My first job in Seattle was at a now long-gone pizza joint on Capitol Hill. Every day, I walked the few blocks from my apartment to work and listened to what was, at the time, an up and coming band called Fleet Foxes. They hadn’t fully committed to their folky machinations yet, but I could feel the nostalgia of the best parts of 1960s folk and pop dripping from every note. The first 45 seconds of “Rainy Days & Crooked Sheets,” the newest single by Seattle indie-pop quartet Hi Crime, brought me immediately back to that feeling: freshly awake, slowly walking through Capitol Hill, a slight rain tapping my hoodie, caffeine beginning to work its way through my sleepy veins.
A tightly woven, half strummed and half picked combination of electric and acoustic guitars open “Rainy Days & Crooked Sheets.” The electric guitar and piano sparkle in unison on top of playful drums, and the bass wanders around on a melancholy but purposeful stroll. The instrumentation moves together like a nostalgic sedative, the walking bass keeping perfect pace with any dreary saunter through the rain.
Vocalist Brielle Rutledge opens the song with “Followed my shadow into the desert just to die alone,” shaking the end of the line with a recognizably Fiona-Apple-esque attitude. Bassist Jesse Botello and drummer Cody McCann trade tom rolls and bass flourishes to create an infectious groove for guitarist Mitch Etter’s sprawling whimsy to lie upon. In an era dominated by synthesizers, 808s, and trap hi-hats, “Rainy Days and Crooked Sheets” is a bit like time traveling: Each live instrument gets its moment to shine while still being tethered to the center by human sentiments of loneliness and sleeplessness.
I’ve spent less time on Capitol Hill this past year than any year I’ve lived in Seattle, and “Rainy Days & Crooked Sheets” had me longing to put my headphones on and wander around the Pike/Pine Corridor for a few hours. Add the track to your indie-pop spring playlists for some instant nostalgia on your next rainy walk — whenever and wherever that might be.
Check out the video, animated by Barb Hoffman, below, and let us know what rainy memory it reminds you of.
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