Arriving tenderly, as on a sudden of connecting to a quiet evening, intimate, grounding, with a touch of vulnerability, is Stuck in October. The uninhibited nature of Hunter Sheridan vocals develops an immediate intimacy of closeness as though he is sharing something personal right in front of you and as his vocal shunts occasionally when it comes to the worry of losing someone who cannot be replaced.
The piano starts softly and relaxed, and slowly as dying daylight, but then drums come with a rhythm that drives the song forward even though it trembles with insecurity. It balances stadium-fit feeling and very intimate self-disclosure, the kind of song that seems to have been birthed during those late hours when the soul is most vulnerable and when nothing that really matters is settled. Every crescando, every stratum of the atmosphere, every movement of dynamics reflects that tension between holding on and giving in to trust.
I have gone back to it many more times on grey mornings when the fears of impermanence seem to be especially acute. That dread is transfigured by Hunter into something you can move with, something that is like hope. It is not a denial thing but a conscious effort, a decision to be made on whom to make the vulnerability worthwhile.
By this time the last chorus comes, there is a fullness in my chest, that bittersweet ache that can only be aroused by really good music. Stuck in October seems to record the sound of being at the edge of losing something and not being willing to pass. Hunter Sheridan has given expression to all the unspoken prayers we have ever uttered in time of intimacy. And somehow, it is like part of you.
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