The other day, a photograph fell into my Instagram feed and it depicted what looked to be a basement scene and the caption was something along the lines of, “Spontaneous Sunday.” It showed some dudes at card tables, drinking beers and maybe playing cards. It was impromptu and that’s all it took for it to feel good. It was a pleasant unraveling of an afternoon, into something that turned out better than could have been imagined at the breakfast table. Most of the time, our days unravel in a different way. It happens when days collide and work in conjunction with others, bleeding their problems from one to the other and so on down the line. They are manageable when they break down and decompose slowly, with a pace about them.

These are the kinds of settings that Bellingham, Washington singer-songwriter Sarazin Blake writes about. They aren’t the ones that come on quickly, but those that build the residue up in measured amounts. These are the humid of wet conditions that, over time, swell the wooden doors and cabinets so that they don’t close right any longer, or for a temporary period of time. He takes us into these heavily considered and wordy worlds where everything is playing out in front of us. We are dropped off at the start of a conversation and we are taken through all of it, piece by piece, until we get to something that resembles the end, a page turn or a polite push out the door and into the night for the drive home. He keeps little to himself in his songs, are one can plainly hear in “Planned Parenthood Waiting Room,” where he takes us through an in-depth experience. His characters’ troubles are rambles. They shift and change. They cause much consternation, but even after they do, they seem to leave much still unsettled. Blake sings about love in a way that can’t help but sadden you. For instance, from “Up In Your Attic Room”:

“I remember holding you I remember you dancing As I strummed your souvenir guitar Creeping out of your dress I was burning with desire In your kitchen it was August We were cleaning up from breakfast And I was lingering I believe you started to sing and it was good For a minute, our love was understood And all you could sing was beautifully And I wanted to hear Billie Holiday The last time I saw you You hadn’t grown much older But your eyes were distant It was in June You were singing a Broadway tune And you didn’t know the words So you scattered like the birds Yes, you always seemed to be singing Like Ella Fitzgerald and you weren’t half bad Tucked under my arm you turned into a hand Around my waist But I wanted to hear Billie Holiday.”