It begins, as so many stories do, not with an answer—but with a question. Or perhaps something even more unsettling: a feeling. “Boy,” the latest song from Baldy Crawlers, doesn’t rush toward clarity. It lingers. It watches. It lets silence do some of the talking. And before you realize what’s happened, you’re leaning in, listening closely, wondering what, exactly, you’ve stumbled into.
The opening lines feel almost forensic in their calm observation: “Your back is a road, boy / A road for your shadow.” Not an accusation. Not a confession. Just a statement of fact. Roads imply distance. Shadows imply weight. Together, they suggest a life shaped by what follows behind us—memory, loss, the things we carry whether we want to or not. When the song tells us that road is “paved with the mem’ries of the world’s heartbreak and loss,” the tone is steady, almost resigned. This isn’t tragedy shouted from the rooftops. It’s tragedy understood.
Musically, “Boy” moves like a slow walk through familiar territory after dark. Acoustic guitar and soft percussion keep time like a measured heartbeat. An organ swells quietly, then fades, as if unsure whether it should intervene. Everything feels intentional, restrained—nothing calls attention to itself. And that restraint is exactly what makes the song unsettling. Because when music doesn’t tell you how to feel, you’re left alone with your thoughts.
Then comes the line that changes the temperature in the room: “I’ve never seen his face / I’ve only seen what takes his place.” It’s repeated, almost gently, but repetition doesn’t soften it—it sharpens it. Who is he? A father? A lover? God? The self? The song doesn’t say. And that refusal to identify the subject feels deliberate. Because sometimes, not knowing is the point.
The bridge arrives like a revelation delivered in a whisper: “When all the clockwork in the world has run down… all the power that grew as the world wound you down is in your fingertips.” Time, it suggests, doesn’t just take—it gives. Wear becomes wisdom. Survival becomes agency. It’s a quiet but profound turn, the kind that sneaks up on you while you’re still trying to piece together what came before.
By the time we reach the closing lines—“Your eyes are the light, boy / The light to find my way by”—the song has shifted. Not into certainty, but into recognition. The face may remain unseen. The truth incomplete. But something real has passed between listener and song.
“Boy” doesn’t solve its mystery. It documents it. Calmly. Patiently. And when it’s over, you’re left with the distinct feeling that the story isn’t finished—that it’s still out there, somewhere down the road, waiting.
–Kevin Morris
