If you know her but don’t know her personally, you probably wouldn’t guess it, but my partner has deep musical roots in folk, in the Grange Halls. For years we’ve had relaxed Sunday mornings where she’d intuitively pluck an old banjo in the kitchen while drinking coffee. For years she’s tried to get her century-old Sears fiddle to stay in tune. When we met 18 years ago she had a radio show devoted to old folk and country musicians. When we met she gave me a handmade box of basic folk recordings which I still own and cherish and which, along with the LPs my parents listened to, was my introduction to the genre. Like many people, I came to folk music through loved ones.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, M. Haiux’s stirring, semi-improvised new album of finger-plucked folk guitar instrumentals, Summer nights and quiet waterssounds familiar to me. Familiar, even. Lately I have been writing and reading quite a lot about folk music in a more macroeconomic context, in the context of big ideas. About folk as radical, anti-establishment, revolutionary music – music as opposed to. About folk as a meeting place for inclusive community building. And it Is these things, to be sure. But considering that it is often passed down and performed in private or semi-private settings – by friends and family for friends and family (however you define that) – it is also music that thrives particularly well in the micro, in the insular. Living rooms, porches, bedrooms. This is where, it seems, you can find M.Haiux, aka ex-crane builder Matthew McPartlan, guitar in hand, composing melodies that stick.

All kinds of music can be sticky, in my experience folk music is stickier than most, a quality that Summer nights seems to aspire to it and actually embody it. What I mean by that, without being too corny, is that when played with the right generosity of spirit, as McPartlan does here, under the right circumstances, this is music that can latch onto small moments—small, forgettable things—and turn them into memories. That’s a big deal, but easy to take for granted, to overlook in favor of overt aesthetic innovation or whatever. So too is the way a record like this can shine a mental spotlight on something you’d almost forgotten to remember. To me, the leisurely, gold-lit album opener “Trusting Aesop” is Iowa corn beside the highway, high in the sunlight. It’s tracking down Takoma sides in that record store across from the barbecue place with the good root beer. I don’t know exactly Why it is, but I can see it clearly. I can almost smell it. With a record like this, it’s like I’ve always known it – like I heard it then – even as I’m discovering it.

They say familiarity breeds contempt, but I don’t think that’s really true. Especially when it comes to folk music. Folk music has to be familiar with its forebearers, conversational even. The jaunty ease of “The Wild Reality” practically had me running down to the basement to dig out our Fahey, then rushing back upstairs to put on “Sligo River Blues.” Not necessarily because of any obvious similarity, but because these recordings had to speak to each other – spoke to each other. Now, I’m not saying “The Wild Reality” has the staying power of “Sligo River Blues” – only time will tell – but what I am saying is that it communicates beautifully and fluidly with its forebear. Similarly, there’s a moment at the very end of “River Ribble” that calls out to Richard Dawson so loudly it can only be intentional. Here, however, the implicit threat of violence that permeates so much of Dawson’s work is gone. In its place comes a joyful lightness, a full-blown friendliness, a gentleness that characterizes most of Dawson’s work. Summer nights and quiet waters. There is a kind of bittersweetness and a certain kind of drama at times, but it has the gentle magic of the everyday, like uprooting ground ivy and morning glories from the garden.

I could go on. I could go on about how McPartlan’s playing has just the right amount of imperfection, how the recording has just the right amount of lo-fi, how his improvisational instincts seem to be perfect on tracks like “Weirdo,” but right now it’s Sunday morning and my cat is sitting on the table, blinking slowly. I hear cicadas and crickets buzzing and humming, but I’m Hear to “Oak Beck Stomp.” Outside, my partner is picking tomatoes. The light through the curtains is bright and perfect, the music is still playing, and my heart is full. I hope I don’t forget this moment, and I don’t think I will. And that says more than enough.