Wren testifies. Barely moves. Fills the room. She carries loss like it's been home so long she stopped noticing the furniture. When she sings, the room goes quiet — not from politeness, from recognition.

Pure Christine McVie energy. She knows every record, every bridge that breaks you. Her harmony doesn't follow — it hunts. Finds the wound in the melody and leans in, not to hurt it. To hold it.

Came up in churches and roadhouses — two places that know about grief. Fingerpicks when the song is grieving. Goes electric when it catches fire. Leaves three notes hanging in the air like they've got somewhere better to be.

The bass is where grief actually lives — low and felt before it's heard. Ellis never tried to be the frontman. Nobody notices him until he stops. Then the whole room feels the floor drop out.

Youngest in the room. Raw talent, discipline of someone twice his age. Brushes and patience through the verses. Held back, still — and then the bridge opens up, and he opens with it.

He didn't write these songs to perform them. He wrote them because they had to go somewhere. Singer, songwriter, the reason this album exists. The rest of the band plays the music......Jhöl is the music.