Although mostly known by the massive hit Here’s Where The Story Ends, The Sundays are a band that contains multitudes. It’s a perfect summary of what it is to be human. Reading, Writing & Arithmetic has that jangly guitar, making it a college-radio friendly box of delights. Blind is mostly understated, like a quiet moment of intimacy that will be long forgotten once the fighting begins. Then we have the bombastic Static & Silence, a slice of mature pop. Sleek in its production, and as far as possible from the overarching pondering of Blind.

What never changes is how much The Sundays are warm. Warm like a cozy sweater that warms up your cockles. Sweet like watching TV while in the arms of a significant other. Eventful like our lives. The Sundays sing about humanity at their best and their worst, and they only needed three albums so sum up our essence.

It’s hard to choose the one song by them, as I think I’ve got a memory attached to every single track from their debut. Joy feels like the correct choice. It was my third break-up and to be frank, it was a relationship that had to end. We were both idling by then, as distance and a lack of communication eroded our once pristine relationship. We had breakfast, we walked, we went to the cinema, and by the end of the day, we agreed on parting ways. It wasn’t a surprise to either, as we had talked about it during brekkie. Between mouthfuls of eggs New Orleans, oatmeal, and pastries, the possibility of being the last day as a couple was on the table for both. It sounds clinical, but also grown up. We weren’t getting any younger and frankly, I felt like I was ruining her life. Turns out she felt the same. We were both over-complicating the matter.

Time passed and we became friends again. For the longest of time, I couldn’t listen to Joy, as it reminded me of that last wonderful day together, a Sunday of all things. We keep in touch and meet for the occasional cup of coffee or lunch, just talking things over. We never glaze over our now gone relationship, as if it had happened to other people. I guess this is growing up.

Joy is intimate, mournful, and explosive. It’s a smouldering catastrophe that explodes in the last minute or so. Harriet Wheeler’s vocals have a contempt that is so subtle, you fail to pick it up. It’s sharp commentary on how happiness might not truly exist, but we praise and sing about it.

-Sam J. Valdés López