Perhaps someday, years from now, my children will come across it and remember back to that humid evening, the wintry tingle of ice cream cold against the tongue, the fireflies just beginning to illuminate the yard, the soft voices of the adults drifting across the lawn, the quiet ruptured by the occasional "
Olly olly oxen free." They will recall, as I do now, us arranged on the porch, eating our $200-a-gallon ice cream like the royalty we were for one magical evening.
In Godreau's world, vocals edge towards the helium-enabled end of the spectrum, arrangements wobble between sparse and overblown and titles like
Olly Olly Oxen Free are perfectly acceptable.