In the middle of the state of Utah, not far from Fish Lake but very far from pretty much anything else, is Pando.
If you happened to be driving by on Utah State Route 25 you wouldn’t know you were passing anything noteworthy; to the left and right of your car you’d see a rather unimpressive forest of Aspen trees. Not especially dense or tall or pretty or imposing.
But in fact, you’d be driving past something far more impressive than California’s famous redwoods, or the ancient olive trees of the Mediterranean. You’d be driving past Pando. And Pando is, depending on where you draw certain lines, the biggest living thing on earth.
Pando (Latin for “I spread”) is an Aspen forest in which every tree derives from one original plant. Every tree is genetically identical, and shares one enormous root system. Individual stems fall every century or so, but are replaced by new ones through an asexual process, so the whole forest really can be considered one organism.
One huge organism, covering more than 100 acres, and possibly tens of thousands of years old.
But again, depending on how broadly you define “an organism,” you could make the argument that all trees are one living thing. Or all plants. Or all life on earth. Or everything.
We’re all just infinite trees, sharing one massive root system.
What makes this a beautiful song:
1. Nick Mulvey, as we learned through another band of his back in week 169, is a fan of unusual instruments. Although most of this album has a relatively pop-friendly sound, it includes instruments like the omnichord and the balafon. Mulvey is an expert at using just enough of an unusual sound to make his work unique, without estranging the listener.
2. Despite the appearance of synths and slightly unusual sounds, the guitar, with its soft sparkling texture, manages to steal the show from a sonic point of view.
3. At 2:12, Mulvey’s wife Isadora provides backing vocals. But not only are the backing vocals different words, they’re sung in Italian and don’t make a whole lot of sense. Something about a harmonica that looks like an organ.
But the opacity of those lyrics is probably the point: Given that the song is about the bliss of being alone in a room with someone you love to the point that the rest of the world seems to fade out of relevance, it feels perfect that she’s there in the background, singing hard-to-parse lyrics in a different language. It’s like a private in-joke you whisper into your partner’s ear just before you both fall asleep.
Recommended listening activity:
Lying down and interlocking legs with someone you love, pretending you’re sharing a root system.