Paper Wings return with an album that encourages perseverance through self-dependence.
The latest from the Nashville-based duo Paper Wings will reward fans who embraced their signature amalgamation of literate folk with bluegrass, as well as their lyrical willingness to explore the territory beneath the thin veil of decency people and societies present. On “Mountains on the Moon,” though, the prevailing themes are longing and abiding resilience through individual strength.
A stern sense of self-reliance and clear-eyed hope may be the most political statement of the album – songwriting partners Emily Mann and Wila Frank have plumbed depths both personal and universal before. Here, they seek defiance through resolve and eschew despair in favor of cautious optimism.
The opener, ‘Fumbling’ alliteratively asks the question: what remains in the heart you wear on your sleeve? “Underfoot, the fiddle fern’s unfurling,” Mann and Frank harmonize with characteristic rapport, “Your sweater’s caught on a thorn now it’s uncurling/You’re gonna get torn up out here it’s a sure thing/Your chest has a window and I can see where your heart is/Your heart is tumbling, stumbling, fumbling with the door/Does it open anymore?”
Paper Wings cleverly contrast minor chords and blue tonality with inspiriting but unsentimental buoyancy in ‘The Heart of a Country Girl.’ “As this world turns black and blue,” they sing, “Fires, floods, nightmares in the news/The country girl holds fast to her dreams/She’s got seeds in the pockets of her jeans.”
The titular track ‘Mountains on the Moon’ brings longing back into relief, mourning not just lost love, but a personal sense of unmooring. “Mountains on the moon/Summertime with you/All the things I’ll never see/All the things I’ll never do,” the duo laments, “And it gets so cold in the april noon/And my heart beats fast and the clock ticks slow”
This sense of being out of step or out of time applies not only to the lyrics in the melancholic song, but also the style Mann and Frank embrace. Working in a milieu as weatherworn but steadfast as folk, the songwriters (who originally hail from the west coast of the United States) evoke their Appalachian forebears, updating the form in ways that would warm Emmylou Harris’ heart (Mann and Frank have, in fact, caught Harris’ ear – they shared bills with the Americana godmother in 2025).
The album closes with sentiments uncommon among the jaded-signaling young songwriters of this admittedly dark time: by contrast, in ‘Goodness,’ Mann and Frank appeal to the listener: “Don’t forget/All of the people you made smile/When you were just a little child/Don’t forget all of the people along the way/Who you’ve loved or helped in some way/goodness, goodness/I hope you see all the goodness that you are.”
The lyrics are unironic, gentle, and defiantly hopeful, the song a lullaby for the lovelorn and world-weary.
