Breathe Owl Breathe – Passage of Pegasus (2013)

Perhaps the last time you heard from Breathe Owl Breathe, you were bemoaning the misfortune they suffered in California this summer when their van full of instruments was stolen. Now, I don’t want something like that to happen to the worst of my enemies, but, like, Breathe Owl Breathe are the last group of people I wanted something like that to happen to. The saccharine, whimsical folk trio from East Jordan, MI makes music that fans find precious; songs that feel like homemade keepsakes from someone special: singular, a little rough around the edges, maybe kitschy but all the better because of it. When I heard about Breathe Owl Breathe’s stolen vehicle, it felt like something awful happened to a friend.


Thankfully, they replaced their instruments and vehicle, just in time for the release of their sixth album Passage of Pegasus. And whereas their fifth album, Magic Central, was their quirkiest, funniest, and most lighthearted yet, Pegasus lives in a completely different, darker headspace. Breathe Owl Breathe have traded in their storybook inclinations and buoyant instruments for something more acoustic, looser, and forlorn, harkening back to earlier albums like Climb In and Canadian Shield.
“Cliff Ledge” is representative of what to listen for on the record, with lyrics like “Leaping from cliff ledge to cliff ledge/ scraping up my spirit” and “What is that circling overhead?/ They tell me that they’re talons but I’m hoping for hooves” that speak to the emotional core of the LP: downtrodden, heartbroken, but hopeful. “Hologram” is another weird standout, positively formless and ethereal in sound, with Micah Middaugh somberly talk-singing over recorders and ghostly synths.
But Breathe Owl Breathe still sound like they’re here to make you smile, and it’s the deft little touches that set these songs apart. “Ferns Move” has distant, softly-blown recorders during the first chorus that somehow completely make the song, and “Explorer” is a cheap-keyboard romp that sounds like a mix between a 16-bit video game soundtrack and a jam session in a treehouse.
The album ends with “Two Moths”, the tale of a love falling apart, asking questions that can’t be answered. Like a lot of Breathe Owl Breathe’s music, it’s all sadness with a smirk. It’s just that this time around, the smirk is more hidden than usual, and the sadness feels a lot more desperate.