“Are We Running Out Of Time?” explores the realisation that the people closest to us won’t be around forever. What brought this idea into focus for you, and when did you realise it was something you wanted to explore through music?
I confess my biggest enemy is how cleverly I convince myself not to face my demons. I’ve been working on that. But like many songs I write, it was less that the thought came into focus and more that it busted down the door and barged in. Dad and I had to cut a trip short because he wasn’t feeling well just before I started writing this song. That pushed me to confront these pacified worries. It’s one of life’s greatest hurdles: people die. Some doors close forever. Can you ever say you’ve done enough in the meantime? I could have been a better son. It’s a worry that never leaves. That’s what the song is about, in few words. The good news is, that door is still open, and all that matters is what we do while it’s still open.
You wrote the song with your father in mind. Did writing about your relationship with him reveal anything about yourself that you hadn’t fully considered before?
We both still get quite emotional whenever we play that song. On my end, I realised that simply acknowledging and, in fact, accepting the fact that we can’t have anything forever is what puts us in the position to fully appreciate what we have while it’s here. I suppose it sounds obvious, and I always knew that was the case, but this song forced me to look it in the eye. Now I get it, if that makes sense, and that makes it so much easier to be there, consciously, with less panic, and more gratitude.
The line “Every time I see your face, I am staring back at mine” connects the relationship between father and son with identity. What does that line mean to you personally?
I suppose it’s quite literal, honestly. In a moment of openness and confession, I addressed to dad my own harshness at him, saying: “I punish you for all the ways in which we are weak alike.” When I stepped back to take a broader look, I realised we are much the same, yes in our dysfunctions, but also in so many beautiful aspects of ours. I find myself following in his footsteps and reaching from atop his shoulders, so to speak, more and more as I grow.
The song finds meaning in ordinary moments, like counting trees while travelling together. Why did you choose to build the story around these small details rather than a specific event or major turning point?
Time doesn’t announce its own passage. Our lives are much more made up of the repetitive, small moments that etch themselves into our growth rather than some big thing. You just look at old photo books and realise the hair wasn’t always white, and you weren’t always too heavy to hold up. It’s a grand thing, because its magnitude is cumulative and unstopping.
The arrangement moves between fragile, intimate passages and expansive full-band crescendos. How did you approach translating the emotions behind the lyrics into the dynamics of the music?
Most of what I do is predominantly intuitive. I can’t say that I orchestrated the song’s arrangement carefully with the final thing in mind. It’s more like, I saw where the sounds and emotions took me. The stages of loss must’ve had some say in how the song pans out. Even though it doesn’t speak about loss, it speaks about the fear of it. So I guess I can feel it swell along with the process of finally coming to terms with something like that. Ultimately, I do throw a lot of ideas in the mix and hit “mute” on anything I don’t absolutely need. The good ideas are the ones that are left when you trim out all the fluff.
The track repeatedly builds in intensity before pulling back into moments of near-silence. What drew you to that push and pull, and how did you decide when the music needed to hold back?
I had a teacher that said “If you want someone to listen, don’t be louder, be quiet.” It’s easy to fall back on the music without really paying attention. The silent parts happen when my own moments of lucidity do. Suddenly, for just a moment, it’s just you and the question. Before you can fall back into the music, you have to (I have to) face something deeper. The song is a vessel too, after all.
The question at the centre of the song remains unanswered. Was it difficult to sit with that uncertainty while writing it, or did leaving the question open feel like the most honest way to tell the story?
I think my own discomfort was amplified by avoiding the question in the first place. The question in itself doe not have an answer than can be known, nor one that matters, in my opinion. I am happy to live with that question because having posed it now makes me see myself more clearly. To wonder if the time we have is not enough suggests that maybe we’re not all that happy with how we’ve been spending it. To finally ask it aloud is to realize we want change. If the story is one of recognition, then the only question requiring an answer is: “Do you see it now?”
Has making this song changed how you think about your own relationship with time, or how you spend it with the people who matter most to you?
I used to wake up in cold sweats in the middle of the night with “Is it too late?” in the center of my mind. I spent all my early and mid twenties like that. I felt older than I was, like I was wasting my life away, as an artist, as a friend, as a son. Especially when I started noticing my parents are, in fact, older now, among my greatest fears has been to lose them while I’m still so young. My answer is my answer to living, really: The most important things live on the opposite shores of fear. The more I ran from my dissatisfaction with my life and my role in it, the less I put myself in the position to be accountable for changing. Technically, nothing changes I suppose, but when I stopped giving excuses, when I accepted that I’m not where and who I want to be, I stopped feeling like I was wasting time. This song is as much a byproduct as it is part of the fuel of this thinking. Being genuinely present begins with being present with yourself, I’ve learned.
The final crescendo feels less like defeating time and more like choosing to be present for someone. Was that sense of commitment always at the heart of the song, or did it emerge as the track took shape?
Any time I thought of time as an opponent, the possibility of defeating it was not one I considered. The song followed a genuine question. While writing, that commitment came by quite naturally because it was my own answer I ended up getting. Time is passing, that’s its thing. In the meantime, we are here, so why not try and get good at being here?
Looking ahead, what are you finding yourself drawn to creatively at the moment, and is there anything you’re exploring in your next music that feels like a departure from “Are We Running Out Of Time?”
I’ve been working on my first full length album this year! Though the songs are not out yet, the funny part is that I wrote them before “Cold Fingers”, “Talisman”, and “Are We Running Out Of Time?”. We just finished mixing so I’m happy to start looking at playing live. In the meantime, I’ve got a little bit of precious downtime, which I’m using to do some sewing and a lot of cooking, and an even lot-er of eating.
