When I saw the title of Land of Talk’s new song, “Calming Night Partner,” it was on a list of other new releases from indie rock artists. And yet as I scrolled on, the phrase kept bouncing around in my head, as odd yet evocative phrases often do. “Calming night partner.” Not a boyfriend, not a girlfriend, not a husband or a wife, but a “calming night partner.” It’s a unique way of expressing the comfort and security a loved one can provide, but there’s something curiously distant about it. It sounds like a phrase used by an alien who doesn’t understand human love, or perhaps a euphemism an open-minded parent might use if their child started dating a bottle of Ambien.
It’s of a piece with the rest of the song, which forgoes easy narrative in favor of implication and metaphor. We gather that “Calming Night Partner” details the aftermath of a break-up, after the narrator’s partner has moved on to someone else; they may or may not be over it, but the narrator certainly isn’t. From there, things get more fuzzy: is her former lover still with their new amour? Are they happy there? Is her former lover there at all, or is she asking rhetorical questions to someone who has long since left her behind?
Songwriter Elizabeth Powell cleverly uses shifting tenses and pronouns to keep things unsettled. In one line, she asks “did she ever tear you right down the middle?”; the next, she asks “does she ever call you?” At the start of the song, she wants to know if it was “a calming night partner,” then if it was “a knife-fight” or “a lifetime.” It’s unclear what “it” is, or if it’s any different from “she.” At one point, she uses “we” where most songwriters would use “I” in a breakup song: “Did we do the right thing? Did we say the wrong line?” Perhaps she’s asking her former lover to shoulder their share of the blame; perhaps she still can’t separate herself from her relationship, can’t think of herself as an “I” without a “you” there with her.
Powell never ties things into a neat bow, but the lack of resolution works well for “Calming Night Partner.” It never feels too abstract, or too much like a puzzle: it’s an honest, beautiful song, rich with imagery and melody. Powell possesses a lovely voice, capable of murmuring earnest confessions or rising into a plaintive, Angel Olsen-esque vibrato. She captures the yearning spirit of someone who has experienced happiness and fears they may never reach it again: “I wanna wake with silver/I wanna wake with gold.” Most of all, she retains her tenderness, overflowing with love even now that she’s alone: “take it easy, I just wanna hold you.”
“Calming Night Partner” is ultimately a bittersweet experience. The music is always tinged with melancholy, and it has a hazy, dreamless form that suggests its narrator is lost. And yet, it swells and crests behind Powell as she sings, horns and keyboards rushing to push her high enough to reach for what she’s longing for. Maybe she’ll get it. Or maybe, as the recurring line “sweet isolation” suggests, she’ll learn how to exist as an “I” and not a “we.” Sometimes you’re the only calming night partner you need.
