lyrics of “Power”—ones that do ultimately ask to be unpacked, or analyzed, but it does take time to ease your way into them, because of how they are presented, as if the hypnotic nature overall of the song is a means of distraction.

“I get what I want by asking the wrong questions,” Pruzinsky and Sturman begin, their voices blending together, walking the line between harmonious and just the slightest bit of dissonance or edge. “Breaking the sequence—muscle memory, that’s my weakness.”

And it was the next line that did have me, at first, gasping, but then rewinding the song back to make sure I did, in fact, hear what I thought I had playing from my car’s stereo—“I get what I want by spitting in the mouth of someone close to me,” they confess, before adding, “You don’t think I mean to. But I need something sick—that’s my weakness.”

There is of course the hypnotic, slinking nature that the song takes on almost immediately—the instrumentation moving at a very deliberate pacing, while the vocals are stretched out, and held, with the syllables and words falling at just the right moment. And there is something that creates even more of a trance, or a lulling sensation, when the band slides into the chorus. “For awhile I for a while I for a while I,” we hear, nodding our heasd and moving our shoulders along with the undeniable groove that the band finds itself in. “Held onto control,” they add, at the end. 

The second verse of the song does take a much more existential approach, with Sturman and Pruzinsky poetically, and ambiguously, working to unpack larger ideas, but does so without landing at any kind of resolve. And even the phrase repeated in the chorus, sung a number of times in the second half of the song, turning it into an incantation of sorts, is the kind of expression that lingers, or asks for consideration, because it arrives like a thought left unfinished. 

For a while, I held onto control. 

But when did they stop holding on. Or why. 

Or have they even stopped at all.

*

And I am always thinking about the way things sound. 

Like, the way things are recorded. Produced. The little things. Details that you as a listener maybe do not even notice, and if you do, do not think they are of that much importance. Sometimes it isn’t all I can hear. But these details are things that I certainly cannot unhear. 

I think there is a very apparent intimacy that courses through Two Birds—primarily coming from how the band works and how they work together. You can hear that trust, or confidence in one another, the longer you sit with the record. 

It is a sonically well assembled record—existing in an intersection between unpolished or at least very loose, and meticulous, and in that intersection, you can also hear that trust, and confidence, and at times, a kind of fun the band must be having within the moment, when things seem to be effortlessly coming together, and then growing, or flourishing. 

There is also an intimacy to how some parts of Two Birds was recorded—not everything comes from a place of ferocity or cacophony. Sequenced as the album’s third track, it is rather smart for Sister. to have placed the meditative and sparse “Patient Guy” where they did, because it does pull things back, in terms of the intensity, following the nervy, crunchy “Honey,” and the slithering, pulsating opening, “Blood in The Vines.”

“Patient Guy” is the kind of song that feels like you are living in it, and I am, of course, fascinated with songs that are recorded this way. The kind of “in the room” sensation when you can hear when the recording equipment picks up the hissing of the space, or the slightest shift in weight to make the floor below creak. This kind of closeness does really only work with songs that are this quiet, and never rise above a certain point. It isn’t tension, exactly, because it never feels like it needs to be cut, or released, somehow the further the song goes, but in this closeness and in this quiet, there is a tightness, or a bracing of oneself for something that ultimately never arrives.

There is a tentative nature, or a nervousness, in how both the music and the lyrics arrive in “Patient Guy.” The very hollow, resonant acoustic guitar strings that are plucked quite deliberately barely rise above a whisper, blending with the gentlest of brushed out rhythms, keeping the faintest of time underneath. Within that, as the song progresses, there is the slightest blip and fluttering of the keyboard, and this harmonic adjacent pinging sound from a second guitar, that later, weaves itself in and out of the more straight forward plucking that the song begins with, giving the song, which is admittedly one of the slower paced, the slightest bit of additional enthusiasm.

“Patient Guy” does set a scene—it is remarkable in how evocative and vivid it is lyrically. But even in the portrait that Sturman’s words create, it is vague enough to create curiosities or questions about the individuals that are depicted. And like the intentional way the pings, and plucks, and ripples of the instruments land in the song’s arranging, Sturman’s vocals, and later, when joined by Pruzinsky in the second verse, coming in with a higher, fragile range, are all extremely precise in how the notes are held, and where, and how, they fall.

“New Year’s Eve,” Sturman begins quietly. “Wearing basketball shorts—he smelled like sweat,” they continue. “He kissed your lips.” And even there, in just four lines of the song, the group has created just a fascinating narrative that hangs on a single moment. 

I am remiss to say refer to “Patient Guy” as a love song, or even really a song about love. It does, as it slowly unfolds and reveals more of itself, become a song about affection and observation. About fragments. And the way we hang onto those fragments, and shape them. 

“Love wasn’t something that could be so nice,” Sturman remarks. “That could make you laugh. That could change your life.”

“You asked the river to expand like the ocean—you’re such a dreamer, he said,” they continue. “And that’s a good thing.”

And for as evocative, and stirring as the narrative of “Patient Guy” is up until that point, it is the song’s short, final verse that is its most resonant, or haunting.

“You blow a candle,” Pruzinsky and Sturman sing. “You cry through a birthday party. The guilt seeps through you—you don’t know why.”

The song’s tenderness, or hinted at affection, comes in the one-line chorus, which is returned to only three times. “Mother, that’s one patient guy.”

And we are left, of course, with wanting more. About the guy. About the New Year’s Eve kiss and the basketball shorts. About the crying and the birthday party. About the patience. But we are given just this much, and we as listeners, shape what we can with it, before the song delicately stumbles and winds itself down to an end.

*

Are you just another story, or a memory to walk through?

And I am always thinking about friendship.

The kind of intimacy that comes with that. Or closeness. The different ways we connect with one another. The varying levels of intensity and trust. 

And the ways, for myriad reasons, despite our best efforts, we can become untethered from somebody.

A memory to walk through.

The ways that you, over time, grow or change. Often together. You can challenge one another. Push one another in a constructive way. You continue to work towards meeting each other. The trick is always making it, from both sides, seem effortless even though you both know and sometimes acknowledge that it isn’t. 

It’s tough to keep up with one another some of the time. But it’s worth it. And it doesn’t really work if you aren’t growing or changing. If there is no challenge. If you aren’t pushing one another, at all, towards anything. If you stop meeting one another where the other is. 

One of you waits. The other never arrives. 

Alyssa, my best friend, and I, often talk about friendship breakups—or how she described it, once, as what it is like when you are on the receiving end of a slow friendship fade. There is an element of a cautionary tale to it, when we have talked about it. About the ways we’d prevent our dynamic from reaching that point. 

A slow friendship fade.

Just another story.

One of you waits. Or was waiting. The other never arrives. 

And you do give up. You tried. You can only try for so long.

And in looking around, you do come to understand that the slow fade was probably inevitable. It is, of course, very difficult to accept that, though. Or even acknowledge. 

The press materials for Two Birds does not indicate which song, or songs, it connects to, but “lost friends” is one of the lyrical themes specifically mentioned. And perhaps it is a stretch, or a reach on my part. Making something where there is often nothing to be made. I am almost always doing that. Always looking for the “way in” when I am writing about an album. The way to make it personal. The reflections, however unflattering, or humbling, I still wish to catch glimpses of.

There is a personal nature to Two Birds, but it is cloaked so heavily in ambiguity. 

Maybe it is not as much of a stretch or a reach, then. The song meets you where you are.

It doesn’t indicate which song is directly in reference to the idea, or theme, of “lost friends,” but there is a lost connection that is vividly and heartbreakingly depicted in “Piece of Silver,” which arrives after the album’s halfway point.

And I have thought a lot about the tone of the songs, musically, anyway, on Two Birds. It was one of the things that struck me when I listened to two advance singles, “Blood in The Vines,” and the titular track, and I was struck even more when I was able to sit down with the album in its entirety. The way that the tone, or this feeling, is sustained across the 10 tracks, is admirable, and fascinating. 

That tone, or the feeling, is often a dark one. Or heavy. Or ominous. Or at times just a little menacing. I tell you all of that to tell you this—“Piece of Silver” begins quietly, with a swirling progression of notes on the acoustic guitar, but even before the crisp snap of the snare drum comes in creating a skittering rhythm that opens itself up to a head nodding groove, there is just this hint of dissonance. It is just a little ominous in how it sounds, as the bass line rolls through, with a subtle electric guitar, quivering slightly, mirroring the plucking of notes.

There is a real intention, and precision, in how the song keeps tumbling forward and hitting its mark with the sound of that snare hit, and the hypnotic sensation of the two guitars that are joined by a third—a louder, cleaner in tone electric, playing a small lead melody that rises above all of these other elements. It all sounds pretty straightforward, in terms of the way a song is structured musically and how it builds. But there are these things that do make it so compelling and genuinely interesting to hear unfold—in how it tumbles, it does come to this very delicate, punctuative stopping point, in between verses, as the chorus is delivered by all three core members of the band, and nearly all the instrumentation drops out save for some charming twinkling sounds from Walworth’s contribution with the glockenspiel, and the sound of the other additional element that is so fascinating to hear, which are the wandering layers of long, distended rattles and pulls from what sounds like using an e-bow on an acoustic guitar. It’s never, like, too much noise, or something that distracts from the song as a whole, but rather, it gives it this kind of disorienting otherworldliness the longer you sit with it.

And given the kind of delicate tension Sister. keeps “Piece of Silver” balancing on for a majority of its run time, it is a bit of a shock when, within a minute and change left, the band spends around half of that steering the song headfirst into a distorted, blown out, and explosive instrumental break—the drums pummel and crunch, and the guitars are torrential, but just briefly, before “Piece of Silver” quickly cleans up the noisy mess it had made, and we are right back to the familiar, wobbly gentleness for one final moment until the end. 

And I am always thinking about friendship. What it is like to have a close, trusted friend. 

What it is like to have found myself on the receiving end of a slow fade. 

Just another story.

I remember one of the last phone conversations we had. October. Three years ago. The connection was bad. I was trying to ask a question about something that I had, at least, thought was important. A voice cutting out on the other end. Cutting out until there’s nothing. 

One of you waits. The other never arrives. 

You can only try for so long.

“Piece of Silver” is one of the many songs on Two Birds that is co-written by Pruzinsky and Sturman—they sing it together, too, with their voices intertwined, and then joined, at times, as a means of emphasis, by the low, rumbling vocals of Chrisman. And as the song, more or less, is musically straightforward in how it unfolds, at least until it bursts temporarily, there is a relatively straightforward approach to the lyricism—in structure or form, yes, but also in how it is a little less dressed up in metaphor or ambiguity. 

Just a little less, though. It is not completely void of that. So there is still some mystery to the song, and all of it is very easy to get swept up in.

“Size me up to darken the blue,” the two begin, allowing the words to arrive with just the right pacing, and at just the right time, leaving space, or simply letting them hang a little longer, to emphasize. “Are you just another story, or a memory to walk through,” Pruzinsky and Sturman ponder, before the song takes a turn to a place that is not hurtful, exactly, but a place where there is hurt, that teeters on the line of bitterness. “Three years back, you’re crying—said you had to cry alone. Left an old stone in your palm to transfer all my thoughts,” they continue, before easing into the single-line chorus. 

“And you hide a piece of silver in the conversation.”

The song’s second verse is even more evocative, and one of the more revealing moments on the record as a whole. “Just last night, I dreamt I saw you pass me in a crowd—it’s timely, and no different, now that no one is around,” they sing, slightly dejected, before delivering one of the most stirring, resonant phrase turns on Two Birds. “It’s painful like a family. Like an old smell. Like a ghost. Like the way you used to choose me. Like an old and precious stone.”

Just another story.

A memory to walk through.

One of you waits. The other never arrives. 

And it is that balance Sister. walks on “Piece of Silver.” Wishing, I think, to show some tenderness, or a little grace, even still, but understanding that there is resentment just on the other side of that. 

* 

You’re a house I’ll come back to, with the lights all turned on

I am always thinking about friendship. The intimacy that comes with it. Or the closeness. The different ways that we connect with one another, and the varying levels of intensity and trust. 

I still think about the ways we can become untethered from someone.

The way that you, over time, grow or change. Often together. Because you challenge one another. Push one another in a constructive way. You continue to work towards meeting each other. Because it really doesn’t work if you aren’t growing or changing. If there’s no challenge. If you aren’t pushing one another towards anything. 

That is part of the reason why I am so charmed by Sister., and by Two Birds. Because of the band’s beginnings as a friendship project, and the way that relationship and dynamic does inform how and what they write. 

There is, of course, a tension, or a fumbling. Or misunderstandings. That comes with any closeness. The closeness itself, and the things, both good and bad, or frustrating, or that you need from the connection to another, are at the center of the album’s finest moments, both of which were issued as singles prior to the album’s arrival—the enormous, cathartic titular track, and the smoldering, writhing opening, “Blood in The Vines.”

And again, I am remiss to use the word “menacing” to describe moments on Two Birds in terms of how the musical elements come together, but there is a darkness that does surge through so much of it. A heaviness. And Sister. really waste no time luring us into that feeling because one of the things that is most impressive about “Blood in The Vines” is the way it balances a kind of sultry, hypnotic groove, with a kind of ominous snarl that seems like it is barely being held back from growing into something that is on the cusp of becoming more ferocious. 

“Blood In The Vines” begins quietly, fading in slowly into the shuffling rhythm that is already fully developed, with the tight, muted plunks of the electric guitar, wandering through, giving the song a little bit of a bounce, and a slink, before Pruzinsky delivers the opening lines.

There is of course a kind of tension, or tumult, that is depicted in the lyrics, and musically, it is a song that oscillates just on the edge of release, though is never given the opportunity to truly explode—only grow in tension, and a kind of darkness that creeps in, by the time the song reaches its chorus, with the big, distended strums of the guitar that are punctuated by the titular phrase, and the haunted, wordless singing that comes after. And as they do elsewhere on Two Birds, the way the band sustains this specific kind of feeling, or tone, from the beginning to the end of a song, only loosening their grip slightly, is a marvel to hear.

And it does set a tone, and it is indicative of the things to come, in its role as the opening track on the album. Hinting at the darkness, and the tensions in the record, both literally and figuratively, to come.

And it does set a tone—the press release for Two Birds refers to “Blood In The Vines” as being steeped in noir mystique, depicting the shadowy power dynamics in a relationship. And that’s the thing—it is incredibly vivid in what it does depict, creating a stark portrait of two people. Though, smartly, and intentionally, it never plays too much of its hand, and opts not to reveal what kind of relationship these two individuals are in—perhaps, implying that at this point, the lines might be blurred, and within that blur, there is can be a feeling that it is somehow both too much but also never enough.

That blur, and that tension, is depicted in vivid detail but in sparsely written lyrics within the song’s first verse—haunting in just how evocative they are but leaving just enough unspoken. “We share the water—I wash your hair,” Pruzinsky begins quietly. “When you’re impatient,” they observe, “Your skin burns red.”

“You grabbed the wrong hand—we were just friends,” they continue. “I overthought it. I dropped your wrist.”

Joined by Struman on the creeping and alluring chorus, which is quite honestly, seductive in how it pulls you into its rhythm, even though as it writhes, it does so under such a shadow, the two, throughout the song, alternate saying, “Suffocating” and “Suffocate it,” before delivering the stark titular phrase.

And there is tenderness, and a tension, not jostling for dominance, but there is still a give and take, in an ongoing effort to find a balance, that is further depicted, in the song’s subsequent verses.

“You look just like me,” Pruzinsky muses quietly. “That’s kind of sweet.”

“Said we’d go dancing—save our bad day,” they continue, with the song, then, taking a slight turn into that tension. “We’re always fighting, and that’s okay.”

The tension, then, ripples up to the surface more in the final verse, returning to the imagery of two people—deeply connected, somehow, on the dance floor. “Mirror your movements, but not like this. Leave room for Jesus,” Pruzinsky jokes, before it stops being fun, and the tension breaks as they ask, “Can’t we just dance?”

There is no resolution, in the end, as “Blood In The Vines” continues to shuffle, and then slink, finding the space where musically, it beckons a shadow, or darkness, to come closer, and in the lyrics, at least during the chorus, how they are delivered in a way that sounds like a warning, as the final verse ends on a fittingly unsettling line. 

“Suffocate while you learn to forgive. You say that violence helps you forget.”

The way that Sister. play with a darkness, or a heaviness, throughout Two Birds is fascinating. It’s surprising at first, how much weight there is at times, or the kind of heft that these songs do have, but it is what makes it so memorable and remarkable after the album has concluded. Just the kind of lingering feeling of the torrential nature, and catharsis, so many of these songs have. 

And because there is an ambiguity, and a poetic, fragmented nature to so much of the writing—and because so much of it is personal, I am uncertain if the same two people, trying to find the way to balance themselves out emotionally, that are depicted in “Blood In The Vines” are the same two people within the album’s titular track, just written about from a different perspective and from a different moment.

Regardless, “Two Birds” is a stunning and arresting centerpiece to the album—enormous in sound, and where it ascends to, it does so with ease, devastating and earnest within the sentiments poured into the lyricism. 

“Two Birds” begins with a gigantic snarl of guitar feedback, before the instruments snap quickly into place. Moving at an intentionally glacial pace, the silence, and space, between the hits of the snare drum are just as much of an instrument, or an element, within the fabric of the song. And weaving itself slowly into that rhythm is the distended sound of the electric guitar, resonating deeply, along with slow, throbbing bass notes. 

And it begins as a dirge, and it remains there, yes, but it does gradually conjure this momentum internally, building towards this powerful, slow motion, woozy crunch that overtakes everything when the chorus arrives, creating a noisy, surprisingly beautiful moment that contrasts a kind of harshness, with something that feels hushed and intimate. 

And the band does work to sustain this—pushing it further out until it swoons with a borderline psychedelic feeling, which I think heightens the stakes and the emotional gravity with how the two lines of the chorus are delivered with an urgency, or a pleading, the closer to the end of the song we’re taken. 

“Two Birds” is another song on the album where Pruzinsky provides the main vocals, with Sturman providing an additional vocal track in the moments leading up to the chorus, which does become more ethereal and creeping once it is thrown into the cacophony, with Chrisman’s low voice rumbling through.

I am always thinking about friendship.

Pruzinsky sings with precision on “Two Bids,” letting their words fall with specificity into just the right place as the rhythm slowly trudges underneath, and brings us into the middle of something that is already unfolding.

“Then she told us we’re grieving and it stays in the air,” they begin, pensively. “When we opened up an old wound when we moved out of there. We both cried through a party ‘cause we both got so scared,” they continue, creating a portrait so vivid of two people. “I need you on the last night, to write the rest of it down.”

The verse then slides effortlessly into a brief moment that continues the previous thought, and the narrative, as the noise, and intensity of the instrumentation, begin gathering. “How to amend all the cracks in the ground. Someone said we should be so proud.”

And there is some unease, admittedly, that is created by the swirling dissonance, juxtaposed against the tenderness and thoughtfulness depicted in the second verse.

“It’s a comfort. It’s a given. It’s an old brick foundation,” Pruzinsky observes, before arriving at one of the most resonant phrase turns on the album. “You’re a house I’ll come back to, with the lights all turned on. Hear the birds from a distance—like to let them sing loud.”

As Sister. does across Two Birds, the chorus is just the repetition of a specific phrase—a singular sentence that does conjure powerful, and thoughtful imagery. “Two stories,” you can hear both Sturman and Pruzinsky howling. “Two birds in the wall.”

And maybe there doesn’t need to be a resolution in a song like “Two Birds.” The instruments find the natural stopping point, with just a ripple of dissonance and guitar feedback surging underneath the delivery of the final “in the wall,” before it ends. Two Birds is not a bleak album, or a hopeless album, in terms of what it depicts. But it is not inherently hopeful either, or optimistic. In how personal it is, the album often provides insight, or observation, into intimate moments that we, perhaps, feel like we should not be allowed access to. And because it is so personal, it becomes less of a reflection on the human condition as a whole, but of these very specific feelings, or big swells of emotions, or experiences.

Maybe there doesn’t need to be resolution in a song like “Two Birds,” because there is a tenderness, and a sincerity. A closeness. There is something extraordinarily moving, and unflinchingly tender, about seeing someone as a house you’ll come back to with the lights all turned on. 

Because I am always thinking about friendship and the kind of intimacy that comes with that. Or closeness. The different ways we connect with one another and the varying levels of intensity and trust.

The ways we unfortunately can become untethered from somebody. 

I am always thinking about friendship, which means I am also often thinking about what it is like to have found myself on the receiving end of a slow fade. The correspondences that become fewer and far between until there aren’t any. Until the last time you see that person, or talk with that person does become the last time. Another story. A memory to walk through.

You grow and change over time. If there is a closeness, you often grow together. You challenge one another. Push one another in constructive ways. You work towards meeting one another, and the trick is making it, from both sides, seem effortless, even though you both understand that it isn’t. Sometimes it is too much, sometimes it is never enough. It’s tough to keep up with one another, but you continue working to find that balance. A kind of give and take. Where you are the same. How you are different. And what occurs in the space in between those things.

None of this works if you aren’t growing or changing. If there is no challenge. If you aren’t pushing one another towards anything. If you stop meeting one another where the other one is.

One of you is waiting, and the other is never going to arrive. 

None of this works if you don’t have a kind of admiration and respect for one another as people. And of course Sister., as a band, and Two Birds, as an album, are things I am drawn to for a number of reasons, but I am charmed, and fascinated, by the group’s beginnings as a friendship project, and the way that has grown, and its growth has been documented through their recorded output. 

None of this works if you are not inspiring and being inspired by the person that you are working closely with on something—anything. A creative or artistic project. I am always thinking about friendship. But I am also thinking about the way a creative friendship works. And how it can be, and often is, heightened. All of it. The intensity and closeness. The way you push or challenge. 

The way you grow and change. 

The admiration and respect. 

I am thinking about my spouse’s creative endeavors as a filmmaker, and the regular collaborators she works with, and the respect and admiration they have for one another, and the way they talk about it. Inspiring and being inspired by. You put your trust in someone, and they in you, and you both show up and push one another towards something larger.

I am thinking about the work my best friend and I have done together. The way we became better friends, and closer, through creativity. A friendship project. You push and challenge. You encourage one another’s growth.

You never stop working towards meeting the other person.

Two Birds is a bold, huge artistic statement for Sister.. It’s an album full of contrasts, and in the way the band works with those things seemingly in opposition—it is what makes it such a compelling and articulate record from start to finish. The way it plays with noise, weight, and dissonance, but never in an inaccessible way, is fascinating, and truly remarkable, and the way it uses these heavier, or darker textures as the foundation for seemingly revelatory, intimate writing is arresting in just how well it is executed throughout. 

Sometimes what we listen to does not ask much of us. Nor do we wish it to. Sometimes it does not beg to be analyzed. It is here to create a vibe and for us to exist in that moment. Sometimes what we listen to asks entirely too much of us. It can be difficult. Temperamental. It may require too much thought or analysis. 

An album like Two Birds finds that balance. Which is fitting, I suppose, given how many songs included in here are about the kind of balance and give and take between people. It wants us to think, but it doesn’t beg us to do so. But it would behoove us as listeners, analytical or otherwise, to put in the time with what it does ask. Because even well after it is over, it is the kind of album that haunts, or lingers. There are moments and melodies that are infectious, sure, but it is the kind of album that stays with you, and that you may never really stop giving consideration to.

Two Birds is out now via Mtn Laurel.