French Vague composes this song around the instruments that have become central to his songwriting: guitar, resonator, octave mandolin and mandocello. But that folk personality pops out especially with the mandocello and the octave mandolin. Also, these instruments are in constant conversation with Hermann's voice. On the other hand, Producer Jacob Blizard, known for work with Lucy Dacus and Eliza McLamb, keeps his fingerprints light, adding bass, keyboards, percussion and backing vocals.
His French accent shapes the phrasing in small but noticeable ways, especially on longer vowels, and the production allows those details. It becomes part of the identity of the project. Plenty of singer-songwriters aim for polished neutrality. Hermann sounds like himself.
The sea has always been an easy metaphor for upheaval. Hermann
understands that; however, he keeps returning to it anyway because the
simplicity works. The phrases almost sound interchangeable, and that's
precisely the point. The song does not rank emotions according to their
usefulness. Joy, sorrow, desire and exhaustion all arrive from the same tide.
Eventually they leave again.
This outlook runs through every verse.
Ghosts sail through daylight hours. Night becomes somewhere to surrender
instead of somewhere to hide. Even the plea to the unnamed muse feels
levelled, spoken by someone asking for just enough strength to keep moving
instead of hoping for a miraculous getaway. There's patience in the
writing.
In the end, French Vague returns to the chorus again and
again until it settles into a simple truth. Love, grief and joy all arrive in
their own time, and none of them stay forever.