Album Review: Lily Talmers - It Is Cyclical, Missing You

And it is cyclical, of course.

A lot of it is. Not everything. But in giving consideration, there are the patterns, or the cycles, that we, with regularity, find ourselves in. 

And they aren’t always bad—the patterns, and cycles. They aren’t always things that we need to “break,” or find our way out of. No. It can be as simple as the cyclical nature of daily minutiae. The unfolding from bed. The first sip of coffee. The small patterns we do not take for granted exactly but are so tightly woven into the fabric of days and lives that we can overlook them as we, perhaps, fall into other cycles. 

The ways we interact with others. The unsavory habits. The ways we can, or, at least if you are like me, in moments of quiet, find yourself paralyzed and spiraling internally. The weight of an indescribable sadness that it seems impossible to pull ourselves out from under. 

The dinners we prepare. The laundry we fold. The sadness we try our best to suppress or downplay in an effort to protect loved ones who worry. The inventible folding back into bed. It ends and it begins. It is cyclical, of course. A lot of it is. Not everything. But there are patterns. There are similar natures throughout our days and in our lives. 

And it is cyclical, of course. Longing. Or missing. The kind of give-and-take something like that has on you. The moments when it feels manageable. Or, at the very least, doesn’t feel bad. The moments when it feels unbearable. The pull. The tumultuous nature. The oscillation of the two extremes and whatever may ultimately form within the middle. 

The cycle ends. The cycle begins. 

*

And how do you hear about music. How do you hear about anything, really. About restaurants to try. Recipes to make. Films to watch. Books worth reading. Shops to patronize. 

How do we discover. Or find new things. How do we keep expanding. How do we have the capacity for that. Because sometimes it seems not, like, too much, but it can become exhausting—potentially feeling like you are always in search of the next new, or genuinely interesting thing to be excited about. 

How do we discover. How do we find new things. We read—if you are like me, then perhaps you too find yourselves not exactly scouring pockets of the internet, but you certainly spend a lot of time reading a handful of specific music news websites, skimming reviews, or perusing headlines with the hopes that something might speak to you. A name of an artist or a group that, for whatever reason, will draw your attention.

How do we discover. How do we find new things. We take recommendations and suggestions from others. Sometimes, it is from people we know personally. The title of a book we should read. The name of a television series that is worth making time for. A song that has found its way into the rotation. Sometimes, it is from people we don’t really know—and it unfolds similarly. A writer we admire hypes the work of a writer they admire. Or someone we trust the discerning tastes of will share through their preferred social media outlet, a song, or an album, that they appreciate. 

How do we have the capacity for that. Because it is exhausting. There is so much out there to listen to or to read or to watch or to experience. And there are, of course, things that I have certainly missed through no fault of my own other than the fact that there are simply not enough hours in the day. 

For the last few months, I have been working a job that allows me a lot of independence, and among the freedoms it offers, I am able to listen to music, or a podcast, while I work—so that time does ultimately become where I do a bulk of my passive listening, and it is where I try to listen to the things that are suggested or recommended to me. 

And perhaps like you do as well, I am of a generation, and of a disposition, that will often be distracted while doing a task, or wishes to take small breaks to do something else briefly, so I do find that there are moments where I will briefly scroll through Instagram, or Twitter, after completing on thing and moving onto another, which is how, a number of weeks ago, I came across a video of Lily Talmers.

The video, filmed with a fisheye effect, finds Talmers, alone, plucking the strings of her green electric guitar, singing the Blossom Dearie song, “Now At Last.” I was transfixed, and spent the rest of my shift listening to the first of two full-lengths that Talmers released in 2022, Hope Is The Whore I Go To.

Considerably late to the party with Hope and its companion piece, My Mortal Wound, issued roughly five months apart, discovering Talmers near the end of 2024 made me right on time for the arrival of her new LP, It Is Cyclical, Missing You—a wildly fascinating and thoughtful collection of material that, as the title implies, is a song cycle, or “concept album,” operating with a razor-sharp sense of self-referential awareness that is musically and sonically incredibly daring, and finds Talmers, as a songwriter, wading through the give and take, and often conflicted feelings that arise when you do miss someone. 

From beginning to end, It Is Cyclical, Missing You is a marvel in every sense of the word. From the razor-sharp way that Talmers has threaded the songs together through recurring themes, to the tight musicianship from the assembling of players that join her on the songs where more instrumentation is featured, to the way the album is engineered, there is an exciting, revelatory nature to it, even in its most hushed or delicate places. 

*

As one might anticipate from the title, it is an album that is intended to be listened to uninterrupted—opening and concluding with the same cavernous, distant effect put on Talmers’ voice and guitar, further developing the cyclical and very intentional nature of this collection—there are moments that, both lyrically and musically, linger well after the album is over.

Now you’re so far away

That is the first line that Talmers delivers on the album’s deliberately paced opening track, “Daylight Goes Before Me,” and she does really waste no time with uttering that lyric, letting it slowly unravel over the sound of her precise electric guitar string plucks—and both her voice, and the guitar, sound muffled, or distant at first, before very gradually, through a very impressive production technique, become more robust and present within just a few seconds. 

Something that is apparent in literally every song on It Is Cyclical, and even in the more rollicking or livelier moments when Talmers is joined by a band, is the intimacy that is woven into the fabric of the album as a whole—yes, certainly in the reflective and the often personal lyricism, but there is a figurative, aesthetic kind of intimacy as well, if that makes sense, in how this album not only sounds, but feels as it reveals itself to you. 

“Daylight,” like a number of places on the record, is a song that is assembled in such a way that you do feel like not only are you in the room with Talmers as she is singing, but you are perhaps sitting entirely too close to her, hearing the breaths taken in between each line, and the buzz, or hum, coming from her guitar’s amplifier. 

Now you’re so far away

And, perhaps, because It Is Cyclical is an album where the songs are all connected through myriad ways, I am looking at a song like “Daylight Goes Before Me” as not so much a thesis, or mission statement, but a prologue of sorts, that slowly sets the stage for what is to come, and introduces some of the ideas that Talmers will return to throughout. 

“I can hardly hear you call,” she continues, with the tight plucks of the guitar strings flittering underneath her voice, which does truly float through a wandering, loose melody and rhythm. “You’re seeming neither big nor small.” 

I am remiss to refer to It Is Cyclical, Missing You as a “breakup album.” I mean,  yes, of course, there is the end of a relationship, and all that comes with it, at the core of the album as a whole, but there is also more to it than that. Or, at least, Cyclical is much bigger than simply just one thing. But in unpacking the dissolution of this relationship, Talmers intelligently uses a non-linear approach to how the narrative unfolds within the sequence of the album.

It is one of the more spectral songs on the album, which is what makes it one of the more melancholic or pensive, but the further we wade into “Daylight,” Talmers slowly reveals more of the heartbreak that she oscillates through in this collection of songs. “You were once my sweetest friend,” she observes, her voice coasting and delicate. “I am of the blessed few to have felt so loved by you,” she continues, intentionally stretching out the syllables of her lyrics and letting them gently tumble into the atmosphere below her. “They say you can nurse yourself,” she adds, through slightly gritted teeth. “So I’ve been in the finest health.” 

Now you’re so far away

Within the final minute of “Daylight Goes Before Me,” Talmers reintroduces the very literal sensory element within the song, and how it sounds, and how that sound mirrors both the lyricism, but the intent behind those lyrics, as she alluded to within the song’s first few seconds, only here, it is much more dramatic in how it is executed. There is a quick fluttering of the guitar to indicate that the song is shifting away from where Talmers has sustained it, and within that flutter, it becomes even more distant sounding—more cavernous and buzzy, like it is coming through damaged, blown-out speakers, with the strums of the lower strings of her guitar sending surges of distortion through the fabric of the song, and her voice becoming muffled and harder to understand. 

“Now you’re so far away,” she remarks once again. “I can barely see you. I can hardly hear you call. You’re seeming neither big nor small.”

And before the song ends, somewhat abruptly, Talmers makes one final reflection within this introduction to the larger concepts that the dozen songs that follow will further develop.

I hope I loved you graciously.

*

I missed you today, ’til I remembered what I gave, and how I changed to earn your love

And it is cyclical, of course. A lot of things are. But the way we miss someone, for whatever the reason is that we are missing them, at that moment, does have this perpetual give and take that we often find ourselves in, and it is what Talmers, throughout It Is Cyclical, Missing You, is both participating in, despite her best efforts, as well as providing a kind of commentary and reflection on. 

At a glance at the title alone, a song named “I Missed You Today” seems sweet,  maybe even a love song, or a song about love. And, in a sense, it is the latter. It is a song about love, but it is certainly not a love song, which you can hear within the winking delivering of the biting opening line, as Talmers makes it clear there is little, if anything, sweet about the song.

“I missed you today,” she begins assuredly, while the rather dazzling instrumentation settles into a shuffling, folksy rhythm behind her. “’Til I remembered what I gave,” she continues, shifting her tone slightly. “And how I changed to earn your love.”

There is a dynamism that Talmers possess in her songwriting—it’s something that I noted in the not extreme differences, but differences regardless, in tone, or aesthetic between Hope Is The Whore I Go To, and its companion piece, My Mortal Wound—the latter of which, and perhaps I am generalizing here, finds her working from within much more acoustic, sparse arranging, while the former is punctuated by a lot more instrumentation. 

There is a vibrant, freewheeling, emergent nature that courses through moments on Hope—particularly because of the instrumentation and arranging used, which not only leans into Talmer’s Greek heritage, but also Greek folk music, which she effortlessly merges with Western folk, or a rootsy Americana kind of sound—the convergence of these two influences results in something that is staggering in how unique and refreshing it is to hear. 

I tell you all of that to tell you this—spread out across two full-length albums, Talmers could take her time, or spend as long as she wished to working from within this more rollicking, livelier sound, and something turned much more inward. There is this sense of urgency, though, that does ripple through It Is Cyclical—the fact that the songs were all recorded live in one continuous take certainly adds to this feeling, but it is also in how Talmers strikes a natural balance for herself between her two influences, with the album gaining momentum quickly, and continuing to propel itself forward with enthusiasm until it natural winds itself down to its nearly whispered conclusion. 

That momentum begins to build after the album’s opening track, but Talmers’ inclusion of Greek instrumentation is introduced in both the slinking “I Missed You Today,” and the track that immediately follows, the jaunty, writhing “Cyclical Missing You.”

I am remiss to describe the feeling of “I Missed You Today” as menacing, because it isn’t really. But there is something dark that lurks in it at times—perhaps it is in the low rumbling of the cello, which is then offset, slightly, by the sense of whimsy from the melody of the woodwinds, and the very raw, rootsy, folksy way that Talmers’ delivers some of her lyrics the further into the song’s twangy shuffle we are pulled, and just a kind of dissonant edge that the whole thing skitters across the surface of, as Talmers unpacks the internal conflict one faces when they miss someone.

Missing someone is one thing. What you do with that feeling when it hits is another.

“I missed you today ’til I remember what I gave,” Talmers sings. “And how I changed to earn your love—how come I did that for so long,” she asks. “I was wrong, but you were even wronger. Still,” she continues. “I would have loved longer if you’d just me.”

That kind of oscillation between the tenderness that comes from missing someone, and then the realization of why they are no longer in your life, in the first place, continues to ripple as the song keeps shuffling itself forward. “I had promised to be kinder, then I was not,” Talmers admits, before coming to the realization she needs. “Read my lips—you don’t miss anyone at all.”

*

And it is astounding, honestly, to take just even the smallest step back from It Is Cyclical, and understand the kind of level that it is operating on, and the intentionality it has in how it has been meticulously assembled, and the self-aware, or self-referential nods and winks that Talmers has deliberately placed.

It is not the anthesis of “I Missed You Today,” but sequenced immediately after is, I suppose, the feeling of the pendulum beginning to swing the other way, both musically and in its lyricism, the rollicking and explosive “Cyclical Missing You,” which begins in a hush before its momentum gathers and tumbles forward in a jubilant kind of rush.

“Love is a circle,” Talmers exclaims as “Cyclical Missing You” just begins to collect itself and find the propulsive nature that it does eventually reach which carries it breathlessly to its conclusion. Less stark, and folksy, in comparison in both its arranging and the way the vocals are delivered, there is a very grand, sweeping nature to the song that is impressive for as little instrumentation is involved here—the careful strums of the acoustic guitar are accompanied by not only the cello, and wind instruments, but she’s joined here by hand-played percussive elements, and the bouzouki, a Greek folk instrument, similar to a mandolin in sound (also appearing within the fabric of “I Missed You Today”); here, it is played with a speed that does really provide the assist to make “Cyclical”’s pacing not only brisk and swooning, but also one that feels quite dazzling and triumphant. 

“Cyclical Missing You,” in how it is arranged lyrically, unfurls with immediacy, but it stops short of being a stream-of-consciousness kind of thing, because it is much more deliberate in where the words fall, and what is specifically being emphasized—but there is a quickness to how Talmers sings, and does not spend a lot of time ruminating on one thought before she is already onto the next one, which does make it a song that requires focus, and does ask for you to revisit to ensure that you’ve absorbed all of its intricacies and intention.

And there are of course the more apparent elements within the world of It Is Cyclical, Missing You, that are connected—song titles, for example, or specific phrases that recur, but there are other, and often more subtle expressions and ideas that appear throughout. Here, in the swirl of “Cyclical Missing You,” she perhaps rhetorically asks, “Are things as good as they’re going to get,” and in the bluesy, rootsy stomp “The Big Idea,” which arrives next in the album’s sequencing, over the buzzy, resonant plucks of the electric guitar and the thudding of the bass drum, she doesn’t exactly answer that question but does address it by slowly singing, “Nothing’s really bad, brother. Nothing’s really that good either—it’s all in your attitude.”

*

And it is, of course, difficult not to do, regardless of how much we may wish to actually do it, or not. But we, or at least I, make, or draw, comparisons. To use one thing as a point of reference when speaking about another. And I wish to be careful when I do this, or have done this, in the past—specifically in music analysis and writing. Because I do not wish for it to come off as dismissive. That is never my intention. 

And I mention this because for as unique or wholly original as Talmers is, as a songwriter and performer, and for as enthralling and thoughtful as It Is Cyclical, Missing You ultimately is, there are moments—just a few, but moments, regardless, where Talmers leans into a sound that is perhaps best described in reference to other artists. 

It is the final song that, at least in title, is connected to the larger theme that weaves the album together, but “Circular Feeling,” arriving at the halfway point of the record, set to a trading beat that does eventually find its footing to become quite cathartic in the way it snarls, and howls, is, at least at first listen, similar to both the early era of Jason Molina’s electrified country-western tinged collective, The Magnolia Electric Company, as well as the brooding, often complex indie-rock of Ella Williams’ celebrated project Squirrel Flower.

And sometimes, it is in the silence that hangs between notes. A silence that, in the hands of certain artists, is played, or at least used within the context of the song, like an instrument. It is the space that forms, just for an instant, from when the sound ends, to when another one arrives. And there is a very deliberate use of pause, and of silence, or space, as “Circular Feeling” starts—and even when Talmers’ guitar is introduced into the atmosphere, the percussion remains steady, in terms of following the dirge. The dull thud of the bass drum. The silence. The ruffle and ping of the snare. The space. The bass drum again.

Within the intentionally slower pacing that the song lurches itself forward with, Talmers, in turn, takes her time with the introduction of other elements within “Circular Feeling,” like the singular, throbbing bass notes that surge and flick through that space in between the rhythm, the melancholic twang of the song’s secondary guitar that comes wandering in closer to the first chorus, and then the distended, crunchy ferocity of Talmers’ electric guitar, which rings out loudly—a little less twangy than its counterpart, and much more downcast in its tone. 

The further into the song we wander, the more raucous it becomes—inherently the most raucous or caterwauling on It Is Circular, there is, of course, less space hanging in the rhythm, and the drumming becomes much more intense, and bashed-out, as the guitars grow louder, and more than that, Talmers’ lets her voice loose in a way she does not really do elsewhere on the record, pushing it into a place where it, in crashing head first into the distortion and volume of the guitars, briefly creates a moment where the meters certainly clip, and there is a crackle within the tumultuous fabric of the song. In this very small imperfection, though, it does what Talmers really strives to do with all of her material—and certainly, with the songs on It Is Circular, which is to create something that is, from beginning to end, very human and very honest in what it reflects.

There are certainly any number of influences, or inspirations, that Talmers can draw from to create her sound—the inclusion of Greek folk instruments does give her work, and specifically this album, qualities that make it stand out when compared to other artists currently operating from within the kind of “sad indie folk” landscape. But there is, of course, the inescapable “sad indie folk” leanings It Is Circular does fall into at times, as Talmers works to walk that line between the more robust and culturally informed sound, and an inward, spectral nature. And perhaps built into folk music, or at least more contemporary folk music, is the penchant for twang—a slight embrace of a country and western sound. 

The drawl that lazily is pulled through “Circular Feeling” is also present in “Man of Stone.”

And of course, as the album continues, Talmers does return to the twang—she approaches it playfully, later on, in the shuffling and winking “Everything’s A Blessing,” but in the smoldering “Man of Stone,” there is a pleading, and mournful nature to how the song unfolds.

Once again, I find myself thinking about the idea of the “neon moon.”

And over time, the more I write about music, and the more I think about music and listen to it analytically, I do find, and I am, really, unable to avoid it, myself returning to certain potentially confusing, or complicated means of describing something. I romanticize nearly everything in my life, so why wouldn’t I, in writing about what a song is about, or what it sounds like, go out of my way to create a kind of lofty means of articulation.

There is, of course, the song, popularized by the country and western duo Brooks and Dunn, from their 1991 full-length, Brand New Man. The song itself being about a kind of horrible loneliness, and longing, setting it against the vivid backdrop of a honky tonk, where the patrons, as they stumble through the darkness, attempt to find a connection as they are illuminated partially by the warmth of the neon lights from the various signs hung on the walls around them.

And I often think of this idea—the “neon moon,” when I hear a song that is both melancholic and twangy. 

There is, of course, a welcoming kind of warmth that embraces almost immediately as “Man of Stone” slowly begins. The song’s pacing is a sleepy kind of shuffle—the brushed snare drum hits and strumming of the acoustic guitar keep the rhythm moving forward, yes, but it is the soothing and somber quivers of the electric piano that ripple throughout the atmosphere that are both subtle within the mix, but also make it so inviting, and genuinely interesting to listen to. This all is then accompanied by the clean tone, mournful plucks of an electric guitar, punctuating with a truly bluesy, twangy flourish, and the rising emotional urgency in Talmers’ voice.

And there are, of course, a number of impressive, or memorable phrase turns throughout It Is Cyclical, Missing You, but there is a moment, early on, where there is a bleakness within Talmers’ lyricism that did, upon initial listen, take me by surprise before it resonated deeply.

“I have never wanted in my life,” she begins, less than a minute into the song. “So badly to throw in the towel if the laundromat could wring it dry,” she continues, through seemingly gritted teeth. “There’s a speck of dust now in my eye.”

Tonally, given the slow, sorrowful nature of “Man of Stone,” within the larger context of the album’s themes of missing someone, and what that then means for you at that moment, this is one of those places where the missing is less of a relief, and much more of one that causes a pang of longing for what was, and is simply no longer. “I cannot make you believe me,” Talmers sings, her voice alternating between an inward dejected tone, and allowing it to rise with a startling brittleness. “So I’ll just say that I am going to miss you.”

*

There are reprieves to be found throughout It Is Cyclical’s conceit—and that is one of the impressive and admirable things about Talmers, both in her previous full-lengths, and certainly here. The awareness that she has in terms of finding the balance in tone, musically, at least, and knowing when to create a moment that is perhaps a little lighter, or the case of “Everything Is A Blessing,” which arrives within the final third of the album, is much more playful, or even whimsical, comparatively.

“Everything’s A Blessing,” in its slinky, playful nature, also is another place on the record where there is a twangy, country and western adjacent to how it sounds, thanks to the shuffling percussive elements that create a kind of rhythm that, even in the slight reserve the song operates from, it becomes very easy to bop your shoulders around while listening, once the song finds just a little more footing once the other elements collect themselves.

There is of course humor throughout It Is Cyclical—small moments where Talmers breaks the tension, or places where her observations are not as personal, or not is stark. And in operating with the kind of intelligence that she is, as a songwriter, in a song like “Everything’s A Blessing,” she is able to dress up, or distract slightly, from the darker nature of the lyrics through the playful, coy nature of the song’s bouncing rhythm and infectious melody that takes shape as she repeats the titular phrase within the chorus.

And so it does take a few times through for the starker portions of Talmers’ narrative to reveal themselves. “When you got a lot of things caving in on you,” she proclaims very early in the song. “You lose sight of what’s at stake.”

Then, later, as she gently guides the song into its chorus, another turn of phrase that is arresting in just how human and poignant it is. “Something’s gotta give if I’m gonna keep living. Something’s gotta make sense—keep on moving. Standing at my doorstep, smiling bright,” she continues, before landing on a kind of resolution of sorts that can, in a sense, be loosely tied back to some of the more existential, but rhetorically asked questions, or statements made, earlier in the album. “Everything’s a blessing—I’m alright.”

And, even within the more playful, or looser structure, musically and, sure, lyrically, in “Everything’s A Blessing,” Talmers does still find a way to connect it, even slightly, back to the larger notions of the album as a whole.

“Something’s gotta give if I’m gonna keep living,” she sings again in the second chorus. “When you finally leave me, please come visit.”

*

It Is Cyclical, Missing You is intended to be listened to as a whole—uninterrupted, if you are able. Songs are not connected, exactly, as one concludes and the next begins, but there are little moments where one overlaps slightly, often in a charming way, with another. With the album assembled this way, it does add to the kind of breathless, emergent nature of the album, and everything that it holds within.

Cyclical is, of course, intended to be listened to as a whole, but as is the case when you are sitting down with an album, and spending so much time in it, there are certain songs, or moments, that you feel more drawn to, or connected to, for whatever reason. 

If “Daylight Goes Before Me” does serve as a prologue, setting the stage for the ideas that will be further developed the longer we spend within the world created in the record, the album’s second track, the stirring and swirling “Beautiful Place” eases us into that world and begins to delicately parse through some of those themes, and in doing so, offers more space and focus for them.

“Daylight Goes Before Me,” in serving as an introduction, is not bleak, really, but there there is certainly a sparse, or spectral nature to how it unfolds on the acoustic guitar with Talmers’ voice floating through it. In a slight contrast, then, “Beautiful Place,” almost from the very moment it begins, offers a small sliver of hope, simply in terms of the feeling it conveys while it stirs and the momentum slowly gathers.

“Beautiful Place,” like so many of the songs on Cyclical, has no time to waste, with Talmers beginning to sing within the first five seconds of the song, after a short introduction, lightly strummed and flicked on the acoustic guitar. And it, like its predecessor, is one of the more skeletally arranged songs on the album, but there is a lightness to how it moves, or a fluidity, if that makes sense. Without a lot of additional instrumentation, the song’s rhythm kind of hinges on the strums of the guitar, yes, and also the eerie, cavernous, but ultimately quite powerful and moving bowing of the to keep it moving forward, and it does so with such a sweeping, grand kind of beauty, feeling almost, in the big, swaying, back and forth, like a waltz.

Structurally, “Beautiful Place” begins in a hush, with Talmers playing less of a role of a “band leader” on this song because there are so few other instruments accompanying her—the only other instrument featured is the bouzouki, playing dexterously over the top of the big, swooning strums of the acoustic guitar, and the oscillation of the cello. But, even with only a few other elements to guide, she does usher them along, and there is a kind of intimacy in how, they rise and fall in intensity, alongside her—specifically the timbre of her voice, and here, Talmers is given the opportunity to show the kind of range, and depth that she has a vocalist. Beginning from somewhere fragile, she pushes it further and further out—not to a place of dissonance exactly, but the more impassioned she becomes, her voice grows in volume, and there is like this calculated edge, or harshness that is impressive in her ability to control it. 

And if there is a sense of hope, or an optimism of some kind, in the overall feeling of “Beautiful Place,” it is also present, as it is able to be, in the writing—which is among the album’s finest in terms of evocative, beautiful, and poignant phrase turns. There is a pleading, or a want, within the song’s opening—not urgent, but delicate. “I wanna live in a beautiful place where the grass is as green as the smile that’s spread ‘cross your face,” Talmers sings in the opening line.

Later, that want is still present, though it becomes much more self-effacing, which is what makes this song as impactful as it is. “I wanna give you what I never had,” she continues. “But my memory deceives me, so all of my gifts turn out bad—no, they’re never as good as I’d hoped. And so I wind up asking forgiveness.”

And because of the ever-forward-moving momentum of “Beautiful Place,” the song is assembled so that it glides effortlessly and breathlessly from the verse into the brief, stirring chorus. Partially connecting to the line prior, Talmers adds, “Confessing that most days, I wanna be as small as an apple seed, wide as a memory, drawing in nearer to thee. Where you lead,” she exclaims as the music begins to ascend. “I will follow you.”

And I often write about the difference between love songs, and “songs about love,” because there are, of course, the places where those things do intersect, but there are the places where they are dissimilar. And for the way that It Is Cyclical moves through the different stages, or ways, one can miss another, I would argue that a song like “Beautiful Placer” is a song about love, and one of the more inherently tender moments on the album, the further along it goes, and because of the way Talmers uses a kind of dark, though well-tended kind of humor, and a hyper poetic literacy to write about affection—and more than that, how it feels to be filled with that kind of affection towards another.

“To every sunset, I whisper ‘I love you,’” she continues in the second verse. “You are the last one of your kind that I will ever see. In this dream, you’re a leaf, and my dear, I’m the scientist studying cycles and trees and since I want to give you all that I ever had, I will toughen you up, and I’ll watch as you fall to your death. I’ll visit as you decompose,” she confesses, still breathlessly pulling us through this vivid narrative. “And you’ll teach me of new life, and new breath..”

And it is fitting, then, I think, that the other moment on It Is Cyclical, Missing You, that I would call its finest, “Wounded Creature, Reaching,” which is tucked in near the conclusion, is another place where Talmers uses a kind of ambiguous, or fragmented poetic style of writing—enough of a narrative, or structure, that we, as listeners, understand what it is about, but there is something vague, or shadowy, in how it moves and what it wishes to reveal about itself, and the characters involved.

Musically, “Wounded Creature” works from within a space that is firmly rooted in a folksier sound, which teeters, the further along we’re taken into a place of slight whimsy, thanks to the inclusion of the wind instruments within the arranging. Or, if not whimsical, they at least offer a little lightness and certainly a feeling of warmth when they arrive as a means of punctuating the chorus. The song, as a whole, kind of bops along rhythmically, and settles into a surprising and relaxed groove through the pluck and strum of the acoustic guitar, backed by the intricate pattern of percussion that creates a slow, tumbling effect, and then later on, within the second verse, jazzy flourishes of the piano, and a thick, bouncing bass line.

And it is cyclical, of course.

A lot of it is. Not everything. But in giving consideration, there are the patterns, or cycles, that we, with regularity, find ourselves in. 

And because of the back and forth, and the ruminative nature of missing someone, and all that it can mean, the way It Is Cyclical, Missing You’s narrative unfolds is not linear. And, I mean, there is no way for it to be. Not really. But, within the way the album is structured, as we near the end, if anything, “Wounded Creature, Reaching” doesn’t offer us, as listeners, a moment of resolution between Talmers, as the protagonist, and the off-stage character that she has been addressing.

Because there is no resolution, really. Because of the cyclical nature of things. These patterns. Specifically when it comes to missing someone. The give and take. The moments when it does feel manageable. Or, at the very least, doesn’t feel so bad. The moments when it feels unbearable. The pull. The tumultuous nature. 

If anything, there is a reluctant acceptance that Talmers arrives in, within the observations made during “Wounded Creature, Reaching”—something that she sings of slowly, her truly unique voice and range, singing slowly and with intention, allowing the notes to rise and soar, and then descend.

The imagery Talmers uses is startling in how vivid and poetic it is, specifically in the song’s sprawling verses. “In the comfort of the muse’s wing, a mother’s child means everything,” she exclaims early on in the song. “The wound is licked and sterilized; the doctor goes home for the night. He comes to call in loneliness. ‘I’ll fix you up,’ he promises,” she continues, before adding. “But he’s human, like the one who left me in this state.”

The resignation that Talmers arrives at slowly reveals itself elsewhere in the song, as it continues to swirl. “I report now beyond all remorse,” she begins in the second verse. “That heavy, creaking wooden door is closed until it’s open—I am bored, so I let you in, but you mean something different now,” she confesses. “It’s foreign to me, mortal even, heavy focus leaning beaming onto how life’s been without you in it.”

And it is a question that the song, then, I think indirectly, asks us to give consideration to, within the chorus. 

What is love. Or, rather, how do we treat love. 

Or, rather, how do we believe ourselves to be treating love, and how does that differ from our actions.

There is an exasperation—albeit a subtle one, maybe, within the way Talmers delivers the poignant lines within the chorus. “You know I know you never meant to hurt me,” she sings, twice, turning it into an incantation of sorts. “And I know you know that love is not a word,” Talmers continues. “It’s a bird. It’s a wounded creature reaching. It’s a universe.”

What is love. Or, rather, how do we treat it. Do we treat it as something fragile, or small.

Something more than just a word to say, but something to mean.

Something bigger than itself.

“There is no sand, there is no beach,” Talmers observes in the final lines of the song. “The pavement is not listening. Your meaning is beyond my reach. We’ll call it well now, each to each.”

What is love. Or how do we treat it. And how is it cyclical. A lot of it is. Not everything. 

There is a sorrow in those final lines of the song—a difficult understanding, but something to be understood, regardless.

*

Now you’re so far away

And there is a razor-sharp intelligence that never ceases on It Is Cyclical, Missing You—I mean, there has to be for it to operate in the way it does, and to operate, in that way, as well as it does. I am remiss to refer to it as “self-aware,” because that implies a kind of winking breaking of the fourth wall that I do not believe Talmers wishes to do, but rather, it is aware of itself—it knows what to say, and how it needs to say it, and the work of shuffling back and forth within the cyclical nature that is required to tell this story.

And as it begins with “Daylight Goes Before Me,” where different production effects and techniques make Talmers sound far away, as she utters the line, “Now you’re so far away,” she returns to that same manipulation in sound on the album’s closing track, “Nothing is Spiritual, John,” which, in title alone, and certainly, given the level this album is working from, it isn’t coincidental that is is an antithesis of sorts to “Everything’s A Blessing.” 

Within the structure of It Is Cyclical, and with what Talmers, lyrically, moves through with a dazzling kind of humility and grace, “Nothing is Spiritual,” it is a kind of bookend to the album, or an epilogue—not even a final gasp or exhalation, but a recapitulation that skates quickly through the themes, one more time, before arriving, almost abruptly, at the end.

It is similar, too, in the amount of instrumentation used—opening with a gorgeous string arrangement that slowly, over the first thirty seconds or so, fades into more clarity. Beginning in the same kind of muffled, distant, and even tinny-sounding place that the album started from, the sound becomes more robust, as if we, as listeners, are walking through a large space trying to find where the music we are faintly making out is originating from.

Talmers, and her electric guitar, quivering intentionally through a tremolo pedal, then arrive, and carry us through to the end, with the strings reappearing later on to offer an underscore of sweeping theatricality.

“I don’t believe that shit no more,” Talmers exclaims. “I’m onto something better. She is running up that hill to find the past—it will not let her go. I know I have messed up, my love,” she continues, her voice naturally rising and falling, carrying along the loose melody. “I know I have messed up. Forgive me, darling, we can patch it up.”

And there is no resolution. Not really. Because of the cyclical nature of the album, and the idea that holds it together—the end of something, of missing someone, and the different things it could mean and how the meaning, or the intention, can shift to the opposite extreme at any moment.

“I don’t believe you when you say that you don’t want to speak to me,” Talmers confesses, as the song continues. “I know it’s just a symptom of a gruesome type of flowing love which binds us all together. Knowing that I am enmeshed, I’ll tell you that the game is over now. It’s been so good to know you.”

Echoing some of the sentiments that presented themselves in “Wounded Creature,” Talmers explains, “Now I envision life without you in it, knowing things will change,” then adds, “I will learn to love again—it’s just that no one sounds the same as you do so in pouring rain, I picture that forgiveness scene so many movies end with.”

And there is no resolution. Not really. And maybe not even acceptance. There is reluctance, and a heavy resignation as “Nothing is Spiritual, John,” quickly ends, the strings swelling alongside Talmers’ voice, and the wavering, warm tone of her guitar, then all of it suddenly pulling away again back into the muffled, hollow, distant sound while she delivers the final line.

“I don’t believe that shit no more,” Talmers concede. “A body’s just a body—it’s material responding to a set of circumstances. I will not admit I love you anymore, for you’re just a memory now. Instead,” she concludes. “I’ll take my place back at the wheel, and at the plow.”

And it is cyclical, of course.

A lot of it is. Not everything. But in giving consideration, there are the patterns and cycles that we, with regularity, will find ourselves in.

It is cyclical. Longing. Or missing someone. The kind of give-and-take something like that has on you. The moments when it feels manageable or, at the very least, it doesn’t feel bad. The moments when it feels unbearable. The pull and the tumultuous nature. 

The oscillation of the two extremes and whatever may ultimately form within the middle.

The cycle ends. The cycle begins.

And to say that It Is Cyclical, Missing You, is an enormous, highly intelligent, artistic statement is drastically underselling it. It is a bold, fearless album, that even in the towering places it soars to, never loses the warmth and intimacy that Lily Talmers has as a singer, songwriter, and as a band leader. And even with the kind of thought put into an album that is as ambitious as it is, the album never loses its accessibility and its charm, or risks collapsing under its own weight.

Talmers shows, across this collection of songs, that she is a wholly original talent that not only asks that we show her the attention she deserves, but demands it, and with It Is Cyclical, she has created an achievement that is fascinating, dynamic, and absolutely stunning from beginning to end.

The cycle ends. The cycle begins. And it is the kind of record that asks us to continue giving it consideration long after the final note has evaporated into the ether. 

It Is Cyclical, Missing You will be self released on January 30th.