Recently, those good-time bootscooters known as Lord Huron booked the live room in Whispering Pines for a recordin’ spell. Those boys know what they’re doin’, having made a few records with us. But the live room, this was a first. If you’ve ever recorded at the Pines, then you know nothin’ is off limits. Guitars, cymbals, pianos, pedal steel, mandolins, microphones, saxophones—I was glad to see their hands on all of it. I even heard ’em talk about recordin’ a gigantic string and woodwind orchestra in some dang place like Sweden.

The boys filled the air—and my own soul—with those tales of hard luck, heartbreak, and redemption, as if they had become conduits for the spirits of the room and were usin’ them to tap into that cosmic eternal. It was like some long, lost dream come to life, a forgotten classic from a parallel dimension, the echo of a memory that wasn’t mine. But the feelin’ was real.

I must have drifted off in a cosmic slumber with the tunes janglin’ heavy and happy in my heart. When I woke, the light from the next day was easin’ into the Pines and I was alone. But somethin’ caught my eye: a hand-scratched note bound to a faded vinyl record called “Long Lost.” I brushed the dust off the cover and saw that the artist was none other than Lord Huron. Say, Tubbs, the note read. Time washes aways what man creates, but ‘Long Lost’ might convince you that a note can live on. Be good now.

And just like that, they were gone.