Released: June 17, 1997
Scenery and Fish doesn’t feel like a follow-up built to clarify success. It feels like a record made while momentum was already in motion, when curiosity mattered more than consolidation. The album carries a sense of outward movement—songs stretching, bending, and overlapping—without ever sounding unfocused. It isn’t restless. It’s exploratory by habit.
There’s a looseness to how the band moves through these songs, but it’s a controlled looseness. Guitars slide between grit and shimmer without announcing the shift. Rhythms settle into grooves that feel lived-in rather than locked. Nothing snaps to attention. The record breathes, and that breathing becomes part of how it stays present over time.
Tracks like “Used to Be Alright” establish that balance early. The song carries weight without heaviness, letting repetition and tone do more work than volume. It doesn’t chase catharsis. It sits inside its own motion long enough for familiarity to form. Memory attaches here through comfort rather than impact.
“One More Astronaut” leans further into that sense of drift. The pacing feels unhurried, almost conversational, with melodies that circle instead of landing hard. The song doesn’t feel like it’s trying to be expansive; it just allows space to exist around it. That allowance becomes one of the album’s defining traits.
When the record sharpens, it does so without abandoning its posture. “Over My Head” tightens the frame, bringing a more direct push without breaking the album’s flow. Even here, the energy feels guided rather than explosive. The song presses forward, but it never rushes the listener out of the larger environment the album has already established.
The title track, “Scenery and Fish,” makes that environment explicit without turning it into a statement. Its movement feels observational, almost textural, reinforcing the idea that the album is less concerned with destination than with travel. It’s not trying to summarize the record—it’s living inside it.
Throughout, vocals stay integrated rather than dominant. Lines arrive clearly, but they don’t demand interpretation. They pass through the music the same way the guitars and rhythms do, as part of the same current. The album’s emotional pull comes from accumulation, not emphasis.
Production supports that sense of flow. Instruments are layered but not crowded, allowing details to surface naturally. There’s warmth in the mix, but also air—space for parts to overlap without competing. The sound doesn’t feel polished toward perfection. It feels maintained.
What gives Scenery and Fish its staying power is how little it insists on being understood. It doesn’t frame itself as a moment or a message. It feels like a place you return to, where songs don’t announce themselves so much as resume. Each listen reinforces the same sense of motion, the same gentle resistance to being pinned down.
When the album ends, it doesn’t close a loop. It leaves you mid-stride. That unfinished feeling isn’t absence—it’s continuity. Scenery and Fish holds because it never asks for resolution, only attention long enough to let its movement register.
Written by Rob Joncas for DeadNoteMedia.
Artist information and music courtesy of the band.
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