After nearly 20 years of knowing one another, the collaboration between Nick Sanborn and Chris Rosenau seemed inevitable but ended up accidental, an Eaux Claires music-festival lark that had immediate chemistry. As they were rehearsing, they realized they were already making a record. They kept the working mixes and titles, as well as the bird songs and traffic sounds that drifted into the microphones. The result was 2019's Bluebird, a little five-track wonder that made you feel like you were sitting in the room between them, smiling as they found their wordless rapport.
Two years later, Rosenau (Volcano Choir, Collections of Colonies of Bees) and Sanborn (Sylvan Esso, Made of Oak) got together again. They had fun during round two, but the sessions were neither as carefree as that first attempt nor more focused in a way that felt compelling and new. The pair shelved those pieces to try again when the time seemed right. Then there was a pandemic. There were tours. There were other records. There was life at large. By the time Rosenau ventured back to Betty's (Sylvan Esso's studio in the North Carolina woods) to try again, four years had flashed past.
Both Sanborn and Rosenau came prepared this time by, well, un-preparing. Rosenau borrowed an unconventional guitar tuning he'd never tried (DAEAC#D) from a friend. And Sanborn dismantled his live Sylvan Esso rig, rearranged it, and added new bits, hoping to eschew any muscle memory for a real-time exchange. They instantly knew it was working, with none of the past's second-guessing in tow.
On that first day, a Thursday, they made "Ghost Sub" and "Harm." On that second day, they had a false start with a piece called "Kay," Sanborn's synths not quite fitting beneath Rosenau's riff, before moving on to make "Deltas."
On the third day they decided to give "Kay" one more go. Sanborn set the electronics aside and sat down at the piano. There was a false start, preserved here, but what followed was a sublime aubade, like waking up tired only to be stunned by the light suddenly outside. It is the sound of stirring to life and loving it there, and it is the little jewel at the center of the six songs they recorded that weekend, the six songs presented here in the exact order they made them. They finished "Two" just before Rosenau split for the airport; it is a long goodbye, sweet and sentimental and sad, a last talk from two friends who have enjoyed their time together.
When "Deltas" wobbles to its beautiful end toward the middle of Two, Rosenau comes in, his voice almost boisterous: "That was..." The tape cuts, but you don't need to hear what he says to know what he says. That was good, perfect, the thing we were looking for, just right, pal. This is the way Two feels start to finish—two friends, firm on their footing with one another, digging into their beautiful exchange.
