NPR Music - NPR Music+: “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service

Episode Date: July 2, 2026

The origin story of The Postal Service is as simple (and twee) as they come: An electronic music producer (Jimmy Tamborello) and an indie rock singer-songwriter (Ben Gibbard) decide to collaborate on a few songs, sending each other music via snail mail. But The Postal Service’s only album, Give Up, eventually went platinum, and the band is selling out arenas decades later. It’s a record that seems to have captured how rapid advances in technology would change how we communicate and even love, bridging the distances that separate us.  This week, NPR Music critic Ann Powers and editor Daoud Tyler-Ameen discuss lead single “Such Great Heights” by The Postal Service, from 2003.  This NPR Music podcast series with Ann and Daoud is usually just for NPR+ supporters. To listen to the rest of the episodes in the series and support public media, sign up for NPR+ at plus.npr.org. Follow NPR Music coverage and the Tiny Desk Concerts at npr.org/musicSee pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for sponsorship and to manage your podcast sponsorship preferences.NPR Privacy Policy

Hey everyone, I'm Daewud Tyler Mean, an editor for NPR Music. And I'm Anne Powers, a critic for NPR Music. And today, we are giving you a peek at a series that we've been doing in this feed since October. In each of these episodes, Anne and I look back at songs that keep popping back up in culture that have shown their influence across media years and years after their initial release. We travel through time and many different genres to find the songs that have this kind of impact. We've made episodes about Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. Fantasy by Mariah Carey,

Time Warp from Rocky Horror Picture Show Closer by Nine Inch Nails is maybe my favorite so far. And even songs that you might not realize have had a lot of impact, like the novelty song Blue by IFO-65. So these songs have all made their mark on music and culture, And in these episodes, we're pinpointing how and why. Now, normally these episodes are just for our NPR Plus supporters. NPR Plus is a great way to support public media and the work we do at NPR.

And supporters get access to bonus episodes across other podcasts, too, shows like Planet Money and Pop Culture Happy Hour. So, if you like what you hear today, we hope you'll sign up for NPR Plus at plus.npr.org to listen to our other episodes and help spread the word. And if you're already an NPR Plus supporter, we thank you. All right. In honor of the new album by Death Cab for Cudy, a band that shares a front person with this band. Here's our episode on Such Great Heights by the Postal Service, which we first ran in January. There's this really good interview from a couple of years ago. It's Earl Sweatshirt and Alchemist, the producer. It's loose format, but they're chatting about their likes and dislikes in music. And Earl starts talking about the punch-in method. Do you know what that is? Have you heard of that? Is that where a rapper hits a phrase really hard, like hit that word really hard?

You're not entirely wrong. It's a sort of format, an approach to songwriting, basically, that existed in hip hop for a long time. But I think it's been a lot more popular recently where instead of writing an entire song, you know, front to back, like on paper and then going into a studio and recording that song that you've written, you go into the studio and basically write the song there one line. at a time. Oh, wow. So it's like your engineer will play the beat. You try out different things. And when you hit a line you like, you say, that's great. Okay, back me up and let's go into the next line and you go in again. And the tricky thing about it, Earl is saying, is that like you get some pretty incredible stuff out of this approach. But when it comes time to do those songs live, that can

be really, really hard because if you've recorded a song one line at a time, you might not have left yourself time to breathe, right? You might really be trying to recreate something that the human voice cannot do in real time. Does this only happen in hip-hop? Well, it's a fair point. The reason I am thinking about it is because of the song that we're talking about this week, this song from 20 years ago, that is not a rap song. Not at all.

Not in the slightest. But it does have a version of this same paradox. And the way that it was created actually, to me, feels so in line with the ways that music in general, hip-hop in particular, has been composed and produced in the 21st century. and just how those methods have just bled into all other kinds of production and music. And when you say, Dyer, that hip-hop techniques are bleeding into everything, you mean even all the way to Seattle, the Great White North, as I... I can say that because I grew up in Seattle.

I know this. I'm speaking of Such Great Heights by the Postal Service. Such Great Heights is the big single from Give Up, the one and only, album by the Postal Service, Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie and Jimmy Tamborello from the Electronic Project Dintel. The two of them work on these songs separately in their respective hometowns of Seattle and L.A. They mail their contributions to each other, hence the Postal Service. And then in February 2003, they drop this kind of quirky little pop record that is eventually going to be a platinum seller, which feels unbelievable even now. But I think even more than that,

the real legacy that it has is that it becomes sort of emblematic of the whole look and feel of that moment in music culture, so much so that in 2025, as I'm sure you know, we get a book, the history of indie rock in the early 2000s, written by Christaville from Stereo Gum, shout out Christaville, titled Such Great Heights, the Complete Cultural History of the Indy Rock Explosion. And it is so apropos in a way because, like, somehow Ben Gibbard has become the emblematic indie rock, of that period. I mean, his, I don't know, veneer professionalism, his emotionalism that is also very contained, his craftiness. Again, though, that's not shouting back to hip-hop. So, like, I got to ask, like, where were you going with that?

Well, we're going to get into it, Anne. I'm so, so excited to get into the specific production techniques that kind of make this song what it is, because this thing has been discussed and shared and covered and licensed all to hell and just celebrated in so many ways over the past 20-something years. And yet, I still have a lot of questions about exactly why this thing works so well. Let's get into it. I'm Dawood Tyler Amin. And I'm Ann Powers. This is a bonus episode of All Songs Considered that is just for NPR Plus supporters like you. Every other Thursday, we pick one song, something that is not new, but is stuck around for years and years. And we try understand why we still care about it. And this week, it's such great heights by the Postal Service from 2003.

We're going to my hometown today. It's true. Strangely enough, I was living in Seattle when this project happened, but, dude, it's a blind spot for me. Yeah. Because it was the only time in my adult life, really, when I wasn't actively reviewing music. So I need you to guide me through this song's trajectory and how it became so ubiquitous. Okay. Well, I want to keep this contained because every time you talk about a quote-unquote supergroup, it's easy for things to sprawl because you start getting into all of everybody's different origin stories.

I think tracking the journey of Ben Gibbard, who is the voice at the center of this, can tell us a lot about everything else that's happening. So he was coming off of Death Cab for Cudy's third album. the photo album. It was on Barsook Records, a small Northwest label. I've heard him say that it sold about 50,000 copies, something like that, which to them was unbelievable. And I think, you know, probably about as far as they ever thought they would go.

It also burned them out. I think they were sort of budding heads in the studio. They had been working non-steads. They were a van band, pretty small time, you know, loading their own gear and just on the road nonstop. And their respective, like, home lives were strained by it. And they were like, we need a break. In the middle of all of that, Ben is friends with somebody who lives in L.A., who is roommates with this guy, Jimmy Tamborello, who has this little bedroom pop project called Dintel.

Ben goes and visits his friend. He meets Jimmy. Jimmy has this idea. He's working on a song that will become a single. called This is the Dream of Evan and Sean and he says, I think you would sound really great on this. And Ben Gibbard is like, hey, why not?

But, you know, is there something in the title of that song? This is a Dream of Evan and Sean that might tell us something about where the Postal Service went? Well, you were the one who was studying indie rock history at the time, so you tell me. Well, Sean Marshall, of course, is the amazing singer-songwriter, vocal, list behind cat power.

Evan, that's got to be Evan dando, right? So if we're talking about a pop turn in Seattle music, in indie music, away from the super fuzz, big muff of the 90s and towards something different, then the last, the last. Lemonheads, Evan Dando's band is definitely a precursor, I think. That makes an awful lot of sense. So, anyway, that song, The Dream of Evan and Sean, is sort of the origin story for this creative partnership between Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello. They do this song together, works out pretty well, and they say, hey, we should try doing

a little bit more. Separately, Jimmy Tamborello is friends with an A&R at Subpop Records, who hears that they've got this little project going on. Subpop, the Seattle indie label that even now is... you know, probably best known as the label that put out Nirvana's first album, Bleach. Yeah, you know, subpop is the big daddy of indie labels in Seattle, and I wonder if Ben Gibbard was realizing a dream, putting out a record on that label,

because, of course, Death Cab was on a different indie label, Barsook, out of Seattle. Now he's a subpop artist. Right. So back to the Postal Service. Ben goes back to Seattle. They start mailing each other ideas. Jimmy sits in his bedroom studio, you know, comes up with instrumentals, sends them to Ben on CD. Ben puts them in his disc man and walks around town thinking of lyrics. I love it too.

I can see him like strolling up Pike Street, you know, away from the market after buying a salmon. I don't know. The crazy thing is that he is at the same time writing songs for what will become Death Cab's Transatlanticism, their next album. And just going back and forth between these two projects, Probably not getting a whole lot of rest. No, probably not. But finally, in February 2003, we get a full-length album of Postal Service songs titled Give Up. It comes out on subpop, and it does okay, right?

It's a little bit of a sleeper. They do a very modest tour. And, you know, along the way they've pulled in Jenny Lewis, who is best known then as the singer of Riloh-Kiley. Oh, God, come quickly. The execution of all things. Obviously, since then, she's established this really incredible solo career. The way the story is told is that even by the end of that tour, they could tell that something was brewing because they kept having to change the venues.

They were supposed to play at a 300-cap venue in L.A., which was the closing night, and they had to move it to like a 1400-Cat venue. So they were the chapel rhone of the early 2000s. I mean, that is not a bad comparison to make, because it really seemed like it was so surprising. even to them. And they finished this project and basically just kind of went back to work. Everybody went back to their respective day jobs with Death Cab and Dintel and Riloh Kiley. And they just started getting calls from Sub Pop every once in a while. They'd be like, oh, you sold 10,000. Oh,

you sold 20,000, 50,000. Now you've eclipsed Death Cab's last record. And eventually this thing, I mean, it takes a decade to do it. But this is a platinum-selling album. It is the second big biggest seller in subpop's history, Bleach is number one. Wow. So such Great Heights, like I said, it's the lead single. It's, I think, the last song they added to the album where it was just they kind of were like, oh, we need something up tempo. You know, let's see if we can squeeze one more thing in there.

And almost immediately, I think they started calling it the hit, just colloquially to each other, because it clearly had something. There are a couple of things going on, and I want to get into the sort of compositional quirk of the thing that most surprises me about the journey that this song has taken. But it might be worth just starting at the very beginning with the sound.

So, the opening of this song is quite distinctive. It's the kind of thing that, like, when they've performed this live, they play those little bleep bloops for an extra, like, minute at the beginning, because people go crazy for it. At the same time, like, when you think of a distinctive synth hook from a song, you probably imagine something that you can hum to yourself.

You probably hear like a, you know, bam-brum, bam, bam, bam. Or like the cars or something. You've got that. It's like the hook is sticking in your head. And this is not like that. Not only does it not have a really distinctive melody, but it takes place in a sort of impossible space because of how it's mixed. It's every, I want to say, eighth note is jumping back and forth between the right and left stereo channels. And it means that you have this thing that if you tried to notate it on paper, you wouldn't really have the full experience. If you tried to just sing it, you wouldn't really have the full experience. It only really makes sense in stereo and arguably it makes the most sense in headphones. Ah, I see where

you're going with this. I mean, what else is going on at this time, right? We've got the proliferation of high-speed home internet and MySpace is popping up. Facebook is a year away. And the world is sort of starting to get used to the idea of an entire other electronic life that maybe you spend half or more of your time in, as opposed to in-person communication and collaboration. Yeah, because, of course, that's how they made the record. But also, there's distance built into this love song. Yeah. The love song is about dreaming of reunion while inhabiting or trying to cope with distance. It's something that kind of becomes Ben Gibbard's specialty.

We'll get transatlanticism, the huge death cab record that comes after this, which is all about loneliness, distance, the sort of invisible threads that tie people across state lines and oceans and stuff. But then Ben Gibbard starts singing, and then his voice leaps in at the end of the first line at an almost superhuman interval. So during the recording process, you can hear the way that they obviously did it is recording a line and then overdubbing the next line, and then overdubbing the next line, rather than singing them all the way through. This is Ben Gibber doing it in his home studio, but it's this natural fit for what Jimmy Tamborello already does with Dintel because his work is already this sort of cut and paste. It's very glitchy. So songwriting-wise, it's a little bit of a leap. But as far as the needs of this particular collaboration, he was actually dead on. The analogy that I've thought of is, if you've ever tried to karaoke a Beastie Boys song by yourself,

you will find, I have done it, and you will find you very quickly get out of breath because that is a group with three people, and they very intentionally write their songs so that one of them picks up exactly as the last one is leaving off. I don't know why this is an unheard of tactic, but I think for a I'm like a lot of this is so interesting or strange to me. It's not like it's an unheard of tactic, but I think for a song to be as anthemic and to be as much of like a pop hit

and the fact that like it's actually physically difficult to sing along to, it's so weird to me. I keep coming back to this idea of like, we now live in a world where the like, like physical restrictions don't have the same impact on your day-to-day life that they used to. Right, right. We're dealing with kind of a cyborg situation. He can't replicate it, right? Like when they perform the song live, they have to use a recording, right? Or something? Yes. When Ben Gibbard sings this song live, he has a backing track that sings the first word of every line for him.

So he can back off the mic and take a breath and then get ready to sing the rest of the line. Well, Diode, you know that I look at this moment in West Coast popular music or Pacific Northwest music as a redefinition moment. You know this because I shared with you a review I wrote of a later Death Cab album. There's one line of your review of Plans, which is the first major label record by Death Cab Recutie from 2005, that is such an incredible, like, kill shot to me, terms of defining the band's vibe. I'd love to actually have you read it in your own voice. Okay. Death Cab are not even a rock band, really. Their gravity-fighting sound is more like electronica played on guitars and drums, built around the voice of Brian Wilson's long-lost nephew. White as can be, focused on tune and texture rather than any kind of funkiness, Death Cab

create fantasies for office cubicle workers. Little arcs of transcendence made poignant. by a mood of limitation. Like, I feel very exposed by that, and that's not even my band. But I think you're right. I mean, I think this is everything about what was coming into vogue in this moment. Right, the sense that we as human beings were trying to find our place in an emerging economy and connect a culture that was more digitized, possibly leading up to our moment now. Now we're wondering if we're going to be made obsolete by AI.

Now, that wasn't happening in the early 2000s, but I think in a weird way, there was a sort of mix of a little bit of anxiety about whether or not people would be needed anymore in the emerging world or whether or not bodies would be needed. So there was a mix of that, but also kind of a welcoming of the freedoms that were possible in a world where your body didn't matter as much.

and you could have a long-distance love affair that felt much more immediate because it was conducted in cyberspace. You know, you could make music that way. You could make art that way. And just think about this, how much that contrasts with what Seattle stood for in the grunge era. Because, you know, I grew up in a Seattle that was about the industrial age. It was about Boeing, the airplane manufacturer. My dad worked for Boeing. It was about the docks, you know, the show.

shipping industry. And Ben Gibber grew up in Bremerton, which is a naval port. And Bellingham, where Death Cab formed, that's more of a college town. But that whole region is, you know, up until the 2000s, was very industrial, very much like a working man and woman's kind of place. And then it became home of Microsoft, later home of Amazon. Starbucks. So there was this like huge change going on in the culture, going on specifically in Seattle and reflected in what happened with this band. I think it's also happening within music, I mean, in a lot of different ways. I think I joked to you that Ben Gibbard was sort of the soft boy heartthrob that we needed at the time because there was kind of heartthrob. Respect Ben. You're a

handsome guy. I don't mean that you're not, but I didn't witness that he was a big crush worthy guy, but was he? Because maybe I just was too old for that or something. I don't know if crush is the word, but I think people were really drawn to him. Inamored of him. Yeah. Enamored of his dreaminess. Can we talk about the lyrics for one minute? Because this is an interesting thing about this song to me.

The first line of this song, it's so unbelievably over the top. I'm thinking it's a sign that the freckles in our eyes are mirror images. Wow. If a guy was to say that to me when I'm like 20 years. 25 years old or 21 years older? I'm either going to be like, oh, let's get married immediately, or I'm going to be like, you're the corneous guy I've ever met in my life. Please go, take a seat.

So I think the relationship that inspired this song did not last super long. And I think that the point of view that this song expresses is kind of telling of why. He's been respectful about not naming names and, you know, like trying to put people on blast. but he has said that he was in a relationship with somebody that he'd been just kind of obsessed with for a long time. You know, they were like finally together. And the idea of you and I are meant to be together because we have this same imperfection in our iris. And when we kiss each other, they line up perfectly is so exactly the kind of thing that you think and say about a relationship that you're in for the wrong reasons. maybe this is a good time to talk about his voice

because his voice is a very particular flavor. Right, right, right. Listening recently to this record, to transatlanticism, to a lot of the death cab stuff from around this time, the thing that kept striking me was that his voice is imperfect in a way that I think really works in his favor.

And what I mean by that is that his voice is fine. He carries a tune, his voice is distinctive, like it sounds nice. It's sort of a resonant frequency with the songs that he weaves. around them. But the melodies that he writes for himself, I think I would most easily

associate with a kind of pristine, pure, like, angelic sort of voice. And in fact... Are cybernetic. Well, I was going to say that the parts that Jenny Lewis sings on this record actually feels sort of telling because she does sound very angelic

in these sort of backing parts. So what I mean, I guess, is that there's this slight sort of cognitive dissonance when you hear a little bit of the effort that he needs in order to reach certain notes. Like it's like where he's almost there, but he cracks or he wavers. But again, I don't mean this as a slight because I honestly think it made him really approachable. And I think it feels really in line with the characters in his songs who are often lonely. and a little downtrodden and a little ashamed. I have several comparisons to make here. Okay.

First, this is a time when voices that interact well with electronics are finding a lot of success in music. So my first comparison, I don't think Ben Gibbard is the ideal duet partner for this person, but I'm thinking about Brittany. I'm thinking about Britney Spears. Because... Oh. Oh, I got a woe out of me.

I love this. Keep going. Well, here's the thing. Brittany Spears working with Max Martin, you know, she is the ideal voice for this new megapop that this Swedish producer who's creating this very, very electronic, very 21st century sound that is a huge contrast from the 90s when not only we had grunge,

but we also had like the women's singer-songwriters, the organic feel of someone like a Sarah McLaughlin or a Tracy Chapman, right? So we get Brittany, and Brittany has this tiny, seemingly tiny voice that actually kind of sounds at times like a synthesizer in its own way, you know? Yes, for sure. I think I did it again. I made you believe we're more than just friends. And imperfect, like you're saying about Ben, right?

Yeah. You can hear the glitches. You can hear those little weird glottal noises she made. That's the word I was going to use. Yeah, she's when Ariana Grande does her impression of her, that's the thing that she locks into. Exactly. So that's one comparison. Then the other is coming out of the Pacific Northwest.

And I wonder if you think this is a possible precursor to Ben, which is Isaac Brock from Modest Mouse. Oh, because. I think Modest Mouse is the bridge band from the low voice, the baritones of the 90s, to what we get with Death Cab and this bedroom pop sound that then comes to be really dominant in indie music. And Isaac Brock has a high voice. He's a wild singer. He's an aggressive singer. But there is that shift and there is that kind of similar imperfection. And it is around this time that Modest Mouse finds its pop mode because we get float on not to.

too long after this. Yeah, and that makes me, this, I wasn't going to mention this person, but actually, is Wayne Coyne a factor in here too? Is Flaming Lips kind of, is this the do you realize moment, or am I off in terms of the timing for that? No, that's about the right time. That's like 2001, 2002. Right.

So again, a voice that comes out of a grungier, messier, more bottom-heavy music, psychedelic band, but then we get that album Yoshimi and we get that song do you realize which is very tender very ethereal and also sort of existentially anxious let's say

really you think so I mean the key line in it being what do you realize that everyone you love is going to die or whatever yeah maybe I didn't need to qualify that maybe this is a good time to talk about where subpop went as a label in the early 2000s because

And I'm not sure about the timing on this. I don't have like a chronology in front of me, but I was looking at a playlist somebody made of like 2000 subpop bands. And not only do we have Postal Service, but we have Fleet Foxes. We have swallowing the pack all swallowed in their coats with scarves of red tied around there.

We have iron and wine. naked as we came. We have a little later, I think, band of horses. We have definitely gone away from the deep voice, you know, Kirk Cobain or Chris Cornell, like flying their hair around kind of thing. And enter to, dare I say it, technocratic age. Some of those bands are a little more pastoral, certainly by the time we get to Iron and Wine or Fleet Foxes.

But my point is, we've gone from a low voice. a kind of intervention into masculinity, a reclamation of this kind of like very male approach to rock, but updating that for the late 90s into a very different version of what a front man and what the sound of the moment should be. It's high voices, electronics, laying back a little bit and loving the melodies, loving the choruses. So an incredible feat of right place, right time stuff going on for Ben Gibbard. and his bands at the time. The Postal Service record kind of blows up just unexpectedly, and that helps put a lot of eyes on whatever the next move Death Cab is going to make.

And they get two really, really big windfalls. One, like we said, is transatlanticism, this album that just puts them on a totally other level, and that comes out like eight months later, which is crazy. The other thing is that their songs appear on the O.C. And not just in the background, the band plays at a club in the world of the show, and Adam Brody's character. It is written into the script that he is a super fan of the band. Listen to this music. Hey, do not insult Death Cab.

One other thing, such Great Heights was covered by Iron and Wine. Speaking of subpop and the changing subpop sound. Sam Beam had gotten his subpop deal a couple years earlier, a woodsman from Florida who has told the story that when he got the call from subpop offering him a record deal, he was like, this is subpop records, right? Like that loud rock and roll subpop, you've heard me and you want to sign me. And that recording is used in Garden State. Oh.

Zach Braff's directorial debut, Natalie Portman's maybe definitive performance, perhaps tied with Kirsten Dunst in Elizabethtown as the number one manic pixie dream girl. I mean, it's like that is where that term comes from. Huge, huge moment in terms of indie as anesthetic, right? Like we're having all of this breakthrough stuff that we're talking about where it's like, okay, death cab's on the OC, the shins are on Gilmore Girls. Modest Mouse has a kid's bot placement. the whole idea of indie rock is starting to be aggressively mainstreamed. Again. I have to say again, though. Yes, I know, right, totally.

We had college rock. We'd have in the 80s. We had R.E.M. We had the cultification of Big Star. We had these bands that were doing accessible, you know, melodic music. And we had that corporatizing of indie rock then. So we have that in the 80s. And we have Nirvana in the 90s.

So this is Mach 3 corporatization of Indy Rock. If 1991 is the year punk broke, then you could look at 2003, 2004 as kind of the year that indie broke. It's indie kind of in quotes, but it's, you know, because obviously, I mean, these things change. Like, Death Cab gets their major label deal with Atlantic, then they get another platinum seller out of that. Right, exactly. And Ben Gibbard marries Zoe Dashnell in 2009 and becomes a fixture on red carpets. And Zoe Dachinello, who herself is an indie artist and made wonderful records with M. Ward,

another guy who fits into this whole aesthetic as she and him. So I guess it's all the continuum. Yeah. Maybe to take us home, because you mentioned the lyrics, I want to take a look at a particular moment in the second verse that seems to kind of tie a lot of these ideas together.

So the second verse goes, I tried to leave this all in your machine, but the persistent beat it sounded thin upon listening. When I first heard that, I just didn't really process it. Thinking about it in the context that we're talking about now, it seems a million percent to be a nod to the intervention of technology in the ways that we communicate, but also some of the limits that it imposes on how we communicate, especially across distance. You have this image of leaving a message, perhaps a song even,

on your lover's answering machine or voicemail or whatever, and finding that that medium does not have the frequency range that you need to express all of your feelings, that you just get these harsh mids, you don't get the shrill highs and the low lows. And so the idea that you'll hear it with the windows down when the song is taking you home, again, to go back to that teenager-like imagery,

it's basically saying, I need this song to be a hit so you can understand how much I like you. So what is it about this song? Is that what it is for you? It's redefining rock ambition in a sense, you know, no longer is rock ambition about shouting from the rooftops or filling the globe with your huge, massive, fuzzy guitar-based rock? It's this other thing? Is that what it is? I guess so. I think the thing that we're witnessing all around in the moment that the song is becoming a hit is if our romantic idols of yesteryear would

stand outside of your window with a boombox. Shout out, John Cusack. The grand romantic gestures have been sort of miniatureized and digitized. And the song works. It resonates because it is all about the ways in which there is sweetness and also some hollowness in the translation of those very heartfelt feelings into digital imagined space. The loneliness of the long-distance lover. Yeah.

But I also want to say the loneliness of the remote worker. You know what I mean? I know all too well what you mean. Maybe this is why we love this song now. This song doesn't sound dated precisely because this kind of anxiety about and attempt to resolve how we connect intimately via technology, it became so fundamental to us in this decade. With our remote work, with our lockdown experiences, and even that. You and I are talking on Zoom right now.

Here we are. It's like, this is how we love and connect with people now. From such great heights, as it were. Folks, that's our episode on Such Great Heights by the Postal Service. be sure to check out all the great writing from NPR music at our website, npr.org slash music. Find out more about our newsletters, podcasts, and the tiny desk in our show notes. Our producer is Chow Too. Our editor is Jacob Gans. Our theme music is by me, Daoud Tyler Amin. Special thanks also to Otis Hart, Sinhali Meta, and the great folks at NPR's research and

audio engineering departments for their help. And if you love this show, please tell your friends. We'll be back again in two weeks.