Recently, I’ve been hyperfixating on music that reminds me of the chill in the air, music that grips your soul, music like Noah Kahan’s most recent album “Stick Season.”

I love when the leaves from the trees coat the sidewalk. Like an intricate quilt, they paint the ground in hues of yellows and reds and browns as I hike my way to class. As of late, there’s been an AirPod in my left ear and Spotify open on my phone as I make the trek from my dorm to Strickland Hall.

I was first introduced to this marvel of an album on TikTok. Kahan first gave fans a taste for his most recent project through short clips of his song “Stick Season.” In response, I spent my summer threatening to blow my speakers as the warm air caressed my face and I belted the chorus of this emotional ode.

Despite this being his third album, there’s an air of freshness and newfound creativity in his most recent release. Kahan released this 14-track masterpiece Oct. 14 — making it even more perfect as temperatures continue to drop and November takes over the weather.

The song begins and the listener is immediately bombarded with lyrics delivered so fast that one can only initially digest the surface-level meaning. As you listen deeper, you’ll begin to drown in the complexities of how Kahan feels toward Vermont; there’s an overall distaste for the traditionalism of his hometown but an acceptance that he’s tethered to the house he grew up in, accepting what could’ve been.

Something I tend to look for in a musical artist is their ability to storytell through their lyrics, the overall tone of the melodies and the concept of their work. This is a skill that Kahan has masterfully presented in this album.

The sixth track,“New Perspective,” follows an interesting storyline: two opposing perspectives of the town Kahan grew up in, fighting over whether to stay or leave, comparing the modernization that’s been happening since the second party has left.

Kahan sings my favorite lyric on the album in “New Perspective” — “Paper bags drift wherever the wind blows / and mine’s full of receipts.” Maybe it’s because I’m imagining it’s a nod to pop icon Katy Perry and her song “Firework,” or maybe it’s because I enjoy its simplicity.

The intensity in which he sings, “Oh, I sang / Retrograde; we’d shake the frame of your car / Now I know your name / but not who you are ” combined with the lyric genius rattles around in my brain.

It’s a song about not harboring resentment for the people who have gotten to leave Vermont— loving them despite the fact that they’ve escaped the nostalgia that chokes them. My favorite place to listen to it is in my car with the windows down so I can blame the breeze for the goosebumps that coat my arms.

This album, at its very core, bothered me in the most wonderful of ways, forcing me to analyze a small town in a state I’ve never visited. The sage green energy of this album swaddles me in a lifetime of stories, subplots and young love as I struggle to get my faulty aux cord to work with my phone.

Edited by Lucy Valeski | lvaleski@themaneater.com
Copy edited by Kyla Pehr and Jacob