Shannen Moser wants to have a conversation: with their past selves, their present self, their undesignated, unfurling future selves; with the trees that adorn their old street, and the door they used to call home; with the shadows of lovers-turned-to- friends and the overwhelming cacophony of abrupt change. They’re drawing a map but the port of call is cloudy and indistinct. It’s while traveling along these nebulous contours that their latest album The Sun Still Seems To Move forms a kind of physicality, of outstretched giving hands, that offers a guide through the fog. Here, Moser examines the disorien- tating, challenging task of trying to hold onto ourselves––and everything else––all at once. But this isn’t a fatalistic journey of melancholy or apprehension. Instead, Moser celebrates the small steps and the unwavering perseverance that makes it all worthwhile.

Moser’s previous albums Oh, My Heart (2017) and I’ll Sing (2018) were praised for their careful, intimate arrangements that showcased their sharp, interpersonal narration and time- less lush vocals. On The Sun Still Seems To Move