In April 2020 I started a new job, working remote from an apartment on the outskirts of brownstone Brooklyn that my family and I had just moved into. I promptly came down with COVID and spent the recommended number of days isolating in a bedroom; my wife had to scoop up my daughter—who would celebrate her first birthday at the end of April, smearing her face with cupcake while our extended family watched over Zoom—whenever she tried to crawl in and say hi. When I eventually took my place at my desk in the living room, most days I would put on the Waxahatchee album Saint Cloud, released that March, and at some point during its run—“Fire” was a good spot for this—I would go slack, stare into the middle distance, and feel my big feelings.

At that time Saint Cloud seemed sui generis: A ne

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