IT'S BEEN A YEAR of unease. Neo-Nazis, hurricanes, and threatening tweets sent by orange-tinged fingers have left me wondering, “What’s next?”
Wendigo , the latest album from indie folk duo Penny and Sparrow (Andy Baxter and Kyle Jahnke), didn’t answer that question for me. Rather, their somber melodies provided something I didn’t realize I needed—space to confront the uncertainty.
According to Chippewa poet Louise Erdrich, the wendigo “is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it.” Some Indigenous communities see environmental destruction, exclusion, and greed as indicators of “wendigo psychosis.”
Many wendigos seemed to appear after the 2016 election. Not just in the White House, but also in families, friends, and neighbors. The song “Kin” calls to mind Thanksgiving dinner with pecan pie and family members-turned-strangers. “Where the hell did your spine go? / Did you cut it out? / Did it never grow?” the lyrics ask.
A delicate marriage of science fiction and biblical references, Wendigo has been baptized in darkness. An initial listen left me feeling unsettled. Yet hearing it for a second time revealed that my anxiety had already been present; Penny and Sparrow’s haunting harmonies simply coaxed it into the light.
Baxter and Jahnke talked with Sojourners about the inspiration behind their album. Baxter, co-lead vocalist and lyricist, referred to Wendigo as immersion therapy. “Lyrically, a lot of the record is a study of things that most of us are scared of,” Baxter said, “trying to look at them earnestly and see whether or not it’s worth being scared of them in reality.”
The songs “Part 1 Visiting,” “Part 2 Smitten,” and “Part 3 Moniker” are written from the perspective of what scares Baxter—death. While Baxter often envisions death as the grim reaper, here he portrays death with a startling softness. “Now you know that I’m incapable / of choosing who to visit, how to do it, even when I can go,” death states in “Visiting.” “I’m just like you / I bend the knee.”
This juxtaposition of light and dark on Wendigo is what ultimately sets the record apart. It’s clear that Penny and Sparrow’s faith informs their songwriting. Not just in overt references such as “Salome & Saint Procula,” but also in the gentle way they interact with the unlikely protagonists of their songs.
“Javert” is a painful conversation between God and the Javert of Les Misérables. A man of law and order, Javert feels incompatible with a God of grace. “You require that ‘no work is due’ / How can it be?” Javert calls out. “Is there room in Your home for a man that feels prone to fall through?”
Wendigo, like Javert, does not have a reassuring ending. The final song, “The Carmike,” fades abruptly. “Saying ‘I don’t know’ / There’s no shame in it / Or I’m lost I’m lost I’m lost,” Penny and Sparrow breathe into the mic.
Penny and Sparrow may have used Wendigo to become more intimate with the things that trouble them, but those whispered words make me believe that this album is also a cry for self-reconciliation. In a time when it feels that the church and the world are demanding a plastic happiness, Wendigo reminded us that wholeness also involves lamentation.
Christina Colón, a former Sojourners associate editor, is a teaching assistant at Boston University.
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