In semiotics, there’s a way of making meaning that divides a word into two parts. There’s the signifier, or the material arrangement of letters themselves, and the signified, the fundamental concept that the letters attempt to express. The difference between these two, the gray area between what we say and do and what we actually mean, is the central focus of Runnner’s like dying stars, we’re reaching out, the sophomore album from LA-based musician and producer Noah Weinman, which originally came out in February but was given a deluxe-edition treatment this month.
like dying stars, we’re reaching out is technically his full-length debut, but Weinman has been making waves—as Runnner and otherwise—for some time. His production work with the ambient indie-folk artist Skullcrusher balances turbulence and tranquility, particularly on the 2022 standout Quiet the Room. In 2021, he released a collection of his own previous singles as the album Always Repeating. The latter’s songs undercut relationships with a looming threat of physical harm, sharing repeated visits to Urgent Care, burns and split lips, an acknowledgement on “Monochrome” that “I was scared to let you cut me open / ‘cause you’re not gonna like what you find.”
On like dying stars, we’re reaching out, Weinman is more open to connection but finds himself on the edge of language’s capacity to express emotional truth, reckoning with what he describes as “a signal loss between thought and speech.” His relationship to this uncertainty varies between frustration and tacit curiosity. The first line of the second track “i only sing about food” declares “i’m an idiot, i cried in your car when i couldn’t find the words i was looking for.” The outro of “raincoat,” meanwhile, asks “what’s on your mind? does it fit into language? will it change when you say it?”
This act of reckoning also plays out in the record’s sound, as Weinman pulls from an incredible variety of sources to build a world for each track. There’s the hum of an air conditioning unit, the sound of cardboard rubbing against itself, the fuzz of an old voicemail. A current of vocal distortion suggests 22, a Million-era Bon Iver. These are woven together into a lush sound that references not only Weinman’s work with Skullcrusher but an inspiration from late-90s Madonna, creating an immersive terrain for his messages to echo onto. The deluxe edition’s new live versions approach the work from a different angle, peeling back the layers for something new and sparse that keeps the spaciousness intact. On the Yellow House Sessions version of “string,” for instance, careful synths from drummer Ellington Peet warble, adding an unearthly current to the acoustic lineup.
The title like dying stars, we’re reaching out references a celestial body’s last rites: A dying star will often send out planetary nebulas in all directions, sometimes for thousands of years, towards the end of its life. This seems like a heady title for Weinman’s focus on earthbound problems, but it’s actually quite fitting, conjuring images of signals from solitary spacecraft. These are brief missives from outer space—most of the songs only last about two or three minutes, with the longest, “runnning in place at the edge of the map,” topping out at just over five. But in each, Weinman toys with ideas of the familiar and the alien, permeating the boundaries between the two. In “plexiglass,” the condensation on car windows turns into “ghosts at my fingertips.” In the music video for “i only sing about food,” extreme closeups of boiling water and grains of rice take on the appearance of explosions in foreign atmospheres.
Similarly, many of the communication misfires on like dying stars, we’re reaching out take place in or around cars, but few describe actual destinations. Originally released as a single in 2022, the new B-side “vines to make it all worth it” finds common ground in memes and making fun of passing houses on a drive to nowhere. In “chess with friends,” Weinman declines to call a friend back during another drive, but plays his turn in their game of online chess. Long car rides are inherently romantic: They trap (or unite?) passengers in a setting that asks them not to flare up any tensions, but drips with nostalgia and reflection. Here, as Runnner’s songs reveal, low-stakes ways of connecting provide a beacon when other words fail.
More than that, though, the aimless drives of like dying stars, we’re reaching out clue into the album’s ultimate act of acceptance: the decision to stop trying to find a solution to communication woes, and sit with the discomfort of being unable to fully be known. In fact, Weinman acknowledges by the end that he might be understood more than he thinks. In “a map for your birthday,” as he struggles to summarize a relationship, a friend offers grace and the music falls away: “so much I can’t say / but you nodded anyway.” The album’s apotheosis lies in this quiet relief. We are constantly in turmoil, yearning to find each other—and sometimes, against all odds, we are found.
Annie Parnell is a writer, radio host and audio producer based in Richmond, Virginia. Her writing has appeared in FLOOD Magazine, The Virginia Literary Review, and elsewhere. Annie can be found online @avparnell and avparnell.com.
