Marques Toliver has two ways of coping with and encouraging his anxieties about the people he loves. They could just be the methods that he uses to get him through days more quickly, but they seem to have more specific purposes than would the little tricks subscribed to in order swiftly scoot one from lunchtime to the golden pot of happy hour, wherever one can find that happiness and the cheapest basket of wings. He uses the fine art of dreaming to wile away the time between the occasions when he can be with his love and he uses it as a torturous technique, meant to startle and alarm the insecure parts of him that believe that all of the good that was there when he fell asleep will be wiped clean away upon waking up. It will all have been a charade, a cruel game that the invisible whispers and string-pullers were playing on him before they got bored and moved on to the next sorry, content and snoring sap, for another rug-pulling.
The singer and writer from Daytona Beach, Florida, who'd currently residing in London, really makes his characters sound tormented by these fears of an easy-come and easy-go relationship, causing cold sweats and clutching on to the comforts of the radio, as it plays, linking one minute to the next, hopefully making an unbreakable chain of time.
When rainy weather pushes everyone inside, as it does on the song "Weatherman," you can almost sense that this could be an advantage, for something more valuable than a break in the weather. Toliver, here, backed by violin, he tends to point to the gray skies that are always pregnant with more storms. Now, whether or not they strike or they pass him by, it doesn't really matter. They're over there and they're threatening, so he's worried and he'll stay worried, but he counts on the shreds of light popping through. He sings, "A symphony that sounds so sweet/Makes me want to lose control," and that's waking up, after those dreams, with nothing changed, or everything changed. It's what he thinks that sounds like.