This is a new song from Allan Jamisen, which is somewhere soft and true, like a hand laying gently on your shoulder. He lives in Phoenix and is a musician and painter, and that painter’s eye is apparent in the tender way in which this track is constructed. All sounds are well considered.
The guitar and synth glide in like early morning light going through a window. Then comes the bass, warm as a brand-new cigarette, and the vocals join the song. You’re immediately welcomed into a private sphere, not a show, but a sphere that’s shared with you, in private. What Jamisen sings about is home and not being able to feel at home. That soft, tenuous pain is a familiar one to anyone who has been away for awhile and then come back. The roads seem like they’re the same, but there’s more than a change in the road itself, there’s something different in you, too.
There’s a saxophone drifting in at the middle, giving the whole track a golden tone. It imparts a quiet, late-night atmosphere to the song, as if you were sitting alone in some quiet place, thinking of things. The piano maintains its softness under the voices, always supporting, only carrying everything lightly. Never attempts to put the mess of home in order. It simply lies in that in between space, uncertain, but not heavy, more tender than sad. It’s such a beautiful thing to be honest.
The song is filled with a lot of music, from childhood choir days in Los Angeles to playing in bands, and years spent in Denmark, and Jamisen is never explicit about it, but you can feel it all in the song. It brings with it that history, so silent, so quiet, so patient. At the end, the harmony envelops you like arms, and there is a gentle peace. Milk & Honey isn’t loud or showy. It’s a song that you can play again and again, because it’s asking you to consider what you know about your own concept of home and perhaps hold onto it a little bit.
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