There is no way I can think about Sondre Lerche taking his trash out to the curb the night before the garbage collector comes around. It's hard to picture the dapper and forever youthful Norwegian cleaning the bathroom or changing a tire. We can't think that he would put himself or be in a position to ever have to worry about those kinds of things and the thought has nothing to do with any misguided assumption of his wealth or a preponderance of evidence to suggest that he would be above such tasks. It's uncouth to consider another's financial stability and we don't have any evidence to put toward the latter. We just can't see it, knowing what we know about him from his many albums. The Sondre Lerche that we see in our heads - the one that we hear singing about the head games and the outcomes that lovers and could be lovers play and absorb - is a man we think might have the rare ability of speaking with and understanding animals. Things like that, not taking care of menial household chores. He just might be able to crouch down next to a bunny rabbit that's sitting on its haunches, nibbling on clover leaves in the park, spend a few moments listening and find out all he needs to know about that rabbit's family - married, not married, kids, family, where it lives, etc. They might have an understanding and it's easy - as strange as it seems even to type it as it is to say it out loud - to picture Lerche as someone who might love that as a special power, as something he could call on. It's borderline crazy because that's not what normal people can do and, as far as we know, it's something that no one can do. What we'd like to pose here is that Lerche could be the exception to every rule. He's different like that. He's a writer who's able to nimbly tackle the worrisome questions that we all have, spinning them into golden streamers, pieces that we'd enjoy listening to as the antidote to all that ails us. He turns them into winsome and delicious bites, as if we're able to actually take a bite out of the side of the sun and munch on it, the sweet juice of the rope sun dribbling out of our sun-full mouths. He's a popsmith with enough pure genius and innovation in his arrangements and melodies to confuse the matter - of not knowing what's supposed to be bringing us down or cheering us up. He's not just another pretty song songwriter. He's a modern day Burt Bacharach, whose raindrops aren't causing any depression, but allowing the bitter pill to slide down the gullet as if the gullet were iced and the bitter pill had metal runners along its bottom. A verse like, "Raindrops keep falling on my head/But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red/Crying's not for me/Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'/Because I'm free/Nothing's worrying me," though not his, could very well be written on an index card taped to his vanity's mirror and Lerche might read the card every morning before he leaves the house, setting himself up appropriately for his entire day.